Nigeria’s political history has a strange, almost theatrical habit of repeating itself—often with new actors but the same tired script. Back in January 1966, young military officers staged a coup that shook the country to its foundations. The bulk of the federal politicians killed happened, incidentally, to be from the North and West. This outcome—combined with pre-existing anxieties—was enough to ignite ethnic suspicions, regardless of whether the victims’ regional identities were by design or simply by virtue of who occupied federal office at the time.
Then came July 1966, the counter–coup. It was justified by its architects as revenge for an “Igbo coup” that had allegedly spared easterners. The problem with this logic, which historians have repeated ad nauseam, is simple: there were hardly any high-profile easterners in top federal positions to be killed in the first place. You cannot spare what wasn’t there. But Nigeria has never allowed facts to get in the way of a good ethnic grievance.
Fast-forward to 2025, and déjà vu walks confidently back onto the national stage—this time wearing a modern legal gown. Mr. Nnamdi Kanu, leader of IPOB, has now been convicted for his secessionist actions and for fueling terror in the East, earning a life imprisonment sentence under Nigerian law.
Predictably—almost on schedule—the familiar chorus has begun:
“Why are northern terrorists not treated like Kanu?”
“The East is being discriminated against again!”
“Justice must reflect federal character!”
In other words: if everyone is not arrested, no one should be punished.
This line of reasoning has become the unofficial anthem of Nigeria’s political criminals. When they are siphoning funds, plotting insurrection, or engaging in terrorism, they act purely as adventurous private citizens. Their tribes do not share in the proceeds, the loot, the tactical plans, or the offshore accounts. But the moment they are caught, handcuffed, and marched into a courtroom, they instantly become cultural ambassadors—standing not as individuals but as entire ethnic groups in human form.
It is a remarkable transformation.
One moment they are “me,” the next moment they are “we.”
And, tragically, this mindset has done more damage to the pursuit of justice in Nigeria than any legislative gap or judicial delay. Whenever accountability knocks, someone reaches into the ethnic emergency box, pulls out the old 1966 playbook, and shouts discrimination. Before you know it, we have successfully shifted the focus from crimes to tribes, and from facts to feelings.
Nigeria cannot build a fair society on the foundation of ethnic alibis.
Justice is not a buffet where each region demands equal slices of guilt.
Criminality is not a group project.
If we continue insisting that no person can be tried unless all guilty persons everywhere are simultaneously tried, then we might as well shut down the courts, switch off the constitution, and let the country run on vibes and grievances.
The real task for Nigeria is to grow out of this reflexive ethnic defensiveness. Crimes should be prosecuted because they are crimes, not because of where the criminals come from. And punishment should not depend on a census of how many offenders from other regions have been nabbed on the same day.
Until we accept this, justice will remain trapped—held hostage by the same old ghosts of 1966, recycled arguments, and political offenders who suddenly rediscover their ethnic roots only when standing in the dock.
Nigeria deserves better than this eternal merry-go-round. We deserve a republic where wrongdoing carries consequences, without tribal interpretation or regional arithmetic. When we finally get there, then we can say we have begun the journey toward a truly just society.
Centre for Nigeria Progress 