In the hallowed yet often frustrating halls of Nigeria's Federal High Court in Abuja, where the scales of justice are meant to balance swiftly but frequently tip into the abyss of delay, another chapter unfolded on Wednesday, September 24, 2025. The trial of Colonel Mohammed Sambo Dasuki (retd.), the former National Security Adviser (NSA) under President Goodluck Ebele Jonathan, was once again adjourned. This postponement, the latest in a saga that has stretched an astonishing decade, underscores a troubling reality in Nigeria's judicial landscape: the slow, grinding machinery of the courts, where cases can languish like forgotten relics, ensnared in bureaucratic tangles, political undercurrents, and procedural missteps.
The charges against Dasuki—amended to encompass seven counts of unlawful possession of firearms and money laundering—date back to his 2015 arraignment under the administration of then-President Muhammadu Buhari. What began as a high-profile crackdown on alleged corruption in the nation's security apparatus has morphed into a protracted legal battle, symbolizing broader issues of selective prosecution, human rights violations, and the weaponization of the judiciary in political vendettas. On this fateful day, the absence of a key prosecution witness—a Department of State Services (DSS) operative—forced Justice Peter Lifu to halt proceedings, adjourning the matter to Thursday, September 25, 2025. The judge's stern warning to the prosecution team, led by Chief Oladipupo Okpeseyi (SAN), to "put its house in order" echoed the frustration of a nation weary of endless legal marathons.
This adjournment is no isolated incident; it is the latest thread in a tapestry woven over ten years, marked by repeated delays, unlawful detentions, and international outcry. As Dasuki, now in his late 60s, awaits the opportunity to mount his defense, the case raises profound questions: Is justice delayed truly justice denied? And in a country grappling with insecurity, economic woes, and democratic backsliding, what does this endless trial say about the state of the rule of law? This rewritten account delves deep into the events of September 24, contextualizes them within Dasuki's broader narrative, and explores the ripple effects on Nigeria's legal, political, and social fabric. Through meticulous reconstruction, witness testimonies, historical flashbacks, and analytical insights, we unpack a story that refuses to conclude, mirroring the unresolved tensions in Nigeria's post-colonial journey.
The Courtroom Drama Unfolds: A Day of Cross-Examinations and Absences
The Federal High Court in Abuja, a modernist edifice of concrete and glass that stands as a beacon of federal authority in Nigeria's capital, buzzed with subdued anticipation on the morning of September 24, 2025. Security was tight, as is customary for cases involving high-profile figures like Dasuki, whose name evokes memories of arms deals gone awry and billions of naira allegedly siphoned from defense coffers. Reporters from outlets like Daily Post, Premium Times, and international wires crammed into the public gallery, notebooks at the ready, while Dasuki's legal team—spearheaded by the erudite A.A. Usman—huddled in quiet consultation with their client.
At the center of it all was Justice Peter Lifu, a no-nonsense jurist known for his impatience with procedural lapses. Earlier in the month, Lifu had issued a unequivocal directive: the prosecution must wrap up its case by the end of September 2025, specifically allocating September 24, 25, and 26 for the calling of remaining witnesses and the tendering of exhibits. This order was born of exasperation; the trial, initiated in December 2015, had already seen countless adjournments due to witness no-shows, health issues, logistical failures, and even the occasional clash of legal calendars. Lifu's gavel had fallen with a promise of finality, yet on this day, the promise faltered.
Proceedings commenced promptly at 10 a.m., with the cross-examination of the prosecution's first witness, Monsur Mohammed. A seasoned operative with the DSS—the shadowy intelligence agency notorious for its role in high-stakes arrests and detentions—Mohammed introduced himself to the court as a "Store Keeper." His role, he explained in a measured tone, involved the meticulous cataloging and management of arms and ammunition seized in operations across the country. With 18 years under his belt in the secret police, Mohammed cut an imposing figure: tall, bespectacled, and clad in a crisp DSS uniform that bespoke authority and discretion.
