The day a judge exposed a lie that stole a man’s life

Sometime in 2006 or 2007, I don’t remember what year precisely, I stumbled on a very shocking case while reporting from the courts for a national newspaper in Jos. When the case was called, the judge seemed infuriated because the matter had dragged on for too long, and the police, in the usual manner, had […]

Sometime in 2006 or 2007, I don’t remember what year precisely, I stumbled on a very shocking case while reporting from the courts for a national newspaper in Jos. When the case was called, the judge seemed infuriated because the matter had dragged on for too long, and the police, in the usual manner, had been dragging out the case with little conviction.

The whole thing started in 2002, four years before that day, when a middle-aged man was arrested by the military during one of the crises in Jos. He was tortured and then eventually handed over to the police, who “conducted” their “investigation” and eventually took him to court. The charge sheet was sensational. The man, whose name I can’t recall, was accused of being a “mercenary fighter from Niger Republic” and was allegedly brought to Jos two days before the clashes in 2002. Since his arrest, he had been detained, first in military custody, then the police, and then remanded in prison after his first court appearance.

Occasionally, he was brought to court only for the police prosecutor to ask for more time to conclude their investigation. Since there was no one arguing for the suspect because he had no lawyer and couldn’t speak for himself, the judge would often grant the police’s prayer. But on that day, when the police prosecutor asked for another adjournment, the judge was visibly frustrated and tongue-lashed the prosecutor. He was tired of the lack of prosecutorial diligence. He opened the case file, and the only “evidence” the police had presented was a “confessional statement” the suspect had signed.

When the judge asked the suspect if he had written the statement, the man seemed confused. The prosecutor said the suspect had written the statement, but the judge asked him to let the man speak for himself. He repeated the question. Still, the man looked flummoxed.

“Ka amsa mana,” the prosecutor shouted at the suspect.

That was when the judge realised that the statement was written in English, but it seemed the suspect did not understand a simple question like “Did you write this statement?” He switched to Hausa to ask the suspect if he spoke any English. He didn’t. He asked him if he wrote the statement. The suspect said he could neither read nor write because he never attended school. The prosecutor jumped up to explain that the police took the statement for the man. So, the judge asked the court officer to show the accused the statement and asked him if he recognised his signature.

“Do you remember signing this paper?”

“Yes, Ranka ya dade.”

“Do you know what the paper says?”

“No, ranka ya dade.”

“Did anybody read and translate the statement to you before you signed or after you had signed it?”

“No, sir.”

“So why did you sign it?”

The man looked apprehensively at the police prosecutor.

“Look at me and tell me the truth,” the judge demanded.

“They kept hitting my hand with a stick and asked me to sign it, so I did.”

A collective gasp from the court, not of surprise, but of realisation that something like this often happens in police interrogations. You could see the trauma on the man’s face as he recalled how he was beaten and tortured, how he was told that if he didn’t sign, he would never go home. It was horrible seeing a middle-aged man cry like that. The court fell silent.

When the prosecutor rose to speak, the judge asked him to sit down and shut up and berated the prosecutor because that was not the first time “confessions” like that had been obtained and presented before the court.

He looked at the paper and shook his head. “Do you have any idea what this statement claims?” he asked the suspect. The man had no idea. So, the judge decided to read it and translate it. The first sentence claimed that the statement was obtained under no duress. The suspect was stunned and wanted to take off his shirt to show his scars from the torture. He held up his crooked finger that was broken during the interrogation.

Again, the prosecutor tried to explain it away, but the judge shushed him.

What broke that suspect’s heart was not the denial of the torture in the statement but what followed. The judge read and translated that the man claimed to have been born in the Republic of Niger. That he and others were offered money and weapons, brought across the border into Nigeria, and arrived in Jos two days before the outbreak of that round of riots.

The accused was stunned. He kept asking, “Me? Me?” He cried the sort of crying that comes from the deepest parts of a man, like someone realising that his whole life had been ruined by a lie. It was the sort of heart-wrenching cry that touched every heart who witnessed it.

When the judge ordered him to be quiet and answer his question, here is the picture that emerged: On the day of that particular riot, he was preparing to go to his menial trade when news broke that there was another crisis in town. He decided to stay home in the Rikkos area along with his family in a house that he had built from scratch, and had been living in with his two wives and children. Sometime during the day, some soldiers had broken down his front door and taken him out. They rounded him up along with some other persons, picked up from various places, and drove them away. Later, they were handed over to the police as “suspected rioters.”

The judge asked him if he had been to the Republic of Niger before. The accused said no. His grandfather had married his grandmother in Jos, where his father was born, and where he himself was born. He offered to take the judge to his house to see it for himself and to see his family. The judge asked him to describe where in Rikkos his house was, and the man gave a vivid description of what the place was like before he bought the land and built his house brick by brick, details a foreign mercenary brought in days before his arrest could not have known. And yes, his Hausa sounded very much like a local, not like some foreign Hausa speaker.

With a lot of head shaking, the judge adjourned the case and warned the prosecution that if on the next appearance date they did not present their case, he was going to dismiss the case and acquit the suspect.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t in Jos on the next appearance date and never found out what happened to that man. I don’t even remember the man’s name, but I will never forget how that day in court made me feel.

I remember this case today because I see the possibility of a similar scenario playing out again. The police decided to present some traders in court as the suspects in the recent Angwan Rukuba massacre. We were never told when and how they were arrested or what sort of evidence indicted them.

That man from 20 years ago was illiterate and had no one to speak for him. But these traders being linked to the Angwan Rukuba killings have people speaking for them in published interviews, including Christian traders they had helped protect during the recent incident.

This sort of lazy police “investigation” is meant to assuage public outrage, not to honestly find the guilty party; it is not even intended to get a conviction, just to mask their failings, drag out the trial until public interest is thoroughly exhausted while the real culprits go about their business of killing unhindered. If these men are guilty, let the evidence show it, and let this trial be swift. If they are not, I hope they will sue the police for damages.

I keep thinking how that man from 20 years ago lost years in detention for something he never did because he was a perfect scapegoat, who spoke no English, could not afford a lawyer and would probably have been condemned if not for a judge that broke protocol and spoke to him in a language that he understood. Twenty years later, we are still unserious about insecurity or justice.