Olu Allen
Every time the conversation shifts to separatist movements in Nigeria, one uncomfortable question refuses to go away:
Does Nigeria apply the law equally, or does geography determine justice?
It is a difficult question. It is also one we cannot continue to dismiss with insults or ethnic stereotypes.
Let me be clear from the outset.
This is not a defence of violence. No citizen, no movement, and no region should be above the law. If any group takes up arms, incites violence or attacks innocent people, the state has both the constitutional authority and the moral duty to act.
But there is another duty that is just as important.
The law must be applied consistently.
That is where many Nigerians believe the country has struggled.
Consider the comparison that many people make.
The Eastern Security Network (ESN) was established by Nnamdi Kanu under the umbrella of IPOB.
The Federal Government designated IPOB a terrorist organisation in 2017 and has treated ESN as its armed wing. Nnamdi Kanu remains in detention following his conviction on terrorism-related charges.
In the South-West, Sunday Igboho became the face of the Yoruba Nation agitation and announced the Iru Ekun Security Network as part of that movement’s security vision.
Following the raid on his residence in 2021, he fled Nigeria, was arrested in the Republic of Benin, later regained his freedom through Beninese legal processes, and today speaks publicly without being under the same legal restrictions as Kanu.
Now, before anyone jumps to conclusions, let us acknowledge the obvious.
These are not identical legal cases.
IPOB was formally proscribed by a Nigerian court. Iru Ekun has not been designated a terrorist organisation by the Federal Government. The evidence presented against each man differs. The charges differ. The judicial processes differ.
Those distinctions matter.
But acknowledging those legal differences does not end the conversation.
It simply shifts the question.
Why do so many Nigerians still perceive a double standard?
That perception did not emerge from nowhere.
Many citizens believe that similar acts of separatist agitation have attracted very different political and security responses depending on where they originated. Whether that perception is entirely accurate or not, it has become deeply rooted in public consciousness.
And perception matters.
A democracy does not survive merely because justice is done. It survives because people believe justice is done.
This is where the Nigerian Civil War still casts a long shadow.
Officially, the war ended in 1970 with General Yakubu Gowon’s historic declaration of “No Victor, No Vanquished.”
Legally, the war is over.
Emotionally?
Politically?
Many Nigerians, especially many Igbos, would argue that some of its wounds never truly healed.
That does not mean Nigeria has waged a perpetual campaign against the Igbo people. Such a sweeping claim would ignore the remarkable contributions and successes of countless Igbos in business, academia, medicine, technology, public service and national development.
But economic success is not the same as political reconciliation.
Nor does it automatically erase feelings of marginalisation, mistrust or unequal treatment.
These perceptions continue to shape conversations about appointments, infrastructure, security operations and the handling of separatist movements.
Some will respond that IPOB became violent and therefore deserved proscription.
That argument deserves to be heard.
If evidence proves that individuals or groups committed crimes, they should answer for those crimes before the law.
But the principle must not stop there.
If the Nigerian state is determined to confront violent actors, then every violent actor—regardless of ethnicity, religion or region—must be treated with the same resolve.
Justice loses credibility when it appears selective.
Others will argue that comparing Kanu and Igboho is intellectually dishonest because their legal circumstances are different.
There is truth in that.
Yet different legal circumstances do not automatically answer the larger concern about consistency in state response. They merely explain part of it.
The deeper issue is trust.
Can every Nigerian honestly say that the law is blind to ethnicity?
Can every community confidently believe that similar conduct would attract similar consequences?
Until those questions are answered convincingly, not merely politically, the debate will continue.
National unity cannot be built on force alone.
It cannot be sustained by selective outrage.
It cannot flourish where entire communities believe they are judged by different standards.
The strength of a nation is not measured by how harshly it punishes its opponents.
It is measured by how consistently it applies justice to everyone.
Nigeria deserves that consistency.
Because when citizens lose confidence in equal justice, they eventually lose confidence in the institutions that administer it.
And when trust in institutions disappears, reconciliation becomes far more difficult than winning any war.
The civil war may have ended over five decades ago.
But until every Nigerian believes the law has only one standard, not Northern, Southern, Eastern, or Western, its emotional and political echoes will continue to haunt our national conversation.
What do you think?
Is Nigeria applying one standard of justice to every region, or is the perception of unequal treatment itself becoming one of the country’s greatest threats to national unity?
Allen writes on public affairs and advocates for good governance.