Under the probing questions of A.A. Usman, Dasuki's counsel, Mohammed's testimony began to unravel layers of the prosecution's case. Usman, a lawyer with a reputation for surgical precision in cross-examinations, zeroed in on the witness's credentials. "Mr. Mohammed," Usman began, his voice steady and resonant in the wood-paneled courtroom, "you state that you have been trained to handle arms and ammunition during your tenure with the DSS. Can you elaborate on the nature of this training?" Mohammed responded affirmatively, detailing a regimen of courses at the DSS Academy in Abuja, where recruits learn everything from firearm disassembly to safe storage protocols. He recounted simulations of real-world scenarios—raids on insurgent hideouts in the Northeast, intercepts of smuggled weapons along porous borders—painting a vivid picture of the DSS's frontline role in combating Boko Haram and other threats.
But Usman was not satisfied with the gloss. Pressing further, he queried the legal underpinnings of Mohammed's authority. "Do you possess a special license from the DSS or any relevant authority to personally handle firearms in the course of your duties?" The courtroom fell silent as Mohammed paused, his fingers drumming lightly on the witness box. After a moment, he conceded: "No, I do not hold a special personal license. My handling is strictly within the scope of my official duties as a store keeper." This admission was a small but significant victory for the defense. It highlighted a potential flaw in the prosecution's narrative—that Dasuki's alleged possession of firearms was unlawful because it bypassed official channels—while subtly underscoring the DSS's own operational ambiguities. In a country where arms proliferation fuels ethnic clashes and banditry, such revelations could erode the credibility of the state's case.
The cross-examination lasted approximately 45 minutes, a brisk affair compared to previous sessions that had dragged into hours. Usman elicited details on the chain of custody for the firearms in question: AK-47 rifles, pistols, and ammunition allegedly found in Dasuki's possession during a 2015 raid on his Abuja residence. Mohammed confirmed the seizure but struggled to recall exact dates and serial numbers, attributing lapses to the chaos of the operation. "It was a high-risk arrest, Your Lordship," he told Justice Lifu, who interjected occasionally to clarify points. By the end, the witness appeared fatigued, his earlier poise giving way to curt responses.
With Mohammed excused, attention turned to the prosecution's next move. Chief Oladipupo Okpeseyi (SAN), a silk-robed senior advocate whose baritone voice commands respect in legal circles, rose to address the court. "My Lord, we now call our second witness for the day," he announced. But the bench beside him remained conspicuously empty. A murmur rippled through the gallery as Okpeseyi explained the predicament: the witness, another DSS official tasked with forensic analysis of the seized items, was absent. "I seek a brief stand-down, My Lord, to make contact and ascertain the situation," Okpeseyi pleaded, his tone apologetic yet firm.
Justice Lifu, peering over his spectacles, granted the request with a nod, setting a one-hour timer. The court rose for a recess, during which lawyers milled about in the corridors, sipping tea from Styrofoam cups and speculating on the delay. Dasuki, dressed in a simple kaftan that belied his aristocratic Sokoto lineage, conferred quietly with Usman, his expression a mask of resigned endurance. An hour ticked by, marked by the distant hum of Abuja's traffic filtering through the windows.
Upon resumption, Okpeseyi returned, his face etched with regret. "My Lord, regrettably, the witness remains unavailable. His mother is currently undergoing emergency surgery at the National Hospital here in Abuja. Family obligations preclude his attendance today." The excuse, while sympathetic on a human level, landed like a lead weight in the courtroom. Justice Lifu’s brow furrowed, his dissatisfaction palpable. "Mr. Okpeseyi," he intoned, "this court issued a clear order for the conclusion of the prosecution's case this month. We are on the cusp of that deadline, and yet, here we are—witnesses absent, excuses mounting. The Federal Republic of Nigeria must put its house in order. This is not a game of musical chairs."
