On July 4, 2025, Justice Binta Nyako of the Federal High Court delivered what was expected to be a long-awaited declaration of justice. Her ruling declared that the Nigerian Senate’s decision to suspend Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan for six months was both “unconstitutional and unlawful.” It should have marked a moment of institutional healing, the restoration of legislative dignity, and a reaffirmation of judicial power. But it did not. Instead, what the nation received was a ruling stripped of enforcement—a declaration without a command, a diagnosis without a cure. In its tone and structure, it resembled less a legal judgment than a session with a marriage counselor: sympathetic, observant, but ultimately unwilling to issue binding instructions to either party. A verdict that has now become a metaphor for the judiciary’s deeper paralysis.
It is no surprise that legal journalist Wale Igbintade, in a searing July 27 commentary for THISDAYLIVE, dissected Justice Nyako’s decision with surgical precision. His core observation? That the judgment—though framed as a constitutional correction—was “open-ended,” dangerously vague, and structurally weak. The court’s failure to issue a direct, enforceable order for Senator Natasha’s reinstatement created a legal vacuum—one that emboldened her political adversaries and exposed the judiciary’s retreat from responsibility. What should have been an assertion of judicial power became, in Igbintade’s words and in our deeper institutional reading, something far less: an open-ended treatment plan from a judge who positioned herself more like a marriage counselor than a constitutional guardian.
When the Gavel Becomes a Therapist’s Notebook: A Judiciary in Psychological Retreat
Igbintade’s metaphor—casting Justice Nyako as a “marriage counselor”—is not merely literary flourish. It is a psychologically precise portrait of how legal ambiguity can quietly displace judicial responsibility. A marriage counselor, however sincere, does not impose consequences. They listen, mediate, suggest. But ultimately, the decision to reconcile or separate rests with the parties. There is no gavel, no enforcement—only reflection and negotiation.
This, in essence, is what Justice Nyako delivered: a therapeutic gesture wrapped in legal robes. She acknowledged that Senator Natasha’s suspension was unlawful. She noted the harm done. But she withheld the most crucial judicial remedy—a definitive and binding order for reinstatement. Psychologically, this amounted to an “open-ended treatment plan”: ambiguous, continuous, and vulnerable to manipulation by the stronger party. Legally, it was a judgment that passed the burden of decision to politics, not the constitution.
The Consequences of Counseling When Command Is Needed
And so, the more dominant “spouse” in this national marriage—the Nigerian Senate—did precisely what unchecked power often does: it interpreted ambiguity as freedom. On July 22, Senator Natasha, trusting in the spirit of the court’s words, arrived at the National Assembly to resume her duties. Instead, she was blocked at the entrance by security operatives, reportedly acting under Senate instructions. With no explicit enforcement order in the judgment, the Senate seized the space between the lines—treating a constitutional correction as mere opinion. This was no procedural oversight; it was institutional defiance disguised as discretion.
Days later, on July 24, the humiliation deepened. At Abuja’s Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport, Senator Natasha was stopped by immigration officials and informed that her name was on a watch list—allegedly at the Senate’s request. Her right to travel, a basic civil liberty, was now subject to political whim. This is what happens when a judge assumes the role of a marriage counselor: the dominant spouse interprets suggestion as license, while the vulnerable party becomes fair game—not just in the home, but in the streets, the airport, and the national imagination.
To complete the irony, the same court that acknowledged her suspension as unlawful soon turned on her. Justice Nyako fined Senator Natasha ₦5 million for a satirical Facebook post—a symbolic reprimand for tone rather than a shield for rights. The post, a frustrated apology laced with irony, became the target of judicial focus, while the systemic abuse she endured was left to flourish. The metaphor collapses into tragedy: a counselor who allows one partner to lock the other out of the house, then scolds the locked-out partner for shouting through the window.
Systemic Pressure and the Fear of Clarity
Why would a judge, confronted with what appears to be a straightforward constitutional breach, decline to issue a clear and binding directive? The answer, more often than not, lies not in the text of the judgment, but in the architecture around it. In Nigeria, the courtroom is rarely insulated from the soft tremors of power. Judges operate within a dense web of pressures—some explicit, others ambient; some bureaucratic, others psychological. No one suggests that Justice Nyako capitulated to any single influence. But the system she operates within raises unavoidable questions about what judges can or cannot safely say—especially when power is watching.
