It began, as it often does in Nigeria, not with a court notice, not with a legal warning, not with the observance of due process—but with the roar of excavators and the terrified voice of a citizen whose only crime was owning a property in a country where justice has become a whispered myth. On a quiet morning in Lagos, a piece of private property—legally acquired and occupied for over 15 years—was brought to the ground by faceless men and voiceless machines. No names. No papers. No permits. Just sheer audacity and coordinated lawlessness.
That building, which stood as a testament to enterprise, hard work, and lawful acquisition, was not just bricks and mortar. It represented the Nigerian dream—the belief that against all odds, you can thrive if you play by the rules. But what happens when the rules no longer exist? When even the powerful become victims of a phantom system gone rogue? What then is the fate of the common man?
Peter Obi’s voice, trembling not with fear but with restrained outrage, cuts through the fog of this systemic decay. His brother’s ordeal is not isolated—it is a microcosm of the silent war waged daily against citizens by forces cloaked in impunity. The tragedy here is not just the demolition of a structure; it is the demolition of trust, of constitutional order, and of the very idea that Nigeria can protect her own.
Let us call it what it is: state-enabled anarchy. We have birthed a country where nameless court judgments are wielded like machetes against the defenseless. A place where justice is blind not by principle, but by force. A land where you can sue “unknown persons” and use that as license to destroy another man’s sweat. This isn’t governance; it is gangsterism in uniform.
When those who have the means, the name, and the voice—like Obi—are not spared, what becomes of the market woman in Aba whose shop was flattened without warning? What happens to the widower in Kaduna whose ancestral land has been seized by the connected elite? What redress exists for the countless Nigerians whose rights are trampled on daily, with neither compensation nor apology?
This is no longer about politics. It is about the soul of our nation. A country where laws are obeyed only when convenient, and courts issue judgments against ghosts, cannot lay claim to civility. Investors are not fools; they can smell chaos from a mile away. No businessman worth his salt will pour capital into a system where bulldozers are more powerful than courtrooms, and policemen take orders from invisible godfathers.
And yet, we wonder why the economy bleeds. We wonder why talents flee. We wonder why our international image nosedives. The truth is, Nigeria is not suffering from a lack of resources or brilliance—it is shackled by institutional vandalism. The real looters are not just those who steal money but those who steal justice, who desecrate law, and who spit on the constitution with impunity.
Peter Obi’s recounting isn’t a political stunt—it is a national wake-up call. It is a cry against the normalization of injustice. His statement, “Any society where lawlessness overrides the rule of law is not destined to be a haven for investors,” is not mere rhetoric. It is a prophetic diagnosis of our slow-motion collapse.
In a functioning society, property rights are sacred. Due process is upheld. Demolition orders are not secret weapons but official documents issued transparently and enforced responsibly. But in Nigeria, all it takes is a call from a “big man,” and decades of investment are reduced to rubble in minutes.
This is not the Nigeria we were promised. This is not the Nigeria for which young people protest, for which civil society labors, or for which patriotic Nigerians sacrifice. This is a bastardization of the social contract. A democratic republic slipping into a jungle where only the most connected survive.
We cannot continue on this path and hope to see light at the end of the tunnel. We must, as a people, rise with one voice to say enough is enough. The time has come to name and shame those behind this coordinated lawlessness. To demand accountability, not just from politicians, but from judges, police officers, and civil servants who enable this rot.
This is not just about rebuilding a demolished house in Lagos—it is about rebuilding the moral architecture of Nigeria. A nation that protects the rights of its citizens is a nation worth defending. Until then, we remain a land where bulldozers speak louder than justice and silence is bought at the price of fear.
And to those who think they are untouchable today, remember: the tides of impunity may favor you now, but history does not forget. Nigeria must rise—or perish under the weight of her own lawlessness.
Stanley Ugagbe is a Social Commentator. He can be reached via stanleyakomeno@gmail.com.
