What followed, however, was not the moral renaissance many were promised. It was a sobering lesson in selective justice, where the speed and severity of punishment appeared to correlate not with guilt, but with poverty and power.
The Promise vs. the Practice
Sharia was sold to the public as an uncompromising moral code—one that would restore discipline, deter corruption, and enforce accountability without fear or favor. In theory, it was meant to submit all aspects of life to a higher ethical standard. In practice, implementation quickly ran into contradictions.
As Sharia courts began operating, enforcement revealed a troubling pattern. The poor were punished swiftly, while the powerful enjoyed hesitation, loopholes, and silence. Cases that involved petty theft moved fast; allegations that implicated political elites stalled or vanished.
Today, if we are honest, only Kano State maintains a form of Sharia enforcement through the Hisbah Police. Even there, its limits are obvious. Public morality campaigns have collided with elite privilege. When the children of influential figures hosted lavish weddings featuring conduct Hisbah officers would ordinarily police, enforcement evaporated. Officers reportedly withdrew rather than confront power. The message was unmistakable: morality has a ceiling.
A Global Comparison—and a Local Contrast
Defenders of Sharia often point to countries like Qatar, the United Arab Emirates, Kuwait, and Saudi Arabia, arguing that Islamic law can coexist with prosperity and order. There is some truth here—particularly regarding zero tolerance for corruption in places like the UAE. Once a modest desert economy in the early 1980s, the UAE transformed into a global hub through strong institutions, policy continuity, and enforcement that does not pause at status or surname.
But the Nigerian experience diverged sharply. The problem was never religion alone; it was selective enforcement within weak institutions. Law, divine or secular, cannot function where power dictates outcomes.
The Yarima Paradox
The contradiction reached its most glaring point with the man who introduced Sharia himself.
Ahmad Sani Yarima, who proclaimed moral superiority and championed divine justice, was later exposed for diverting large sums of public funds. This is not conjecture. He returned over ₦750 million to the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC)—a fact widely reported at the time.
Let that reality settle.
Under his administration, a poor man had his hand amputated for allegedly stealing a goat. The full force of the law descended immediately—no delays, no negotiations, no discretion. Yet when hundreds of millions of naira from the public treasury were involved, there was no public spectacle, no equivalent punishment. There was a quiet return of funds and a familiar dance of political maneuvering.
Justice, it seemed, had a double standard.
The Amina Case: Poverty on Trial
The moral inconsistency did not end there. A young woman named Amina was sentenced to death by stoning for becoming pregnant outside marriage. Her true offense was not immorality; it was vulnerability. She lacked influence, wealth, and protection.
Only international outrage and intervention, including pressure from the European Union, prevented an irreversible tragedy. Today, Amina is alive, free, and raising her child in Italy. Her survival stands as living evidence that what was presented as divine justice was, in reality, a system vulnerable to abuse—one that punished poverty while sparing power.
How Justice Actually Operated
By now, the pattern was unmistakable:
Sharia moved quickly against the poor.
It froze when it encountered the powerful.
It punished hunger, not corruption.
It targeted goats, not government vaults.
This is not justice. It is weaponized morality—a system applied selectively to maintain control rather than uphold fairness.
Any legal order that amputates for petty theft but negotiates over grand corruption has abandoned its moral claim. If a law cannot punish corruption with the same speed and severity as minor offenses, it is not justice. It is oppression dressed as righteousness.
The Courtroom Choice That Said Everything
Perhaps the most revealing moment came when Yarima himself faced the prospect of prosecution. When asked whether he would prefer to be tried in a Sharia court or a regular court, he chose the regular court.
That decision spoke volumes.
He understood the consequences of Sharia when applied without discretion. He also understood the advantages of the conventional legal system—procedural delays, plea bargains, adjournments, and the slow grind that allows influence to operate. In short, he knew where accountability was easier to escape.
What does it say about a system when its loudest advocate refuses to submit to it?
The Dangerous Legacy
Beyond hypocrisy, the long-term consequences were profound. By weaponizing religion through selective law enforcement, a dangerous template was created—one that blurred moral authority with political power. It is no coincidence that extremist movements like Boko Haram emerged shortly after, exploiting the same narratives of moral absolutism while rejecting the state’s selective application.
When justice is inconsistent, extremism thrives. When law is perceived as a tool against the weak, it loses legitimacy—and illegitimacy creates space for violence.
A Final Reckoning
History has already begun its judgment.
Sharia, as implemented in this context, failed not because morality is irrelevant, but because justice cannot survive hypocrisy. Any system—religious or secular—that bites only the poor while bowing to the elite is fundamentally broken.
Nigeria’s challenge has never been a lack of laws. It has been the absence of equal enforcement.
Until justice moves at the same speed for the powerful as it does for the powerless, no amount of moral rhetoric will save us.
Justice that only bites the poor is not justice at all.
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