Mob Justice and the Death of Malama Ummulkhair: A Test for Nigeria’s Rule of Law

By Mallam Ibrahim Agunbiade

The brutal killing of Malama Ummulkhair, a respected Islamic teacher and mother of four in Maraban Jos, Kaduna State, is more than a tragic incident; it is a disturbing reminder of the grave dangers posed by mob justice, misinformation, and the erosion of the rule of law.

Reports indicate that Malama Ummulkhair was accused of attempting to steal children—an allegation that had not been verified before an enraged mob descended on her. Although security operatives reportedly rescued her and took her into police custody, the situation took a horrifying turn when the crowd allegedly overpowered security personnel, dragged her from custody, and killed her.

What makes this tragedy even more heartbreaking is the story behind the victim. A woman who left her home to attend an Islamic programme after exchanging farewell words with her husband never returned. A devoted mother and teacher who spent her life educating and nurturing children became a victim of the very society she served.

This incident raises profound questions that Nigerians must confront. How can an unverified accusation become a death sentence? Who granted ordinary citizens the authority to act as judge, jury, and executioner? Most importantly, how could an individual already under police protection become vulnerable to mob violence?

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Those responsible for this heinous act must face the full weight of the law. Every individual found to have participated in the attack should be identified, arrested, and prosecuted. Equally important, any security personnel whose negligence, compromise, or failure of duty contributed to the breach of custody must be thoroughly investigated and held accountable.

The protection of individuals in custody is a fundamental obligation of law enforcement agencies. If citizens can be forcibly removed from police custody and killed by a mob, it signals a dangerous breakdown in public security and threatens the very foundations of justice.

Beyond accountability, there is a compelling humanitarian responsibility. The government should consider providing comprehensive support for the children left behind by Malama Ummulkhair. Educational scholarships, welfare assistance, and opportunities that secure their future would not erase their loss, but they would demonstrate society’s commitment to standing with victims of injustice.

There is also a need to preserve her memory. Malama Ummulkhair should not become another forgotten name in a long list of victims of mob violence. Appropriate measures should be taken to honour her legacy and ensure that her story serves as a lasting reminder of the consequences of lawlessness and the importance of justice.

Sadly, this is not an isolated case. Nigeria has witnessed several instances where rumours, suspicion, and collective anger have led to the deaths of innocent people. The killing of Deborah Samuel, who was lynched following allegations linked to religious sentiments, remains one of the most painful examples of how mob action can destroy lives and undermine justice.

These incidents underscore a sobering reality: a society where accusations replace evidence is a society where no one is truly safe. Today, the victim may be someone falsely accused of a crime; tomorrow, it could be any innocent citizen caught in the tide of public outrage.

The fight against jungle justice requires a collective response. Government institutions, security agencies, religious leaders, traditional rulers, community elders, civil society organisations, and ordinary citizens must continue to condemn and resist mob violence in all its forms. Neither faith, culture, nor tradition justifies the taking of human life without due process.

Justice is a cornerstone of every civilised society. No allegation, regardless of its severity, gives anyone the right to kill. The law exists to investigate accusations, establish facts, and determine guilt or innocence.

Malama Ummulkhair’s death must not become another forgotten tragedy. Instead, it should serve as a turning point—a moment that compels Nigeria to choose law over lawlessness, justice over vengeance, and humanity over mob brutality.

May her soul rest in peace, and may her family find strength, comfort, and the justice they deserve.

Mob Justice and the Death of Malama Ummulkhair: A Test for Nigeria’s Rule of Law

Oluwo, Elebuibon and Terror war

Lasisi Olagunju

The Oluwo of Iwo, Oba Abdulrasheed Adewale Akanbi, recently threw a challenge at Yoruba spiritual leaders. His target was the forest where terrorists are holding schoolchildren and teachers abducted from Oriire Local Government Area of Oyo State.

“All the Babalawo, Araba and Alfas who are always boasting of one charm or another, the time has come to use your powers to rescue the abducted children of Oriire. If money is the problem, I will provide it. Or are your charms effective only when it is time to afflict innocent people? Isé ti dé. War is here. The children are still in the bush.”

The oba did not stop there. He mentioned Chief Yemi Elebuibon and a few other prominent custodians of Yoruba spirituality by name. It was the sort of challenge that would earn applause in the marketplace. Many heard it and nodded in agreement; some clapped for the Oba. After all, if spiritual powers are as potent as their possessors claim, why should they not be deployed against kidnappers and terrorists?

But there was a problem. The challenge may have sounded attractive; it was not one that an Oba should throw.