The judge's rebuke was measured but pointed, a reminder of the stakes. He adjourned the matter to the following day, September 25, emphasizing that no further delays would be tolerated. "Ensure your witnesses are present, or face the consequences," Lifu warned, his gavel striking with finality. As the court emptied, journalists scrambled to file their reports, the air thick with the scent of unfinished business. For Dasuki, another day in limbo; for the prosecution, a ticking clock; for observers, a stark illustration of judicial inertia.
Contextualizing the Chaos: The Genesis of a Decade-Long Trial
To fully grasp the gravity of this adjournment, one must rewind the clock to December 2015, a tumultuous period in Nigeria's recent history. The nation was reeling from the defeat of the incumbent People's Democratic Party (PDP) by Muhammadu Buhari's All Progressives Congress (APC) in the March 2015 presidential election—the first peaceful transfer of power between parties in Nigeria's democratic experiment. Buhari, a former military head of state promising to "change" the corruption-riddled status quo, launched Operation Steg-O-Chin, a dragnet targeting officials from the Jonathan era accused of diverting funds meant for arms procurement to fight Boko Haram.
Dasuki, appointed NSA in 2012 by Jonathan, found himself at the epicenter. A scion of the influential Sultan of Sokoto's family—his father was the 18th Sultan, Muhammadu Maccido Dasuki—Sambo Dasuki was no ordinary bureaucrat. Educated at Britain's Sandhurst Military Academy, he rose through the ranks of the Nigerian Army, serving in key roles during the civil war and beyond. As NSA, he oversaw a $2 billion arms procurement fund, intended to equip troops against the Islamist insurgency that had claimed thousands of lives in the Northeast. Yet, under Buhari's scrutiny, this fund became a symbol of graft: auditors alleged that Dasuki and associates awarded fictitious contracts, laundered money through proxies, and even used portions to finance Jonathan's reelection campaign.
Arrested on December 1, 2015, in a dramatic dawn raid by the DSS, Dasuki was bundled into custody without formal charges for weeks—a move that ignited a firestorm. Human rights groups like Amnesty International decried it as arbitrary detention, violating Nigeria's 1999 Constitution and the African Charter on Human and Peoples' Rights. Dasuki himself, in a statement smuggled from detention, alleged political motivation: "This is persecution, not prosecution," he declared, pointing to his PDP affiliations and the timing of the raid amid post-election score-settling.
The charges, amended over time to seven counts, centered on two prongs: unlawful possession of 13 firearms (including assault rifles and submachine guns) without licenses, contravening the Firearms Act; and money laundering involving N27.4 billion (approximately $70 million at 2015 rates). Prosecutors painted Dasuki as the architect of a scheme where funds were disbursed to cronies—media houses, religious leaders, even civil society figures—in exchange for electoral support. Key evidence included bank records, witness statements from contractors, and the seized arsenal from his Asokoro home.
From the outset, the trial was mired in controversy. Dasuki was granted bail multiple times—first in 2016 by Justice Adeniyi Ademola, then reaffirmed by the Supreme Court in 2018—but the DSS flouted these orders, keeping him incommunicado. This defiance peaked in 2017 when DSS operatives stormed Justice Walter Onnoghen's home (ironically, Nigeria's Chief Justice at the time) to prevent bail enforcement. International pressure mounted: The United States, United Kingdom, and European Union issued statements condemning the "illegal detention," while the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS) Court ruled in 2018 that Dasuki's rights had been violated, awarding him damages.
Release came fitfully in December 2019, after four years in solitary-like conditions at the Kuje Correctional Centre. Buhari's government cited "humanitarian grounds," but skeptics saw it as a ploy to quiet critics ahead of the 2019 elections. Even then, the trial persisted, hopping between judges and courts amid recusals and appeals. By 2025, under President Bola Ahmed Tinubu's administration—the third since the case's inception—it had become a legal zombie: undead, unrelenting, and emblematic of systemic flaws.
