Osaretin George Izevbuwa is a Professor of Comparative Criminal Law and Deputy Vice-Chancellor (Administration), Igbinedion University, Okada. In this interview with AMEH OCHOJILA, he declared that Nigeria’s biggest legal problem is not the absence of laws, but the failure to enforce them. He also examined the constitutional limits of the Federal Government’s ranching policy, judicial discipline, jungle justice, digital identity and the growing tension between institutional power and individual rights.

Nigeria appears to be entering a period where major policy questions are increasingly colliding with constitutional and institutional powers, from ranching and grazing laws to judicial discipline, election administration and criminal justice. From a legal standpoint, how concerned should Nigerians be about the widening gap between what the law provides and how institutions exercise power?
We should be concerned, but we must first identify the precise problem because the diagnosis determines the remedy. Our constitutional architecture is not vague about the distribution of power. Section 1(1) establishes the supremacy of the Constitution, while section 1(3) invalidates any inconsistent law.

Section 4 distributes legislative competence between the National Assembly and state Houses of Assembly, section 5 defines executive power, and section 6 vests judicial power in the courts.
 
The framework is coherent. The problem is compliance. In Military Governor of Lagos State v Ojukwu (1986) 1 NWLR (Pt. 18) 621, the Supreme Court made it clear that Nigeria is governed by the rule of law, not the rule of force, and that executive disobedience to court orders threatens anarchy. Yet we continue to litigate the same principle.
 
I would distinguish three failures. The first is legislative silence, where the law genuinely does not address an issue. The second is institutional overreach, where an organ acts beyond its constitutional competence. The third is institutional inertia, where a remedy exists but is not invoked, or is invoked too late.
 
Most Nigerian grievances fall into the second and third categories. Our constitutional order should therefore be measured not merely by the elegance of its provisions but by the certainty of their consequences. Where a public officer can exceed his powers without consequence, the law becomes decorative. Where there is a predictable consequence, the law becomes meaningful.
 
Our real problem is that we have built a country of excellent legal provisions and uncertain consequences.

Five states have been proposed for the Federal Government’s ranching programme. If the Federal Government’s ranching policy conflicts with a state law regulating or prohibiting open grazing, which law prevails under the Constitution?
The state law prevails, and the reason is important: a policy is not a law. Section 1(3) of the Constitution deals with inconsistent laws, while section 4(5) provides that where a state law conflicts with a valid federal law, the federal law prevails to the extent of the inconsistency.
 
A National Ranching Policy announced by a Minister is an executive programme. It cannot displace a duly enacted law of a State House of Assembly. Therefore, an anti-open-grazing law remains valid despite the existence of a federal ranching policy.
 
There is also the question of legislative competence. Livestock production and animal husbandry are not items on the Exclusive Legislative List. Agricultural development appears on the Concurrent Legislative List, but that does not amount to a general federal power to regulate land use within a state or create a right to graze.
 
The Land Use Act is also significant. Section 1, entrenched by section 315(5) of the Constitution, vests land in each state in the Governor, to be held in trust and administered for the use and common benefit of Nigerians.
 
The Federal Government therefore cannot simply appropriate state land by executive fiat. It must acquire an interest through a lawful process, including lawful revocation for a public purpose of the Federation, with compensation, or through an agreement with the state.
 
There is an important practical point regarding Benue. Its Open Rearing and Grazing Prohibition and Ranches Establishment Law of 2017 does not prohibit ranching. It prohibits open grazing and requires ranching. Properly understood, therefore, there is no conflict between Benue’s law and a federal programme promoting ranching. They could complement each other.

Can the Federal Government lawfully establish or promote ranching in a state without the state’s consent, particularly where that state has enacted an anti-open-grazing law? Where exactly does federal power end and state land and regulatory authority begin?
It can promote ranching, but it cannot establish a ranch on state land without the state’s involvement.
 
Section 5(1)(b) of the Constitution extends federal executive power to executing the Constitution, laws made by the National Assembly and matters within federal legislative competence. Executive power cannot exceed the legislative competence from which it derives.
  