Chief Elebuibon, like every able elder of Yorubaland, did not leave his vocal cords at the launderette. He responded with characteristic wit and lyrical force.

“What Oluwo said was not properly said,” he declared. “He should have called on pastors, mallams and babalawo alike to help. We know how things are done in Yorubaland. We do not invite farmers to deliberate on warfare, nor do we summon traders to teach farming. No one fights a war with a babalawo’s staff, just as no one uses an ìrùkèrè to sack a town.

“If you see a babalawo at the war front, he is there to prepare the ground for victory, not to fight the battle himself. Warriors fight wars; babalawo perform the duties assigned to them by tradition.”

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A professor friend listened to Oluwo. She listened to Chief Elebuibon. Then she exclaimed: “What stops the Oluwo himself from leading the war as the kings of old did?”

“That is true,” I replied.

Oduduwa came to Ile-Ife not as a social commentator but as a conqueror. His descendants inherited crowns and swords together. In old Oyo, Alaafin Ajaka lost his throne because he could neither confront nor defeat the enemies threatening his kingdom. Only after the death of his warlike brother, Sango, did he return to power and redeem his reputation on the battlefield.

If, therefore, the Oluwo believes the forests of Yorubaland are overrun by terrorists, perhaps the challenge should begin closer to home. Let the king do as his forefathers did. Let him enter the forest and emerge with victory. Ogun dé! The war drums are sounding.

Yet, that is precisely why an Oba should be careful with challenges such as the one the Oluwo threw at priests, pastors and mallams.

An Oba may possess the mystery of Ọbatálá, who “sits on the skin of an ant.” Yet he is not permitted to drag a priest about like a bag of beans. They should work together.

The Yoruba say that the crown is not merely worn on the head; it is carried in the mouth. Once a king speaks, his words cease to be ordinary words. They acquire the weight of the throne. That is why our fathers insisted that certain utterances belong to the marketplace and must never escape from the palace gates.

The palace and the street are not the same institution. The marketplace thrives on noise; the palace survives on measured dignity. An Oba may be criticised, but he must never sound like a critic. He may be angry, but he must never appear quarrelsome. The throne is diminished when it descends into the arena of everyday disputation.

As the Yoruba wisely observe, ọba kì í jà; aṣojú rẹ̀ ńii jà fún un (the king does not fight; his emissaries fight on his behalf). They also say: ọba kì í péjọ; ìjọ ni ń péjọ fun ọba (the king does not go seeking gatherings; gatherings come seeking the king).

The late economics historian, Professor Wale Oyemakinde, captured this ideal brilliantly in his ‘The impact of nineteenth century warfare on Yoruba traditional chieftaincy.’ He wrote that the Yoruba Oba was “distinct and distinguished.” He was Kabiyesi—one whose authority could not be casually challenged; Alaiyeluwa—the earthly representative of divine order. He was expected to be the eyes and ears of the people, the bridge between the living and their ancestors, the custodian of peace and, when necessary, the inspirer of war.

For that reason, the Oba’s conduct was governed by restraints as much as by privileges. Oyemakinde reminds us that while all roads led to the king’s palace, the king hardly travelled. While subjects visited him, he did not go about visiting subjects. While others paid homage, he paid homage to no one. Distance preserved dignity; restraint protected majesty.

William Shakespeare understood this burden of kingship. In Henry IV, Part II, as the king broods over the burdens and anxieties of office, he contrasts his own restless nights with the tranquil sleep of his lowliest subjects and concludes: “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.” The crown is heavy not because it grants power but because it demands discipline and sacrifice. A king must often resist saying what every other person is free to say.

That is why Oluwo’s challenge, though entertaining, sounded misplaced. There are words that may come from a warrior, a politician, a priest or a columnist. There are words that should not come from the throne.

The Yoruba compare the king to the eagle perched atop the iroko tree. From that lofty height, the eagle sees farther than every other bird. Yet it does not, like the restless ẹyẹ ẹ̀ga (weaver bird) or the ever-chattering ibaka (canary), flutter noisily from branch to branch advertising its presence. The eagle’s authority lies in its stillness; its majesty in its composure.

The throne is diminished when it competes with the marketplace or the cyberspace. Whenever a king abandons the elevated language of the palace for the rough-and-tumble of public controversy, he risks exchanging majesty for momentary. But applause is like the crackle of dry leaves in harmattan—briefly loud, then gone with the first dews of dawn.

Oluwo, Elebuibon and Terror war

Tinubu proved me wrong in Kwara, By Farooq Kperogi