In Nigeria’s anti-corruption landscape, two agencies are often described with a simple contrast: the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) follows the money, while the Independent Corrupt Practices and Other Related Offences Commission (ICPC) follows the conduct.
It sounds like a slogan, but it captures an important truth. Money can show that something is wrong. Conduct can show how it was done.
That distinction now sits quietly at the heart of the controversy surrounding the prosecution of senior lawyer, Chief Michael Ozekhome, SAN. Once we strip away the personalities, emotions, and professional loyalties, what remains is not a battle against a lawyer or the legal profession. It is a test of a fundamental anti-corruption idea: can deception itself be treated as part of the machinery of corruption when it is allegedly used to disguise illicit public funds?
THE CASE AGAINST OZEKHOME
ICPC alleges that Ozekhome used a false identity, “Tali Shani”, and forged documents to claim ownership of a London property, 79 Randall Avenue, London NW2 7SX. This wasn’t just a domestic issue; the false narratives and forged documents were exposed in a public judicial proceeding in the UK’s Property Tribunal, in London. In Nigeria, such allegations can’t be resolved behind closed doors.
WHEN A CASE STOPS BEING ABOUT LEGAL FEES
Many lawyers are understandably uneasy. No profession wants to be portrayed as a conveyor belt for crime simply because it provides services. Indeed, the constitution guarantees legal representation to everyone. How can a person accused of being a thief, armed robber, or murderer get money to defend himself if not from his labor, past or present?
How do our governors, ministers, and other public officers accused of grand larceny get the resources to retain the battery of lawyers that storm the courts to defend them?
Legal representation is not an offence. The constitution guarantees it. Receiving professional fees is not, by itself, suspicious. However, the ICPC’s case does not stop at the payment of fees. The core distinction is between advocacy and participation. The ICPC’s theory is that:
i. Deception and false identities were allegedly utilized.
ii. Misleading documentation was used to shield the origin of property.
iii. There’s an established pattern of using false identities and structured arrangements to conceal the ownership, and therefore transfer of title to the property, by the only known and verified owner of the property, the late General Jerry Useni.
iv. Did Ozekhome know that Useni is the real owner of the property, and if he did not, are their standard professional standards that require a transferee of title to verify root of title of the transferor before accepting the transfer of title?
v. Did Ozekhome agree to close his eyes and play along with the narrative of a supposed “Tali Shani” simply because he stood to benefit?
If these allegations are incorrect, a courtroom is exactly where they should unravel under cross examination. But if proven, the issue moves beyond remuneration into a more troubling space: the use of professional processes as a shield to give dirty money a clean face.
WHY PROCESS MUST OUTWEIGH PERSONALITY
In fragile systems, high-profile cases often turn into emotional referendums. The legal question gets drowned in noise about reputation. But anti-corruption law cannot grow if it is allowed to operate only where resistance is weak.
If a junior civil servant falsifies documents, prosecution is routine. If a contractor uses fronts to mask kickbacks. If a market woman uses false bottoms to measure and dispense pepper and tomatoes, or a petrol attendant tampered with a gauge, no one argues that trial “threatens business.” The law proceeds because it is punching down.
The real question is whether that same process can survive when the defendant is powerful or professionally distinguished. Once status determines who gets fully tried, justice stops being a principle and becomes a negotiation.
If you have ever tangled with an okada man on the highway in Lagos, Abuja, or Kano, you understand the unsettling feeling of being caught in the “collective rage” of a group protecting its own.
THE REAL COST OF STOPPING A TRIAL MIDWAY
This is why executive intervention in an ongoing prosecution creates discomfort. Even where such intervention is lawful, it sends a difficult message: that some matters are too delicate for the open light of a courtroom.
Administrative decisions may offer a “cloudy exoneration,” but they rarely end public doubt.
Judicial outcomes produce closure because arguments are heard and evidence is challenged.
The public rarely reads the fine print of constitutional powers. What it sees is simpler: a trial that began publicly did not end publicly. When that happens, suspicion rushes in to fill the silence.
LET THE COURT, NOT POLITICS, DECIDE
None of this assumes guilt. The ICPC could be entirely wrong. Its theory of deception as a tool of concealment might collapse under scrutiny. The defense might expose fatal weaknesses. That is how trials are supposed to work.
But that outcome should come from judicial examination, not executive interruption. Allowing the process to run would not have criminalized lawyering; it would have clarified the boundary between legitimate professional services and alleged participation in concealment.
When we halt such a process prematurely, we do more than end a prosecution. We weaken the public’s confidence that institutions can confront difficult questions without fear or favor. In corruption matters, perception is the foundation of legitimacy. The law earns trust when it is allowed to speak fully, in the open, through judges and evidence, not when it is silenced quietly behind official doors.
Shogunle is a Nigerian lawyer and writer based on Abuja. He writes frequently on law, governance and public ethics.
