By OLUSOJI DAOMI
“Bros, abeg help me. The police don catch my brother for checkpoint. Dem say he must pay ₦50,000 bail money or dem go charge him to court tomorrow morning.”
“Which bail money? And which tomorrow morning? Today is Tuesday, and your brother was arrested this evening. Have you taken something today?”
“I no understand you.”
“Listen to me carefully. In Nigeria, bail is free. Free. As in, you do not pay. And if they arrested him this evening, they have exactly 24 hours — one day — to either charge him to court or release him. Not tomorrow morning. Not next week. Twenty-four hours.”
“But the officer say…”
“The officer is lying.”
This conversation, or some variation of it, plays out every single day across Nigeria — at police checkpoints from Lagos to Maiduguri, in station houses from Enugu to Kano, in the fearful WhatsApp messages that fly between family members at odd hours. And it is past time we had an honest conversation about what the Nigerian Constitution, the Police Act, and the Anti-Torture Act actually say about your rights when you encounter the men and women in black.
Because here is the truth that every Nigerian must carry in their pocket like a talisman: The police are your friends — but only if you know your rights first.
Let us begin with the most abused word in the Nigerian policing lexicon: bail.
How many times have we heard it? “Oga, bring money for bail.” “Your bail is ₦20,000.” “If you no pay, you go sleep here tonight.” It has become so normalized that many Nigerians genuinely believe bail is a transaction, like buying pure water or paying for a bus ticket.
Let me put this in plain language for the pepper seller in Ogbete Market and the bus conductor in Oshodi: Bail is free. Full stop. No comma. No asterisk. No terms and conditions.
Section 35(4) of the 1999 Constitution of the Federal Republic of Nigeria (as Amended) provides in unmistakable terms: “Any person who is arrested or detained in accordance with subsection (1)(c) of this section shall be brought before a court of law within a reasonable time.” And what is “a reasonable time”? The Constitution defines it explicitly: in the case of an arrest or detention in any place where there is a court of competent jurisdiction within a radius of forty kilometres, twenty-four hours. In any other case, forty-eight hours or such longer period as the court may consider reasonable.
What does this mean in the language of the street? If the police arrest you in Lagos, where there are more courts than petrol stations, they have 24 hours — one day and one night — to either charge you to court or release you. Not two days. Not “when we finish investigation.” Not when your people bring money. Twenty-four hours.
And if they want to release you pending further investigation, that release is called bail. And bail, under Section 158 of the Administration of Criminal Justice Act, 2015, and Section 32 of the Police Act, 2020, is free. It can be granted on self-recognizance — meaning your word is your bond. Or on surety — meaning someone stands for you. But it cannot, under any constitutional or statutory framework, be sold like gala at a traffic light.
The next time an officer says, “Pay ₦30,000 for bail,” look him in the eye and say: “Officer, with respect, Section 35 of the Constitution says bail is free. If you refuse to release me, please charge me to court within 24 hours.” Will this make him happy? Probably not. But knowledge is a shield, and a shield does not exist to make your enemy comfortable.
Now, let us talk about the checkpoint — that peculiar Nigerian theatre where citizenship is interrogated, wallets are inspected, and dignity is often auctioned to the highest bidder.
You are driving home from work. The police flag you down. What does the law say? First, you have the right to remain silent. Section 6 of the Administration of Criminal Justice Act, 2015, guarantees every suspect the right to remain silent during arrest and interrogation. The police cannot force you to talk. They cannot beat a confession out of you. They cannot threaten your family until you say what they want to hear. Anything you say must be voluntary. And if you choose to say nothing, that silence cannot be used as evidence of guilt. Section 35(2) of the Constitution states that any person who is arrested or detained shall be informed in writing within twenty-four hours — and in the language he understands — of the facts and grounds for his arrest. More importantly, Section 66 of the Police Act, 2020, provides that a suspect has the right to consult a legal practitioner of his choice before making any statement. Not after they have beaten you. Not after they have written the statement for you. Before.
This is why every Nigerian should have the phone number of a lawyer — any lawyer — saved on their phone. The Nigerian Bar Association runs free legal aid services. Many lawyers offer pro bono assistance. The moment you say, “I want to speak to my lawyer,” the law requires them to stop questioning you until that lawyer arrives. If they refuse, they are breaking the law, and any statement obtained thereafter is inadmissible in court.
The Police should not unnecessarily search your phone. This is where the Cybercrimes (Prohibition, Prevention, Etc.) Act, 2015, becomes your shield. The Act does not give the police blanket authority to seize your phone at a checkpoint and scroll through your WhatsApp messages, your photos, or your banking apps. A phone search requires a warrant issued by a court, or at the very least, reasonable suspicion of a specific cybercrime — not a fishing expedition because you happen to own an iPhone.
