When President Bola Ahmed Tinubu mounted the national stage on September 17, 2025, to announce the cessation of the state of emergency in Rivers State, he struck a tone of relief and reassurance. His statement portrayed the intervention as lawful, necessary, and now completed. Yet behind the triumphal rhetoric lingers an unsettling puzzle: why did the Supreme Court fail to determine challenges to the emergency until it expired?
Tinubu’s statement, delivered in the solemn cadence of presidential authority, meticulously retraced the path that led to the March 18 proclamation. He argued that a “total paralysis of governance”, open hostility between Governor Siminalayi Fubara and 27 out of 31 legislators, breakdown of budgetary processes, and sabotage of oil infrastructure left him no choice but to invoke Section 305 of the 1999 Constitution. “It would have been a colossal failure on my part as President not to have made that proclamation,” he declared.
At every turn, the statement framed the proclamation as a reluctant necessity. Words like “painfully inevitable” and “obligated” worked to blunt accusations of opportunism. Tinubu stressed that the National Assembly approved the measure and that traditional rulers and citizens rallied in support. He even cited the Supreme Court’s own ruling, in one of the state’s many disputes, that Rivers effectively had “no government.”
The speech also had an economic undercurrent. By linking the state crisis to vandalised pipelines and threatened oil revenues, Tinubu nudged his audience to see Rivers’ turmoil not as a parochial spat but a national security risk. It was a reminder that in Nigeria, oil politics often shadows constitutional politics.
Yet the President was not blind to dissent. He acknowledged that over 40 cases were filed across Abuja, Port Harcourt, and Yenagoa, challenging the declaration. Rather than concede weakness, he held up litigation as a sign of democratic vibrancy: “That is the way it should be in a democratic setting.” But critics ask: if democracy is alive in the courtroom, why should justice arrive too late to matter?
Indeed, that is the heart of the controversy. Civil society groups like HURIWA and the CUPP accused the Supreme Court of dragging its feet, pointing out that despite public pressure for urgency, the apex court never delivered a ruling before September 17. The proclamation has lapsed on its own terms, therefore, rendering judicial relief moot.
To be fair, the federal government itself filed preliminary objections questioning jurisdiction and locus standi. Such hurdles often slow down constitutional litigation. Consolidating dozens of suits and managing multiple parties can stretch even the most efficient docket. But delay in high-stakes political cases is never neutral: time decides outcomes as surely as rulings.
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For critics, this was less about backlog and more about quiet strategy — that the Court avoided clashing with the Presidency by simply waiting out the six months. Whether intentional or structural, the effect was the same: a presidential emergency stood unreviewed by the judiciary until it expired.
Tinubu, in contrast, seized the moral high ground of restraint. “I do not see why the state of emergency should exist a day longer than the six months I had pronounced,” he said, announcing the return of Governor Fubara, his deputy, and Speaker Martins Amaewhule to office. The framing was deliberate: a President bound by law, not hungry for power.
But democracy is tested not only by how power is taken but by how institutions respond to its taking. The Supreme Court’s silence leaves an aftertaste of fragility. If judicial review cannot act swiftly when constitutional rights are suspended, does legality become a matter of political timing?
The implications are sobering. Executives may view emergency powers as a tactical tool, knowing litigation can be neutralised by delay. Legislatures may be emboldened to tolerate interventions if courts seem hesitant to check them. Citizens, meanwhile, may grow cynical about the independence of a judiciary that cannot — or will not — deliver timely justice in crises.
At its best, Tinubu’s statement shows a President eager to restore normalcy, urging harmony between executive and legislature across Nigeria’s states. At its worst, it risks normalising emergency as a political instrument, its legality beyond effective judicial reach.
The lesson is clear: Nigeria needs stronger guardrails. Constitutional crises demand expedited judicial calendars, transparent scheduling, and firmer doctrines on emergency limits. Without such reforms, the balance between security and liberty will continue to tilt uneasily.
For now, Rivers State resumes its democratic life, but the silence of the judiciary still echoes. Tinubu may have declared victory, yet the real verdict — on the health of Nigeria’s democracy — remains pending.
Written by Amieyeofori Ibim
