I was having a peaceful Tuesday when my landlord’s son knocked on my door and handed me a white envelope.
He said it was from the government.
Government? I’d never even been arrested before.
Except for that time in NYSC camp when I mistakenly slapped a soldier. But that was an honest accident, and I apologised, so it didn’t count.
I opened the envelope with fear and trembling hands.
It read:
You have been selected for jury duty.
I blinked.
Jury duty? In Nigeria?
Is this a prank? A ritual letter? A coded threat?
I even checked the back of the paper for a disclaimer like, This skit was brought to you by ZFancy. But no. Just an official stamp and bold red writing that said:
Failure to appear is a criminal offence.
Me. A criminal offence. Just like that.
I called my cousin Kayode. He studied Law at UNILAG (even though he’s now doing POS business in Lekki Phase 2).
He picked up after the fifth ring.
“Guy, abeg, which one be jury duty again?”
Kayode laughed. “Omo, you don enter am.”
“Enter what?”
“No fear. That thing na pilot program. Courtroom jury. Dem dey test am.”
I paused. “But this is Nigeria.”
He said, “Exactly.”
✦ ✦ ✦
The courthouse was in Surulere, painted the exact shade of depression.
The sign outside said JUSTICE IS BLIND, but honestly, it felt more like Justice was sleepy, unpaid, and over it.
Inside, twelve of us sat on plastic chairs arranged like WAEC candidates.
A man with tribal marks and a face like dry akara was reading the Bible out loud.
Another woman, Auntie Bose, was already praying in tongues.
The man beside me leaned in and whispered, “My guy, dem go give us moni?”
I shook my head. “Me I just came so they won’t arrest me.”
“Me too oh!” he said, then unwrapped a Gala.
At exactly 10:47 a.m., the judge entered—dancing.
Not like stepping with confidence. I mean full Holy Ghost choreography.
Arms raised. Shoulder shaku. “What shall I say unto the Lord…” playing from a Bluetooth speaker under his robe.
We stood up, unsure if we should join in or pretend it was normal.
That was how I knew: I wasn’t going home early.
✦ ✦ ✦
The judge finally stopped dancing and adjusted his robe like nothing had happened.
He cleared his throat. “Let us begin today’s proceedings with order and dignity.”
Then NEPA took light.
Silence.
The courtroom fan died a slow, grinding death.
The only thing that kept spinning was the judge’s Bluetooth speaker, still murmuring “You are Yahweh…”
Someone muttered, “Omo, na spiritual case be this.”
After twenty minutes of intense heat, the fan came back to life.
So did the court.
The bailiff rose and announced the case.
“Case number 002—The State vs. Mr Mufutau Mohammed.”
A small man in a brown kaftan stood up.
His left shoe was missing.
He looked like someone who had been wrongly arrested from his sleep.
The judge squinted. “Mr Mufutau, are you aware of the charges against you?”
Mufutau nodded like he’d given up on life.
The prosecutor stood, adjusted her wig, and said:
“This man is charged with three counts:
Trespassing
Destruction of property
Eating government grass… with his goats.”
The room went quiet.
Then Kayode, who was somehow also a juror (don’t ask me how), whispered to me:
“Wait, did she say goats?”
The prosecutor continued:
“On March 14th, 2023, at approximately 4:25 p.m., Mr Mufutau allegedly entered the residence of Honourable Chief Folarin uninvited, and released three goats into the compound, which proceeded to eat the flowers, climb on the Toyota Camry, and defecate beside the swimming pool.”
I turned to Kayode again. “I thought you said this was a real court.”
He shrugged. “Bro… this is Nigeria.”
✦ ✦ ✦
The prosecutor had barely finished describing the goat poop situation when Auntie Bose stood up.
Not raised her hand.
Stood. Up.
Eyes closed. Hands lifted. Tongue already loading.
“Raba sanda koraba…” she began.
The judge blinked. “Madam, are you—?”
“The Spirit is moving!” she announced. “Your Honour, permit me to speak what the Lord has placed on my heart!”
Before the judge could say anything, she turned to the accused and shouted:
“YOU ARE INNOCENT!”
Gasps.
Even the fan paused for a second.
Mr Mufutau looked up like, Wait, what?
Auntie Bose continued, now pacing like a seasoned bishop.
“The Lord says this man is not guilty. It is his village people who sent those goats! I see it clearly! One of the goats is not even ordinary! His name is Solomon!”
The courtroom erupted.
Someone clapped.
Kayode dropped his pen and whispered, “This woman is the problem with Nigeria, but I love it.”
The judge looked confused but also slightly inspired. “Are you… sure it was Solomon?”
“Yes!” she shouted. “The Spirit said Solomon! The goat that climbed the Camry. Him!”
Even the stenographer had stopped typing.
The prosecutor tried to protest, but the judge raised a hand.
“Let the Spirit finish.”
✦ ✦ ✦
After Auntie Bose’s spiritual outburst, the courtroom sat in stunned silence.
Then the judge, still standing behind the bench, hand on his Bluetooth speaker, cleared his throat and said:
“Well… if the Holy Spirit has spoken… who are we to argue?”
The prosecutor’s jaw dropped. “Your Honour, with all due respect, this is not procedure!”
But the judge raised a sanctified finger.
“Madam, this is a Christian courtroom. Let the Holy Spirit do what the constitution cannot.”
He turned to us, the jurors.
“Does the jury agree with the divine verdict?”
We hadn’t voted.
We hadn’t discussed.
In fact, one juror was asleep, and another was busy playing Candy Crush on loud.
But Auntie Bose raised both hands again. “We agree!”
The man next to me whispered, “Omo, I dey fear that woman. Just agree o.”
So, I nodded.
And just like that…
Mr Mufutau was declared not guilty.
He stood up, still missing one shoe, and began to cry.
“Me I no know wetin I do… I just dey look the goats. Before I talk anything, dem don climb wall. Na only Solomon I sabi.”
Kayode leaned over to me and said, “I swear, if I ever become a lawyer, I’m only defending goat owners.”
As the judge banged the gavel and closed the case, the Bluetooth speaker started playing “Baba God, you too much ooo…” on shuffle.
✦ ✦ ✦
Outside the courtroom, I saw Mr Mufutau kneel beside one of the goat, whispering something that sounded like a threat.
“Solomon. Na God save you. Habib for use you do suya today. Wallahi.”