Political figures—elected or appointed—exert influence not only through institutions, but through networks of proximity and expectation. Judicial superiors, though largely invisible to the public, quietly monitor rulings that could ripple beyond the court. And Senior Advocates of Nigeria (SANs)—the profession’s elite—sometimes function not just as legal representatives, but as messengers of political will. Their mastery of courtroom culture, privileged access, and quiet familiarity with power make them influential beyond what is formally recorded in court transcripts. They rarely need to pressure directly. Sometimes, it is their timing, presence, or mere alignment with certain interests that speaks the loudest.
Then there are the registrars and clerks, the often-overlooked but strategically positioned actors in the machinery of justice. Some are professional and neutral; others, less so. They control the flow of files, the speed of processes, the visibility of documents. In the institutional marriage metaphor, they resemble household assistants who know where everything is hidden and who benefits from delay.
It is within this layered, attentive, and self-preserving judicial ecosystem that Justice Nyako rendered her July 4 decision. A firmer, unequivocal ruling—a direct command to reinstate Senator Natasha—might have placed her in quiet opposition to not just the Senate, but also to her own professional establishment. It could have invited scrutiny, disciplinary review, internal isolation, or simply the unspoken labeling of being “too independent.” And so, what emerged was a deliberately softened ruling: a recognition of wrongdoing, but no mandate for correction. A legal diagnosis, but no enforcement. A judgment shaped, perhaps unconsciously, by survival.
Her recent past casts a revealing shadow. In an earlier case, Justice Nyako recused herself—citing conscience. Yet she was instructed by her superior to return to the bench. The defendant, sensing compromised ground, objected. She remained. Eventually, it took the intervention of Chief Justice Kekere-Ekun to remove the matter from her hands. The episode hinted at a larger truth: that even judges who try to step away from conflict may find themselves reinserted by forces above them. Not unlike a marriage counselor ordered back into a dispute she had deemed too fraught to mediate.
Now, in the wake of her July 4 ruling, a pattern resurfaces. The judgment avoided clarity. The system embraced the ambiguity. And from the top of the judicial hierarchy—where oversight and moral leadership reside—there has been only silence.
The counselor remains exposed. The institution continues on—unhealed. And the silence… is deepening.
Where Is the Supervisor? CJN Kekere-Ekun’s Silence as Institutional Tragedy
Which leads to the most unsettling question: Where is the Supervisor? Where is Chief Justice Kudirat Kekere-Ekun?
As Chair of the National Judicial Council and head of Nigeria’s judiciary, the CJN is not just a figurehead—she is the chief steward of institutional conscience. Her words have, in the past, emphasized the need for coherence in rulings, judicial clarity, and the restoration of public faith in the courts. And yet, in a moment when a high-profile ruling collapsed under the weight of its own ambiguity—when a senator’s legal victory dissolved into public humiliation, and the judiciary became complicit through inaction—the Chief Justice has remained silent.
She has issued no clarification. No professional defense. No expression of concern for the institution’s credibility. No reminder to the public that the judiciary remains a final refuge of justice. The therapist-in-chief has not entered the therapy room.
In psychological terms, the family is spiraling. The counselor faltered. And the supervisor—the one charged with guidance and grounding—has chosen retreat over reassurance. It is not just an institutional failure. It is a symbolic one. A vacuum at the very center of the system that most needs moral voice.
The Psychological and Constitutional Cost of an Open-Ended Plan
This is no longer a strictly legal matter. It is a national psychological injury, unfolding in acts, endured by a people who watch law slowly morph into suggestion and justice dissolve into procedural delay.
Senator Natasha’s ordeal has now become a textbook case of mock victory—a situation where someone is told they have won, yet continues to bear the punishment the ruling failed to prevent. Hope was raised. Dignity was promised. But the lived reality told another story: she was blocked at the Senate gate, stopped at the airport, fined by the court, and left suspended in a fog of legal ambiguity. The emotional dissonance between judgment and consequence is not just personal—it is a mirror reflecting a system increasingly unsure of itself.