The Federal Government can fund and incentivise ranching, establish standards for interstate trade in livestock and livestock products, legislate on quarantine and animal disease control, and operate identification or tagging programmes where these fall within federal competence.
  
It can also establish ranches on land already vested in the Federation and within the Federal Capital Territory. What it cannot do is site a ranch on state land by executive fiat, override an anti-open-grazing law or create, through policy, a federal right to graze where state law prohibits it.
 
Every acre earmarked for a ranch in Plateau or Benue is subject to the legal regime governing state land. The Federal Government must therefore obtain the necessary interest through the legally prescribed process.

Consent is not merely a courtesy in such an arrangement. It is the legal foundation for the project.

There is a growing perception that the NJC may sometimes act more readily against judges perceived as independent or outside the establishment. Is there any legal or institutional basis for concerns about selective discipline?
We should distinguish perception from evidence. I do not think the evidence establishes a pattern of political targeting. The Council’s recent record contains decisions that point in the opposite direction. At its 111th meeting in May 2026, for instance, the Council dismissed a petition against a Rivers State High Court judge arising from the state’s Assembly crisis. It also referred lawyers to the Legal Practitioners Disciplinary Committee over frivolous petitions intended to harass judicial officers and commended an Imo State judge for refusing to participate in a process contrary to constitutional procedure.
  
Those are protective rather than punitive interventions. However, the concern has a legitimate institutional basis. First, NJC proceedings are not conducted publicly and its reasoning is not always published in sufficient detail. That makes it difficult for citizens to test consistency.
 
Second, the concentration of institutional authority around the office of the Chief Justice raises legitimate questions about internal checks. Third, there is no conventional appeal from an NJC recommendation, although internal reconsideration and, in appropriate circumstances, judicial review may be available. Fourth, interim suspension can have punitive consequences before a final determination.
   
There are safeguards. Section 158(1) of the Constitution protects the Council from the direction or control of another authority in exercising its constitutional functions, while section 292 establishes requirements for the removal of judicial officers.
 
The critical principle is that the NJC is not an appellate court. A complaint that a judge simply reached the wrong conclusion should ordinarily be addressed through appeal, not disciplinary proceedings.
 
I would favour three reforms: publication of anonymised outcome statistics and reasoned summaries; a presumption against interim suspension except where allegations are grave and prima facie supported; and stronger sanctions against malicious petitioners.

How should the public distinguish legitimate judicial accountability from disciplinary petitions being used to intimidate judges?
There is a simple test. First, ask whether the complaint concerns conduct or the outcome of a case. A judge who takes a bribe, communicates privately with one party, sits without jurisdiction, backdates a record or deliberately refuses to hear a party may have committed misconduct.
 
But a judge who misconstrues a statute or reaches an unpopular conclusion has not necessarily committed misconduct. The remedy for a wrong decision is an appeal.

Second, consider the timing. A petition filed immediately after an adverse ruling, particularly while the case remains pending, should attract scrutiny.
  
Third, examine the petitioner’s interest. A litigant with a live appeal may be attempting to use disciplinary proceedings as leverage. Fourth, ask whether the allegation is specific and verifiable.

Saying “the judge was compromised” is an insinuation. Identifying a particular meeting, date and circumstance creates an allegation capable of investigation.
 
Finally, examine whether the petitioner is pursuing the same substantive grievance through an appeal. A disciplinary complaint should not become a substitute for appellate review.
  
Lawyers, journalists and academics must also exercise restraint. A judgment one dislikes is not automatically a corrupt judgment. Describing every unpopular ruling as evidence of judicial corruption can damage public confidence in the judiciary more than the misconduct of an individual judge.

Can the NJC’s disciplinary process create a chilling effect on judicial independence?
Yes. The process itself can become the punishment. Investigation, suspension without pay and adverse publicity can occur before a final finding of guilt. A judge who is eventually exonerated may nevertheless have suffered financial loss, reputational damage and professional humiliation.

The problem is compounded by the fact that judges cannot simply go on television to answer every allegation against them. The consequences can be subtle but serious. A judge may prefer the safer ruling to the legally correct one, avoid deciding politically sensitive matters or adjourn a difficult case rather than risk a complaint.
 
