Let me begin with a caveat. I shared this essay with several editors, and all of them declined to publish it. Perhaps it asks the kind of questions we are not yet ready to confront.
Second caveat: this essay is a diagnosis, not a prescription.
Earlier this week, a video of the Minister of the Federal Capital Territory, Nyesom Wike, confronting a young military officer went viral on social media. The Minister, who was conducting what looked like an impromptu inspection of a stretch of land in Abuja that was allegedly under illegal occupation, arrived on video flanked by his aides and his armed security details.
When the video started, we see Wike and his entourage being barred from accessing the land in question by uniformed, armed, and calm soldiers who said that they had received orders “from above.”
The full recorded confrontation, which lasted about six minutes, quickly escalated to insults and shoves between both entourages. Yet it has been the composure of one young military officer, who stood up to the Minister, that has captured the attention of the Nigerian public.
Within hours, different angles of the video were everywhere on social media. Since then, the public has not focused on the legality of the land dispute or the optics of multiple security agencies in a public standoff. What people have focused on is the young soldier who stood his ground in front of a high-ranking civilian official who, according to the comments on social media, has come to symbolise political arrogance and unchecked power.
However, what I saw was something entirely different, something deeper and far more unsettling. I saw a pattern that has been playing out for a few months, something that I like to describe as “The Dotted Line.”
“The Dotted Line” is not exactly a theory. It is more of a quiet phenomenon, a sequence of seemingly unconnected events that are, in fact, connected. A collection of stories that can be mapped into a compelling narrative of how society slowly loses faith in institutions and constituted authority.
You can think of it as the silent erosion of the social contract, one that occurs each time a public institution is delegitimised. Each time a citizen takes action after losing confidence in the system that was designed to protect them, a dot appears.
When sixteen hunters are stopped at a checkpoint, executed, and burned, and no one is held accountable, a dot appears. When a female legislator has to march into the National Assembly with protesters to ensure that her questionable suspension from the highest legislative body in the country is overturned, a dot appears. When a state of emergency is arbitrarily declared in a state and the rule of law suspended, a dot appears. When a certain political party’s offices are burned across the country, its members harassed, and no suspects are ever arrested, another dot appears.
Similarly, when farming communities resolve to pay taxes to bandits in exchange for their lives, a dot appears. When a politician is told by a sitting governor that he cannot visit a state without seeking permission, a dot appears. When thugs disrupt peaceful political gatherings in the presence of police officers, another dot appears.
One dot at a time. Eventually, those dots connect. And by the time we have realised what has happened, we have all unknowingly signed on the invisible dotted line through our actions or inactions.
Another example of this dotted line could be seen when VeryDarkMan took it upon himself to fix a longstanding public safety issue on a dangerous stretch of road in Edo State. Accidents were frequent. Complaints to the government had been ignored. So he and a group of his friends built makeshift speedbreakers to slow down traffic on that road.
When the illegal, but necessary, speedbreakers worked, when the accidents reduced and the people felt safer, he shared the results online. The public cheered, and in that moment, an individual had become a hero by solving a problem that the government had ignored.
A similar example can be seen in the work of Harrison Gwamnishu, a human rights advocate and public interest investigator. When someone is kidnapped, when a child is abused, when an eviction turns violent, people no longer call the police. They tag Harrison on social media and plead in his comments section.
Harrison is not a judge. He may not even be a lawyer. Yet in a country where many feel abandoned by the justice system, he has become a symbol of citizen-led-extra-institutional solutions. Like VeryDarkMan, each time Harrison takes action where institutions should have acted, another point appears on the dotted line.
Yet, at the far end of this dotted line lies the disturbing reality of jungle justice. A man accused of theft is dragged into the street. A tire is placed around his neck. The crowd gathers. There is no trial, no investigation, no evidence. Just rage, beatings, petrol, fire, and the loss of human life.
The videos of these actions, as disturbing as they are, often go viral. Even more troubling is the response that we see in the comments section. Everyday people, seemingly ordinary people like you and me say things like, “Yes, this is what he deserved,” “Love it! We must protect ourselves,” and “If the police do nothing, we will.”
In a 2024 report, Amnesty International documented at least 555 incidents of jungle justice in Nigeria between 2012 and 2024. In the report, a disturbing trend emerged: the fact that jungle justice and the breakdown of law and order is no longer confined to remote villages. It has spread and has become increasingly accepted by everyday citizens who no longer believe in public institutions.
Each of these events forms part of a spectrum. The makeshift roads, Harrison’s rescues, the lynching of accused persons, and the public’s reaction to a soldier disregarding constituted civilian authority in a democracy. Each moment is a dot. Alone, each may seem defensible. Yet, when taken together, they show a society that has slowly, and perhaps unintentionally, replaced its trust in institutions with improvisation.
That is what makes the Wike event so revealing. Not because of what was said or who was right, but because of how the public responded, with disdain. When people across the Nigeria’s three main political aisles side with soldiers over a civilian government official who was, in fact, doing his job, even if in a reckless and pompous way, we are not witnessing mere partisanship. We are witnessing institutional fatigue.
This is why Nigeria’s greatest priority in the coming years should not just be the preservation of law and order, it must be the re-establishment of the rule of law. No society can survive on the belief that extra-institutional actions are permitted at will. The application of the law must be grounded in principle, and must also be as blind as it is swift. If the law is only as enforceable as the person who seeks its enforcement, then it is not truly law. It is preference.
And from what we have seen, if we submit to the preference of the disillusioned everyday citizens, we risk replacing the sustainable safeguards of the law, with the immediate emotional relief of populism. Once that line is crossed, institutions lose their authority, leaders lose their legitimacy, and the rule of law becomes a matter of negotiation.
The most dangerous part is that right now, it does not feel like danger. To many, it may feel like relief. A neglected road is finally being fixed. Kidnappers are finally being confronted when the police have not acted. A known political bully is being resisted by a soldier acting on invisible orders in a civilian-led democracy. But, history is ripe with examples of actions that began as a makeshift solution, when left unaddressed, evolving into systems. The informal barricades that we applaud today can evolve into checkpoints by nefarious actors tomorrow. The informal kidnapper-hunter that we celebrate today might inspire tomorrow’s crime-fighting vigilante to take extrajudicial action against innocent people in the name of preserving law and order. The soldier who was applauded by the public for defying a minister might interpret his celebration as a holistic disregard of the political class.
These are dangerous precedents. Popular, yes, but dangerous. Because when these dots come together, what usually comes next rarely asks for permission. And by the time we all realise what we have collectively traded away, it may already be too late to take it back.
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For now, I rest my case. But, I'd like to hear your thoughts.