When news broke that Justice Ibrahim Tanko Muhammad, former Chief Justice of Nigeria, had died, the moment called for reflection rather than noise. Death has a way of closing a chapter, but it does not close the conversation about what that chapter meant. For many Nigerians, especially ordinary citizens whose only real encounter with democracy is on election day, Tanko Muhammad’s legacy will forever be tied to Imo State, January 14, 2020.
That day, the Supreme Court overturned the outcome of the 2019 Imo State governorship election and installed a candidate who had not been declared winner at the polls. The decision rested on the inclusion of results from hundreds of polling units that had earlier been excluded. On paper, it was a judicial correction. In the hearts of many Nigerians, it felt like something else entirely: the erasing of their voices.
For the common voter, elections already demand patience, courage, and faith. People wake before dawn, stand in long lines, and cast ballots in the hope that their small act will matter. When a court later appears to reverse that collective effort, the pain cuts deep. Many citizens did not read legal briefs or judgments; they felt the outcome. To them, it looked as though thousands of votes had been wiped away by men in robes, far removed from the dust, sweat, and fear of the polling unit.
This is where the real damage occurred, not only in Imo State, but across the country. The judgment fed an existing fear that elections in Nigeria do not truly belong to the people. Conversations in buses, markets, and homes changed tone. “Why vote?” some asked. “If courts can decide everything, what is the point?” That quiet despair may be the most enduring consequence of the case.
Imo State itself became a symbol of instability. Protests followed. Political tensions deepened. Trust in institutions thinned. What should have been a legal resolution instead widened the distance between the judiciary and the public it is meant to serve. Even those who defended the ruling as legally sound struggled to answer a simpler question that ordinary Nigerians kept asking: how can justice feel so far from fairness?
Under Tanko Muhammad’s leadership, the judiciary began to look, to many eyes, less like a neutral guardian and more like an extension of political power. Whether that perception was accurate or not mattered less than the fact that it took hold. Once people stop believing courts are independent, the damage spreads beyond election cases. It reaches everyday life: the poor person who believes justice is only for sale, the accused who assumes guilt before trial, the citizen who thinks connections matter more than truth.
Tanko Muhammad’s tenure ended amid internal turmoil within the judiciary itself, further reinforcing the sense of an institution struggling to hold its moral center. By the time he left office, public confidence had already been deeply shaken.
Now that he is gone, it would be easy to soften the past or speak only of his rise through the judiciary. But honesty matters, especially if Nigeria hopes to rebuild trust in its courts. A legacy is not only what a judge intended, but what the people experienced. And for many Nigerians, the Imo judgment became a turning point—a moment when belief in the power of the ballot began to fade.
This is not about celebrating or condemning a man in death. It is about acknowledging the harm done to public faith and learning from it. Courts do not survive on authority alone; they survive on legitimacy. When people believe judges can overturn their will without clear, convincing explanations, democracy itself weakens.
Tanko Muhammad’s death closes his personal story, but the lesson remains alive. If the judiciary is to recover, it must remember that justice is not only about legal correctness. It is also about being seen, felt, and understood as fair. Because once people lose faith in the courts, they do not run to the law—they turn away from it.
Tony Nwachukwusrites from Owerri