The Human Toll: Dasuki's Personal Odyssey Through the Judicial Maze
Beyond the legalese and headlines lies the human story of Sambo Dasuki—a man whose life has been upended by this interminable process. Born in 1960 into the royal pew of Sokoto, Dasuki's early years were steeped in privilege and duty. As a young officer, he commanded respect; by his 40s, he was a confidant to presidents, navigating the treacherous waters of Nigeria's security politics. His tenure as NSA was not without achievements: He modernized intelligence gathering, forged ties with international partners like the U.S. for drone surveillance, and attempted to professionalize the arms procurement process amid Boko Haram's rampage.
Yet, the 2015 downfall shattered this edifice. Detained in a spartan DSS cell, Dasuki endured what he later described as "psychological torture"—denied medical care for chronic ailments, isolated from family, and subjected to intermittent interrogations. In leaked memos, he claimed interrogators pressured him to implicate Jonathan and PDP stalwarts, a classic tactic in politically charged probes. His wife, Fatima, became a vocal advocate, shuttling between courts and media houses, her pleas for his health—a bout with prostate issues and hypertension—tugging at public heartstrings.
The trial's adjournments compounded this suffering. Each postponement meant renewed uncertainty: Would witnesses appear? Would bail be enforced? Dasuki's legal fees, reportedly in the tens of millions of naira, drained family resources, while his reputation—once untarnished—now bore the stain of "suspect." In a 2023 interview with Arise TV (conducted post-release), Dasuki reflected philosophically: "Justice is a marathon in Nigeria, not a sprint. I run it with faith, knowing truth endures." His stoicism, drawn from Sufi Islamic traditions prevalent in northern Nigeria, has been a bulwark, but cracks show: Associates whisper of his reclusiveness, a shadow of the gregarious host who once entertained dignitaries.
For the witnesses like Monsur Mohammed, the toll is subtler but no less real. Testifying in such cases invites scrutiny—personal, professional, even perilous in a nation where intelligence operatives tread dangerous lines. Mohammed's admission on September 24 about lacking a personal firearms license, while tactical, exposed him to internal DSS recriminations. And the absent witness, sidelined by a mother's surgery? Such personal crises highlight the human fragility behind the state's machinery, where duty clashes with life’s imperatives.
Broader Implications: Judicial Delays as a Mirror to Nigeria's Fractures
This adjournment is more than a procedural hiccup; it is a microcosm of Nigeria's judicial woes. The country's courts, overburdened with over 200,000 pending cases annually (per National Judicial Council data), suffer from chronic underfunding, judge shortages, and interference. High-profile trials like Dasuki's amplify these issues: Political heavyweights pull strings, witnesses vanish into witness protection limbo, and adjournments become a default tactic for delay.
Economically, the case's drag has cost millions—legal fees, security deployments, lost productivity. But the true price is societal trust. Nigerians, already cynical about institutions after scandals like the $20 billion Malabu oil heist or the Niger Delta militancy payoffs, view Dasuki's trial through a lens of bias. Northern Muslims see it as anti-Fulani targeting (Dasuki is Fulani); southerners as PDP witch-hunt. This polarization, exacerbated by social media echo chambers, erodes faith in Tinubu's "renewed hope" agenda.
Globally, the case tarnishes Nigeria's image. The U.S. State Department's 2024 human rights report cited it as emblematic of "prolonged pretrial detentions," urging reforms. Investors, wary of rule-of-law deficits, hesitate; a 2025 World Bank study linked judicial delays to a 2% GDP drag in emerging markets like Nigeria.
Comparatively, Dasuki's ordeal echoes global injustices: Julian Assange's decade-long extradition saga or Brazil's Lava Jato anticorruption trials, where delays bred impunity. Yet Nigeria's context—ethnic federalism, oil dependency, insurgency—adds unique venom.
