Lessons from Kwam (Oshiomhole), Kwam 1 (Wasiu Ayinde), And Kwam 2 (Comfort

Scapegoats and Sacred Cows In Nigeria’s Orwellian Reality

By Senator Iroegbu

In Nigeria today, justice operates with a stark duality. For the powerful, the law is often timid and deferential, practically invisible. Conversely, it can be swift, merciless, and vociferous when directed at the vulnerable. This selective application of justice – starkly illustrated by the recent cases of Senator Adams Oshiomhole (“Kwam”), King Wasiu Ayinde Marshal (“Kwam 1”), and Ms. Comfort Emmanson (“Kwam 2”) – perfectly encapsulates our Orwellian existence.

We live in a country burdened by an impressive, yet often inert, body of laws – laws worthy of any modern state. Yet, their implementation frequently teeters on the brink of a Hobbesian state of nature, where “might makes right” and survival reigns supreme.  It’s a system where lawbreakers with power, wealth, or influence are coddled and excused, while the powerless are crushed as cautionary examples.

In George Orwell’s Animal Farm, all animals are equal, but some are “more equal than others.” In Nigeria, the law isn’t absent; it’s selective. It genuflects to privilege while pouncing on vulnerability. Belong to the right political faction, speak the acceptable language, wield the necessary influence, or command a powerful network of enforcers, and the law becomes pliable, even forgiving.  Find yourself isolated, stripped of connections, and you risk ridicule, vilification, and punishment with theatrical zeal.

The examples are numerous. A petty thief might face life imprisonment for stealing a chicken, while those who plunder billions receive symbolic reprimands, or are even celebrated with lavish banquets. Violent actors who destroy property, murder state officials, or terrorise communities are sometimes rewarded with high-profile reconciliation ceremonies and celebratory attire, while peaceful protesters are slapped with charges of treason.

The recent “airport misconduct” incident offers a particularly telling contrast. Senator Oshiomhole reportedly disrupted flight operations, and King Wasiu Ayinde Marshal, in a more alarming act, allegedly attempted to halt a moving aircraft—actions that could trigger severe legal consequences in many jurisdictions. Yet, both emerged virtually unscathed, their offences swallowed by the familiar fog of privilege.

Then there’s Ms. Comfort Emmanson. An ordinary, semi-literate Nigerian, she was visibly struggling in a society that often glorifies elitism. Her alleged offence—arguably less dangerous in nature—was met with the full, unfiltered fury of the system. She was humiliated, manhandled, stripped of her dignity (and, allegedly, her clothing), and paraded as a public “example” of the law in action. The spectacle wasn’t justice served, but raw power brutally inflicted on the defenceless.

Based on available videos and reports, it appears Comfort may even have been provoked. She was allegedly prevented from disembarking while others were allowed to pass, leading to a confrontation that escalated into rage – rage that was then weaponised, making her a scapegoat to satisfy public demands for law enforcement following the Oshiomhole and Kwam 1 incidents.

Troublingly, official statements and public opinion swiftly condemned her without a fair hearing. The widely circulated Ibom Air statement read like a textbook PR defence – prioritising corporate image over a balanced account. While brand protection is understandable, it is alarming that the government and citizens readily accepted a one-sided narrative without scrutiny.

The second video, showing her being physically restrained from leaving the aircraft, raised further questions. Eyewitness accounts are crucial, yet judgment had already been passed – swiftly and decisively – against the “unruly passenger” in the court of public opinion.

Perhaps the most revealing aspect of this double standard was the language used by officials. Statements concerning Kwam 1 were respectful, almost deferential. In Comfort’s case, the Minister of Aviation couldn’t even bring himself to use her name, referring to her solely as “the unruly passenger,” a label echoed in media briefings. Presidential aide Bayo Onanuga, silent during the Oshiomhole and Kwam 1 sagas, found his voice to announce how Comfort had been “swiftly dealt with.” Meanwhile, Madam Abike Dabiri publicly praised Kwam 1 for “apologising,” as if that alone could atone for the alleged offence.

The contrast is striking: respect and restraint for the powerful; humiliation and harshness for the powerless.

This is more than just an airport story. It speaks to the deep-seated rot within our justice system and the pervasive flaws in our societal mindset. In our Orwellian Nigeria, the law isn’t blind – it selectively assesses individuals before determining its course of action. We don’t lack laws; we lack the courage to apply them equitably.

Consequently, Nigerians adapt. Many no longer believe honesty is rewarding. They learn to cut corners if possible, leverage connections when available, and cultivate an aura of authority. In such a society, adhering to the rules becomes a sign of weakness, not integrity.

Until we dismantle this culture of scapegoating and selective justice, the message will remain unmistakable: In Nigeria, it’s not the law itself you should fear – it’s which side of it you happen to find yourself on.

*Iroegbu, a journalist, security and public affairs analyst, writes from Abuja.