For the Nigerian public, the implications are even more sobering: that a court can recognize your right, yet leave you exposed. That even when the bench appears to agree, enforcement may quietly vanish. That justice, though spoken, may never arrive. The courtroom begins to resemble not a forum of resolution, but a holding area for the unresolved—where rulings hover in mid-air, and execution depends on who is listening.
What makes this even more unsettling is how Justice Nyako’sruling has aged. Her judgment now feels watery and weightless, like a marriage counseling session where both parties exit more confused than when they arrived. Neither side feels satisfied. Neither sees closure. Both the Senate and Senator Natasha have continued to file appeals—not just as legal routine, but as a form of shared frustration. The ruling has become the counselor’s note each “spouse” now questions: “She didn’t say enough.” “She left it open.” “She avoided the hard part.”
Of course, appeals are part of judicial process. But in this case, the appeals seem to orbit not around the core conflict, but around the absence of clarity itself. Both sides, in their own way, now gesture back to the original ruling—not as a solution, but as a source of continued tension.
This is precisely why the ultimate family supervisor, Chief Justice Kudirat Motonmori Olatokunbo Kekere-Ekun, must step forward—especially in a climate where the judge’s immediate superiors—chief judges and registrars—may, knowingly or not, contribute to the subtle erosion of clarity. It does not take overt pressure to guide outcomes. Sometimes, it is in delays, in silence, in quiet signals of how far a ruling is allowed to go. In such environments, firmness becomes difficult, and precision starts to feel unsafe.
The nation needs to hear the CJN say: “You can appeal all you want, but this pattern of rulings must not continue.” She has long stood for ethics, for coherence, for judicial dignity. But even the strongest vision can falter when the structures just beneath it begin to absorb or redirect its weight.
And the public, watching closely, begins to lose faith. Not in the law itself, but in its delivery. Not in the words of justice, but in their ability to land. And when justice floats too long, it begins to fade.
Conclusion: The Marriage Counselor Has Failed, and the House Is Burning
What began as a constitutional crisis now reads like a tragic marital farce. The judge, cast as a well-meaning but fearful counselor, tried to soothe tension without issuing instruction. She diagnosed the dysfunction but refused to say who crossed the line. She nodded, listened, scribbled in her notes—but when it was time to restore order, she chose the soft road: “Go home and think about it.”
Now the house is on fire.
The spouses are not just quarreling—they’re blaming the counselor. One says, “She didn’t stop them.” The other says, “She didn’t stop me.” The ruling, meant to close the chapter, became a blank page that each side has begun writing on with fire. They’re appealing—not just the outcome, but the lack of outcome. Not the ruling, but the refusal to rule.
And where is the head of the household? The one who once gave speeches about judicial coherence, ethics, and national confidence? The one whose signature is meant to stabilize the bench? She’s in the main house. Upstairs. Door shut. Hoping, maybe, that the noise downstairs will burn itself out.
But this time, the noise has turned to smoke.
This is no longer a courtroom. It is a counseling room with no exit door. A drama of delay. A house where the counselor has stopped counseling, and the supervisor is nowhere to be seen. The public? They’re outside the window—not angry anymore, but amused. Not because it’s funny. But because it’s familiar. Because this is what justice often becomes in Nigeria: a well-dressed silence in a broken room.
But the time for whispering is over.
Yes, it is time for consequences—for those “counselors” who issue rulings that solve nothing and embolden the strong. But it is also time to protect the judges who want to rule boldly—and are trapped between powerful political actors, cautious chief judges, and registrars who can quietly delay or dilute justice behind the scenes.
It is time to tell the dominant spouse—the Senate, the Executive, the repeat abusers of institutional silence: Enough is enough. The next time, the courts must speak not in compromise but in command. You will be ordered. Come what may.
The marriage of justice is not just broken. It is laughing itself into dysfunction.
The counselor has done enough.
The house has burned enough.
Now the supervisor must speak—or there will be no house left to supervise.
This writer does not know any of the individuals involved; the focus is solely on upholding democracy, truth, and justice.