That is dangerous because the effect may never appear in the judgment. But the answer is not to abolish disciplinary powers. A judiciary that cannot discipline itself will eventually be disciplined by other institutions, potentially on worse terms. The answer is better institutional design: rigorous threshold screening, a presumption against interim suspension except in grave cases, suspension on pay pending determination except in the clearest circumstances, strict timelines, publication of exonerations and meaningful sanctions against malicious petitioners.

Accountability and judicial independence are not opposites. Badly designed accountability destroys independence; properly designed accountability makes independence defensible.

Jungle justice keeps recurring despite clear criminal laws. Is this a failure of the law or a failure of public trust in the police, courts and criminal justice system?
It is not a failure of the law. Our criminal law has long prohibited the conduct associated with jungle justice. Killing can constitute murder; grievous harm, wounding and assault are offences; unlawful assembly and riot are criminalised.

The Constitution guarantees the right to life, vests judicial power in the courts and protects fair trial and the presumption of innocence. The law permits a private person to arrest a suspect who commits an offence in his presence, but the suspect must be handed over to the police.
 
The law gives citizens a power of apprehension, not punishment. That distinction is fundamental.

Comparative experience shows that collective violence declines when apprehension becomes probable, prosecution becomes routine and conviction becomes visible.
 
The deeper failure is therefore institutional. First is public trust. Where investigations are slow or unscientific, trials drag on and citizens believe suspects can manipulate bail or release, they may conclude that handing someone to the police means setting him free.

Second is impunity for the mob itself. Incidents such as the Aluu Four killings, the killing of Deborah Samuel and the Uromi killings demonstrate the danger of allowing crowds to believe they can impose their own punishment.
 
Third, not every lynching is motivated by frustration with the justice system. Some are opportunistic; others are driven by ethnic or religious prejudice. We should not dignify every mob with the language of “frustrated justice”. Sometimes the mob is simply criminal.

If citizens increasingly resort to mob justice because they believe the formal justice system is too slow or ineffective, does that expose a deeper legitimacy crisis?
Yes. Legitimacy is precisely the issue. Legality and legitimacy are different. A system is legal when it is validly constituted; it is legitimate when people believe they ought to use it. Most Nigerians accept that our courts are legally constituted. The problem is that many increasingly doubt whether the system is effective enough to be worth using. That is the crisis. The first reform must be investigation.

Almost every downstream failure begins there. We rely too heavily on confessions instead of forensic and other objective evidence. Improving forensic capacity would do more for public confidence than passing another statute. Second is speed. The Administration of Criminal Justice Act already contains mechanisms for reducing delay. The problem is implementation and enforcement.
 
Third is custody. Constitutional and statutory safeguards against unlawful detention must be actively enforced.
 
Fourth is the consequence for the mob. States should develop dedicated prosecution strategies for lynching and pursue not only those who physically participate but also those who incite violence.
 
A completed and widely reported murder prosecution arising from a lynching could have greater deterrent value than years of public enlightenment campaigns.
  
Fifth is access to justice. Many violent incidents begin with relatively minor allegations such as petty theft. Properly funded legal aid, small-claims mechanisms and accessible magistrates’ courts can intervene before such disputes escalate.
 
Finally, any move towards state police requires constitutional amendment. I have no dogmatic position on state police, but decentralisation without accountability could simply relocate abuse.

The NIMC Act 2026 increasingly ties digital identity into the administration of justice. Does this strengthen the state’s capacity to fight crime more than it protects the rights of the accused?
On the face of the statute, yes. That does not necessarily suggest bad faith by the drafters. The Act makes the National Identification Number a foundational credential under a one-person, one-identity framework and expands its relevance across several sectors. It also contains safeguards, including the application of the Nigeria Data Protection Act, consent principles and rules governing disclosure.
  
The real issue, however, is implementation. A powerful digital identity architecture can improve identification, investigation and the administration of justice, but it can also create significant risks if access, retention, disclosure and surveillance are not subject to effective safeguards.
  
The stronger the state’s capacity to identify and track individuals, the stronger the corresponding duty to protect privacy, due process and the rights of the accused. A modern criminal justice system should not force citizens to choose between security and liberty. The legal system must deliver both.