JUSTICE FOR SALE? HOW EL-RUFAI WALKED OUT OF ICPC CUSTODY TO BURY HIS MOTHER — AND WHY ORDINARY NIGERIANS NEVER GET THAT LUXURY

JUSTICE FOR SALE? HOW EL-RUFAI WALKED OUT OF ICPC CUSTODY TO BURY HIS MOTHER — AND WHY ORDINARY NIGERIANS NEVER GET THAT LUXURY. When the news broke that former Kaduna State Governor Nasir Ahmad el-Rufai had been granted temporary release from ICPC custody to attend to the burial of his late mother, many Nigerians paused — not to mourn, but to ask a question that cuts deep into the soul of this country’s justice system: would they do the same for you? The short answer is: you already know.

Let us be clear about what the law says. Nigerian law, including the Administration of Criminal Justice Act (ACJA) and its state equivalents, does allow for the temporary release or bail of suspects in custody on compassionate grounds. A court or the detaining agency can exercise discretion to grant such release where there are compelling humanitarian circumstances — such as a death in the immediate family. On paper, this provision is available to every Nigerian, rich or poor, powerful or powerless.

But here is where the law ends and reality begins.The Nigerian justice system does not run on law alone. It runs on connections, influence, phone calls to the right offices, and the ability to hire Senior Advocates of Nigeria who can walk into any room and make things happen before the ink dries. For a man of el-Rufai’s stature — a former minister, a two-term governor, a man with tentacles deep inside the establishment — compassionate release is a phone call away. For the poor man rotting in a Kirikiri cell whose wife just died in the village, compassionate release is a fairy tale.

This is not speculation. This is the lived experience of millions of Nigerians who have watched their fathers, brothers, and sons remain caged in pretrial detention for months — sometimes years — over offences far less serious than what el-Rufai is being investigated for, with no court appearance, no bail hearing, and certainly no compassionate leave. Nobody called the ICPC on their behalf. Nobody issued a press statement. Nobody was watching.

The ICPC, to its credit, has the power to grant this kind of release administratively. And perhaps they followed procedure to the letter. But procedure without equity is just bureaucracy dressed in a suit. The question is not whether el-Rufai deserved to bury his mother — of course he did, every human being deserves that dignity. The question is whether Musa the petty trader from Kafanchan, or Emeka the commercial driver from Onitsha, would have gotten the same phone answered, the same forms processed at the same speed, with the same grace and urgency.We both know the answer.

Nigeria runs a two-tier justice system — one for those who can afford it, and one for those who cannot. The rich get bail, get compassionate leave, get adjournments, get technicalities, get appeals, and ultimately get freedom. The poor get remand, get delay, get forgotten, and eventually get a conviction — if they are lucky enough to see a courtroom at all.

El-Rufai’s release may be perfectly legal. But legality and justice are not the same thing in Nigeria, and they have not been for a very long time.

Until this country builds a justice system that treats the widow in Suleja the same way it treats the former governor in Abuja, every press release about anti-corruption and rule of law is nothing but noise.

The law said he could go. The question Nigeria must answer is: who does the law truly serve?