By Idowu Ephraim Faleye
When Justice Emeka Nwite of the Federal High Court in Abuja sentenced Mahmud Usman, a commander of the proscribed Ansaru sect, to 15 years imprisonment after he pleaded guilty to terrorism-related offences, many Nigerians heaved a sigh of relief. Usman was not just another criminal; he faced a 32-count charge for leading a terrorist organisation, procuring arms for kidnapping operations, recruiting fighters, financing terrorism, and coordinating violent attacks across Nigeria. His name was linked to the infamous Kuje prison attack in Abuja, during which more than 600 inmates escaped, including 64 Boko Haram suspects who had terrorised innocent citizens and even killed soldiers of the Nigerian army.
The judgment looked like justice served. A dangerous man was convicted and sent to prison. But beneath the surface of this victory lies a troubling question: is 15 years imprisonment really enough for a man who coordinated terror, aided jailbreaks, armed kidnappers, and contributed to the death and destruction of countless Nigerians? Can such a sentence deter other terrorists, kidnappers, and violent extremists from walking the same path? Or is this yet another example of how weak, outdated, and inconsistent Nigeria’s laws are when it comes to punishing crimes that shake the very foundation of our nation?
This is where the debate about lawmaking comes in. Our lawmakers in the National Assembly and state assemblies are not elected to become borehole contractors, road patchers, or motorcycle distributors. They are not sent there to compete with the executive arm in executing projects. They are sent there for one central duty: to make laws that protect citizens, regulate society, and reflect the real needs of the people. They are expected to review, update, repeal, and simplify laws so that justice can be served swiftly, fairly, and effectively.
But when a terrorist commander like Mahmud Usman can plead guilty to crimes of such magnitude and walk away with just 15 years, it tells us something is fundamentally wrong. It tells us that our laws are too weak, too old, and too disconnected from the realities of today’s Nigeria.
Terrorism, kidnapping, banditry, and mass jailbreaks are not just ordinary crimes; they are existential threats to the survival of our nation. They destroy communities, ruin lives, weaken the economy, and erode confidence in the state. Yet, the punishments attached to them often look like a slap on the wrist. Compare this to armed robbery, which carries the death penalty in Nigeria because it involves guns, killings, and theft. But what do terrorists and kidnappers do if not carry guns, kill people, and extort money? In fact, kidnapping is even more wicked than armed robbery because it subjects victims and their families to prolonged trauma, fear, and financial ruin.
If this is the case, why then does our legal system treat kidnapping and terrorism with less severity? Why is the punishment for someone who armed kidnappers and facilitated mass jailbreaks just 15 years in prison? Does that punishment match the gravity of the crime? Does it deter others? Or does it silently encourage more violence because the cost of getting caught is not as heavy as the pain inflicted on the victims?
This is why Nigerian lawmakers must roll up their sleeves and get back to the real work of lawmaking. We cannot continue to operate with colonial-era laws, outdated punishments, and archaic legal language that ordinary citizens cannot even understand. The world has changed, but our legal system is still stuck in the past.
One of the oldest principles of law says ignorance of the law is no excuse. Every citizen is presumed to know the law. But how can citizens know the law when many of our statutes are written in confusing colonial English, in expressions that no longer make sense in today’s society? If the law applies to everyone, then the law must be understandable to everyone. People should not need a lawyer to interpret every simple provision that governs their daily lives. Yet this is the sad reality in Nigeria.
Worse still, the punishments attached to our most dangerous crimes are often outdated and toothless. Corruption offences, for instance, are treated with kid gloves. Someone can loot billions of naira and walk free after paying a fine that looks like pocket change. This does not discourage corruption; it rewards it. It sends the wrong message that crime pays, that stealing from the common purse is a low-risk, high-reward venture.
The same applies to kidnapping and terrorism. Families that sell their land and borrow money to pay ransom for their loved ones never get that money back when kidnappers are caught. Instead, ransom money becomes “exhibit” in endless court processes. Victims are left in financial ruin while criminals find their way out of jail through weak punishments, orchestrated jailbreaks, or political amnesty. This is injustice upon injustice.
Lawmakers must change this. They must make it mandatory that ransom money recovered from kidnappers is returned to the victims or their families. They must strengthen punishments for kidnapping and terrorism so that no one dares to think of it as an easy crime. They must ensure that terrorists who cause mass prison breaks face consequences that match the magnitude of their crimes.
But instead of doing this, many lawmakers are busy with constituency projects. They are drilling boreholes, sharing motorcycles, or building half-baked schools. These are distractions. These are the responsibilities of the executive arm, not the legislature. When lawmakers turn themselves into contractors, they weaken democracy. They blur the separation of powers. They abandon the sacred duty of lawmaking, which is the very reason they were elected. And when they abandon lawmaking, they leave the country at the mercy of outdated statutes that cannot protect us in today’s realities.
We must be honest with ourselves: Mahmud Usman’s sentencing is not justice enough. It is progress, but it is not victory. The victory will come when lawmakers rise up and reform the legal system so thoroughly that no kidnapper, terrorist, or corrupt politician ever feels that Nigeria is a safe ground for crime. Victory will come when punishments are swift, commensurate, and severe enough to deter even the most hardened criminal. Victory will come when laws are written in simple, clear language that every citizen can understand and obey.
Lawmakers must comb through our statute books and sweep away archaic relics of colonial rule. They must modernize the criminal code to match today’s Nigeria. They must amend weak punishments and design laws that reflect the reality of our security challenges. They must perform proper oversight on the executive, not compete with it. They must give Nigerians laws they can trust, laws they can understand, and laws that can protect them.
If lawmakers dedicate themselves to these duties, we will no longer have cases where a terrorist commander gets 15 years for crimes that shattered the peace of an entire nation. We will no longer have ransom money tied up as exhibits while victims sink into debt. We will no longer have citizens disconnected from the law because of archaic language and outdated provisions.
Nigeria is at a crossroads. The people are crying for justice. The people are tired of weak punishments, endless trials, and a system that seems to favour criminals while abandoning victims. The burden is on lawmakers to act, to legislate, and to reform. Constituency contracts will not save this country. Boreholes will not end terrorism. Motorcycles will not stop kidnapping. Only strong, modern, and fair laws can.
That is the central duty of parliamentarians. That is the reason they are called lawmakers. And that is the only way they can restore dignity to the legislature, confidence in the justice system, and hope to the people.
Idowu Faleye is a data journalist and political writer promoting good governance and public service delivery. He’s the publisher of EphraimHill DataBlog. Contact him via WhatsApp at +2348132100608 or email at ephraimhill01@gmail.com.
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