With Olukayode Ajulo
In the grand theatre of Nigerian constitutionalism, the Supreme Court has never been a mere spectator. It has stood as the vigilant sentinel; sometimes audacious, sometimes cautious, guarding the fragile edifice of democracy, federalism and human dignity against the tempests of military fiat, electoral intrigue and cultural inertia.
The cases under consideration are not dusty precedents; they are living monuments, each a philosophical inquiry into the soul of the Federal Republic of Nigeria and how our Republic has feared.
They compel us to ask: When does a court transcend adjudication to become an architect of the nation?
When does restraint become courage, and activism, wisdom?
The Bedrock of All Justice: Madukolu v. Nkemdilim (1962)
No edifice can stand without foundations. In Madukolu & Ors v. Nkemdilim (1962), the Federal Supreme Court—per Bairamian, F.J.—laid down the immutable quartet that still governs every Nigerian courtroom: a court is competent only when;
(i) It is properly constituted as to membership and qualification
(ii) The subject-matter falls within its jurisdiction
(iii) The action is initiated by due process; and
(iv) All conditions precedent are fulfilled.
This was no arid technicality. Post-independence Nigeria teetered on the edge of jurisdictional anarchy; customary courts, native authorities and emerging High Courts jostled in a legal mosaic inherited from colonial patchwork.
Madukolu imposed order with the quiet authority of a constitutional compass. Its genius lies in its universality: cited more than any other Nigerian judgement, it remains the first port of call whenever jurisdiction is challenged. Yet one must interrogate its deeper implications; does this rigid four-pronged test sometimes ossify justice, turning procedural purity into a shield for the powerful? In an era of digital filings and virtual hearings, the dictum endures, a reminder that competence is the sine qua non of legitimacy.
Defiance Under the Bayonet: Lakanmi v. Attorney-General, Western State (1971)
If Madukolu built the house, Lakanmi defended it against the cannon. In the dark dawn of military rule, the Supreme Court faced a brazen assault: Edict No. 5 of 1967 and allied decrees sought to forfeit assets without judicial process.
The Court, in a luminous act of judicial courage, declared that the 1966 takeover was not a revolution in the Kelsenian sense; the Constitution survived, and military power was fettered by the doctrine of necessity alone.
Lakanmi and Ola’s assets could not be seized by legislative fiat disguised as an edict. Here was the Court asserting that even under the gun, the rule of law breathes. Scholars still debate whether this was judicial heroism or strategic pragmatism; after all, the military later responded with Decree No. 28 of 1970, effectively ousting jurisdiction in future challenges.
Yet Lakanmi remains the moral high-water mark: a luminous rebuke to the notion that might makes right. It whispers across the decades: the judiciary’s ultimate weapon is not force, but the quiet, implacable insistence on constitutional continuity.
The Ballot and the Bench: Electoral Petitions as National Psychodramas
Elections are the heartbeat of democracy; petitions are its stress test. In Chief Obafemi Awolowo v. Alhaji Shehu Shagari (1979), the Supreme Court (6-1) interpreted the “two-thirds of the States” requirement with mathematical literalism, upholding Shagari’s victory amid nationwide controversy. Justice Kayode Eso’s dissent remains a masterclass in purposive interpretation; did the majority sacrifice justice on the altar of literalism to avert chaos?
The case exposed the judiciary’s uneasy role as both umpire and stabiliser.
Fast-forward to Rotimi Amaechi v. INEC (2008), where the Court declared Amaechi the valid Rivers State gubernatorial candidate despite substitution, ordering his swearing-in without fresh polls. Critics have called this “judicial legislation”; an audacious rewriting of electoral rules.
Then came the seismic 2023 presidential petitions of Atiku Abubakar and Peter Obi, where the Court again affirmed the status quo. Each ruling invites the same cerebral question: in a polity where elections are often zero-sum contests, can the Supreme Court ever deliver “justice” without also delivering political stability or does stability sometimes masquerade as expediency?
Federalism’s Delicate Equilibrium: The AG Ondo and AG Lagos Cases.
Nigeria’s federal experiment is a perpetual negotiation. In Attorney-General of Ondo State v. Attorney-General of the Federation (2002), the Court upheld the ICPC Act, affirming the National Assembly’s power to legislate against corruption nationwide—thereby breathing life into the anti-graft architecture.
In Attorney-General of Lagos State v. Attorney-General of the Federation (2004), it clarified the division of powers over urban planning and waterways, striking a blow against over-centralisation.
These decisions are not mere technical rulings; they interrogate the very DNA of federalism. Does the centre’s anti-corruption muscle strengthen or erode state autonomy? Is federalism in Nigeria truly cooperative or subtly unitary?
The Supreme Court’s nuanced jurisprudence reveals a recurring theme: it prefers evolutionary balance to revolutionary rupture.
Social Engineering through the Repugnancy Test: Ukeje v. Ukeje and Anekwe v. Nweke (2014)
Perhaps the most transformative rulings of the modern era came on the same day in 2014. In Ukeje v. Ukeje and its companion Anekwe v. Nweke, the Supreme Court (per Rhodes-Vivour, JSC) delivered a thunderbolt: Igbo customary law denying female children inheritance rights is “repugnant to natural justice, equity and good conscience” and unconstitutional under Section 42 of the 1999 Constitution. “No matter the circumstances of the birth of a female child,” declared the Court, “she is entitled to an inheritance from her late father’s estate.”
This was not incrementalism; it was judicial revolution. Centuries of male primogeniture crumbled before constitutional supremacy. The decisions have reverberated across Igbo land and beyond, emboldening women while unsettling traditionalists.
One cannot but ponder: is the judiciary the proper engine for cultural metamorphosis, or does it risk alienating the very communities it seeks to liberate? Yet the verdict is clear, the Constitution is not a museum piece; it is a living instrument that must evolve with justice.
Other Sentinels: Impeachment and the Death Penalty
Inakoju v. Adeleke (2007) fortified due process in gubernatorial impeachments, while Onuoha Kalu v. The State remains the locus classicus affirming the constitutionality of capital punishment—though the debate on its compatibility with human dignity rages on.
Conclusion: The Supreme Court as Nigeria’s Unfinished Symphony.
These cases form a magnificent history; jurisdictional certainty, military restraint, electoral realism, federal equilibrium and social transformation. Together they reveal a judiciary that has repeatedly chosen the arduous path of principle over the easy road of expediency.
Yet the interrogation cannot end in celebration. Contemporary scholarship whispers uncomfortable truths: judicial independence is under strain; some decisions flirt with “judicial legislation”; public trust in the electoral process remains fragile.
The Supreme Court’s greatest legacy is not perfection but persistence; the quiet, cerebral insistence that in Nigeria, law must ultimately triumph over power, custom and convenience.
As we navigate an increasingly polarised republic, these landmark decisions do not merely decorate our law reports; they challenge every lawyer, judge and citizen to ask: What kind of nation shall we become? The answer, as always, will be written in the next judgement.