Poor Sule Lamido. After an eight-year remarkable tenure as governor of Jigawa State, which he, by sheer grit, transformed from a rustic community of farmers, building roads, schools and a beautiful airport, he has been arraigned before a court for alleged corruption. His fans- and foes- are wondering how and when he crossed the line – if the allegations are, indeed, true.
He was asked to be remanded in prison custody. Apparently exasperated by it all, Lamido exclaimed: “So I’m now a prisoner?” The Jagoran Talakawa (friend of the poor) is, thankfully, now on bail.
Lamido is not alone. Former Imo Governor Ikedi Ohakim, former Head of Service Steve Oronsaye and former Adamawa Governor Murtala Nyako have all just returned from the court.
Apparently scared that this could be their lot, considering the reconnaissance of the Dr Goodluck Jonathan administration by the tactful Muhammadu Buhari presidency, many dignitaries have bombarded “Editorial Notebook” for a confidential advisory on how to go through it all. It will, in my view, be unfair to make such a critical document secret, considering the sheer number of our compatriots who will soon find it exceedingly useful.
Here we go: Merely taking you before the court – if you fail to get a perpetual injunction against the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC), its agents, privies, officers, operatives or whatsoever called, who may wish to investigate you from so doing – does not make you a prisoner. Be ready to shell out a fortune – obviously a small fraction of the cash they claim you have stolen – to get a damn good lawyer, a Senior Advocate of Nigeria (SAN). There are many of them in town nowadays. Your adversary, the tempestuous EFCC, cannot afford them.
When you are remanded, don’t panic and give your traducers a chance to say: “Oh; he’s finished.” Remember, the offence, no matter how huge the cash involved, is bailable. In fact, the charges may be as long as the Lagos-Ibadan Expressway. Never mind; as the case progresses, they may be withdrawn, amended or consolidated into one or two.
Bail will come in very liberal terms: N400m and a surety who must be a senior civil servant. He or she must own a property in Abuja (Is there any senior government official worth his seat who doesn’t own a choice property in that seductive city?) or be a National Award recipient– there are all manner of people (leaders and looters) who are proud honorees, you know. If the judge is the liberal type, he may just let you go on self-recognition.
When the case proper begins, your lawyer will tell the judge he has no jurisdiction to entertain the matter. The judge could be stubborn. He may fix a date to determine his jurisdiction and, in actual fact, rule that he is fit to hear the matter. Don’t fret. Your lawyer will simply head for the ever-busy Court of Appeal. This, no doubt, will take months to resolve. The appeal may be decided, most likely against you. Be strong; it is a temporary setback (if you see it as a setback o). Remember, it is basic in law that you are innocent, until proven guilty. In fact, your lawyer should tell you that Actus non facit reum nisi mens sit rea (The act does not make a person guilty unless the mind is also guilty).
Another judge will naturally take over the case. A plea is taken – “Are you guilty or not?” Be firm in replying: “Not guilty at all, my Lord.” Your SAN will then raise a preliminary objection, saying again that His Lordship has no jurisdiction to hear the matter. “The offence was not committed in Abuja,” he will tell the court, “and the money involved is, after all, not the Federal Government’s.” Besides, no prima facie case has been established against you, the lawyer will say confidently.
As the case wends its way through, never forget you’re a politician, not a criminal. Never. Fight for your party’s ticket to run for governor (don’t mind the cost). If you win the election, the case automatically goes into the cooler for at least the next four years. If you are the considerate type, you can listen to the pleas of the good people of your dear state to serve for four more years. By the time you finish – you can run for Senate o – the case file would have been missing. Don’t arrange for the judge to get beaten up and his robe torn and the court documents shredded and the court premises shut down. No need for all that as people will call you, a honorable man, names.
If the authorities dare to revive it all, your lawyer will simply make a no-case submission, insisting that the prosecution has no case against you and that you, ipso facto, should be compensated for the ordeal of being brought before the court.
If your lawyer is the theatrical type, he can muddy the waters. He will spring up to his feet, adjust his gown, frown, gesticulate like a Nollywood wannabe and tell the judge: “Objection, my Lord. I have an objection. We have filed a motion, which is fundamental to the very essence of this case, from which we believe you should excuse yourself. We can smell some bias, with due respect, my Lord.”
Shocked, the judge will begin to put up a defence. “Me, biased? How?” He will then fix a long adjournment date. Again, you have been saved by the bell. When the date comes, his lordship will simply announce that since your lawyer has raised the issue of bias, he has returned the file to the Chief Judge for reassignment. Go home and relax as the court, which has its hands full of urgent matters, will not give a date so soon.
Outside the court, your supporters will bear big placards attesting to your integrity and notifying the world that you are being persecuted because of your political beliefs. Some of the placards will read: “Leave our hero alone. He is not a thief”; “EFCC, is your money missing?”; “Our man is not guilty. This is politics taken too far”; “It is better for 1000 criminals to go free than to have an innocent man punished”.
Of course, an army of television cameramen and newspaper photographers will be there to record the scene for all, especially your supporters who may not be able to join the solidarity bus to Abuja and those political enemies of yours who pray fervently for your downfall.
As the case progresses (with another judge taking charge), if your lawyer perceives that it could be against you, he will so inform you. “Be strong and courageous. Do not be petrified, do not be discouraged.” Isn’t that what the holy book demands of us? Besides, there is a way out.
Your lawyer will seek your permission to go into settlement talks with the prosecution. It is called plea bargain. An agreement will be drawn up. You will be required to give up some of the property you have acquired in exchange for your freedom. A filling station here, a mansion there and a shopping complex in the heart of the city. Just a few.
The judge may also ask you to pay a fine, usually the kind of cash you can easily ask your driver to whip out of the car trunk. Your detractors will call it a slap on the wrist, never mind; that’s their problem.
Freedom–at last. Get some rest and at the weekend storm your hometown in a long motorcade of exotic vehicles. A grand reception should be awaiting your arrival, with the community’s best musician on the band stand. Push the boat out. Flood the gathering with choice drinks. Let there be plenty of food as if it is Christmas Day. Remember the sumptuosity of it all is a reflection of your status.
Deliver a moving speech, thanking your people for standing by you all the way. All are not thieves whom the dogs bark at, you will say in an emotional voice. To your opponents, be magnanimous. Tell them you have forgiven all, that you harbour no malice against anyone and that you see your ordeal as the price you needed to pay for agreeing to serve your people. I assure you there will be a deafening ovation from the appreciative crowd of youths, elders and common folks.
On Sunday, storm the church with your army of supporters for a welcome/thanksgiving service. The sermon is quite predictable. The man of God will admonish the congregation to always embrace truth and service, adding that no matter how rough things are, the truth will surely prevail.
When it is time to dance up to the alter for the priest’s blessings, you can request for a popular local song, something like this: “O ti mu mi gbagbe o, ibanuje igba kan, A se were ni’se Oluwa, oba ti mo pe t’onje. A se were ni’se Oluwa, oba ti mo pe t’onje.” (He has made me to forget the sadness of the past. God’s work is timely. He is the king that I call and he answers.)
To shame those who mocked you, you can then request to have that chieftaincy title you shunned because of your modesty.
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