The police may ask for your phone. They may pressure you. They may threaten to detain you. But here is what the law says: without a warrant, without probable cause linking your device to a specific offence, they are on constitutionally shaky ground. And if they force you to unlock your phone under duress, they are violating Section 37 of the Constitution, which guarantees the privacy of your correspondence and telecommunications.
What should you do? Remain calm. Do not physically resist — that only gives them an excuse. But say clearly: “Officer, I do not consent to a search of my phone. If you believe my phone contains evidence of a crime, I ask that you obtain a warrant from a court.” Record the interaction if you safely can. Note the officer’s name and rank. And if they seize your phone unlawfully, report to the Police Complaint Response Unit and the National Human Rights Commission.
But perhaps the most insidious abuse — the one that tears families apart and turns Nigerian homes into houses of fear — is the practice of arresting one person for another’s offence.
Your brother is accused of a crime. The police cannot find him. So they come to your father’s house and arrest you instead. “Your brother run. You must produce him, or you go stay for cell.” They arrest your mother. They arrest your pregnant sister. They arrest your seventy-year-old father. This is not policing. This is hostage-taking. And it is expressly illegal.
Section 7 of the Administration of Criminal Justice Act, 2015, provides that a person shall not be arrested in place of a suspect. Let me repeat that, because it bears repeating: The police cannot arrest you because they cannot find your brother. They cannot arrest your wife because they are angry at your husband. They cannot arrest your tenant because your landlord filed a complaint. Each arrest must be based on individual reasonable suspicion of that specific person’s involvement in a crime.
The Constitution, in Section 35, protects personal liberty. That liberty is individual. It is not collective. It is not familial. It is not transferable like a debt. If the police arrest you in place of another, they are not enforcing law — they are committing a crime under Section 4 of the Anti-Torture Act, 2017, which criminalises torture and cruel, inhuman, or degrading treatment.
And what does the Anti-Torture Act say? It says that torture is a criminal offence, punishable by up to 25 years imprisonment. It defines torture broadly: any act by which severe pain or suffering, whether physical or mental, is intentionally inflicted on a person for such purposes as obtaining information or a confession. This includes beating, hooding, sleep deprivation, threats against family members, and simulated execution.
In the language of the street: If police beat you to confess, they are not doing their job — they are committing a crime that can send them to prison for 25 years. If they tie you up, slap you, deny you food, or threaten to rape your wife unless you sign a statement, they are torturers under Nigerian law, and the law does not care about their uniform.
What should you do if you or a loved one is held beyond 24 hours? Apply for a writ of habeas corpus. This is a constitutional remedy under Section 35(6) that compels the police to produce the detainee before a court and justify the detention. Any lawyer can file this. Many human rights organisations will file it for free. And if the police cannot justify the detention, the court must order immediate release.
Some will say: “This is Nigeria. Knowing your rights does not stop police from killing you.” And they are not entirely wrong. We have all seen videos. We have all read reports. We know that impunity wears a uniform in this country, we have bad eggs among uniform men, and that the distance between a traffic stop and a morgue can be tragically short.
But here is what I have learned from decades of watching Nigerian governance: Rights are not protected by those who remain ignorant of them. The police will continue to sell bail like gala until Nigerians stop buying. They will continue to arrest brothers for brothers’ sins until families start citing Section 7 of the ACJA. They will continue to scroll through phones until citizens know — and assert — that the Cybercrimes Act does not turn every checkpoint into a digital courtroom.
The Supreme Court, in case after case, has affirmed that the Nigerian Constitution is not a suggestion. In Fawehinmi v. Inspector General of Police (2002), the court held that it is unlawful to arrest before investigation. In Oshiomhole v. Federal Government and countless other authorities, the judiciary has insisted that the rule of law binds the police as tightly as it binds the citizen.
The police are your friends. But friendship, in law as in life, requires boundaries. It requires mutual respect. It requires that both parties know the rules of engagement. And when one party wears a gun and the other carries only a phone, knowledge becomes the only equaliser.
So carry this article in your heart. Share it on WhatsApp. Discuss it at the barber shop. Teach it to your children. Because the next time a police officer says, “Your bail is ₦50,000,” the correct answer is not anger. It is not fear. It is the quiet confidence of a citizen who knows that the Constitution of the Federal Republic of Nigeria stands behind him, and it says, in words clearer than any siren:
“Bail is free. And you have 24 hours.”
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