Dele Farotimi is no stranger to the discerning observer of Nigerian public discourse. The dark-bearded lawyer, renowned for his blend of sagacity and unflinching valour, is a figure who commands respect. Yet, I must confess that, like many others, I was oblivious to the existence of his book, Nigeria and Its Criminal Justice System. That is, until recently—thanks to none other than one of Nigeria’s most illustrious senior advocates, Mr. Afe Babalola.
It is difficult to imagine that this venerable legal titan intended to catapult Farotimi’s work into the public limelight, let alone elevate it to the coveted status of an Amazon bestseller. Quite the contrary, one suspects that if Babalola had his way, every extant copy of the book would be seized, consigned to flames, and its author incarcerated, with the key to his cell hurled irretrievably into the depths of the Atlantic Ocean.
However, history is replete with instances where even the most meticulously laid plans unravel in spectacular fashion, particularly when pride and coercive force intersect. