by Ekene Aninze
The facts are as follows:
On the 27th of January, 2015, Sunday Jackson went to his farm in the bush of Kofomti, Numan LGA, Adamawa. While working peacefully, Ardo Bawuro trespassed into his land with cattle. Ardo accused Sunday of being complicit in shielding those that earlier killed his cattle —a claim Sunday denied. Despite this, Ardo forcefully drove his cattle into the farm. When Sunday tried to chase them away, Ardo drew a knife and stabbed him twice—once on the back of the head, and again on his left leg. Bleeding and injured, Sunday fought for his life, managed to overpower Ardo, seized the weapon, and stabbed him at the neck, resulting in Ardo’s death.
The matter went through the mills of appeals- reaching the Supreme Court. Yet, despite the clarity of Section 33(2) of the 1999 Constitution, and long-standing judicial precedent (Edet v The State, Akpan v The State, Mohammed v The State), the majority of Justices—Baba Idris, Emmanuel Akomaye Agim, Haruna Simon Tsammani, and Habeeb Adewale Abiru—chose to affirm a death sentence. Their rationale? That Sunday Jackson, after being stabbed twice, should have fled instead of retaliating. They concluded that by stabbing his aggressor in the neck, Sunday intended to kill and must be hanged.
Only Justice Helen Ogunwumiju, in her dissenting judgement, demonstrated the compassion and legal clarity expected of the apex court. She recognised that Sunday, a farmer defending himself on his own land, was not a murderer, but a victim of unfortunate circumstance. She rightly invoked the doctrine of self-defense and even recommended a pardon.
But what can the wisdom of one do in the face of four?
Introspectively, Sunday Jackson’s case is more than a legal tragedy; it is a moral indictment of the Nigerian State. It is a brutal reminder of the brokenness of our institutions, a mirror held up to a justice system increasingly bereft of empathy. Sunday Jackson is not just a man. He is an archetype—a symbol of countless Nigerians caught in a system that neither sees nor hears them.
Sunday Jackson is the brother who never made it home—kidnapped and killed because his family couldn’t afford ransom.
He is the farmer butchered on his own land by bandits while the state looks away.
He is the displaced father whose village was razed by Boko Haram, with no justice in sight.
He is one of the innocent worshippers gunned down on the 5th of June 2022 in Owo, their blood now dried, but their killers still walking.
He is one of the able-bodied youths gunned down at Lekki Toll Gate on October 20, 2020, with no consequence.
How many Sunday Jacksons must be offered at the altar of institutional failure before we, as a nation, truly wake up?
How many must be hanged for defending their own lives before the law learns to wear not just a blindfold, but a heart?
The Supreme Court had an opportunity to affirm not just law, but justice. It failed. And in that failure, a man bleeds still—not from his wounds, but from the betrayal of the very system that swore to protect him.
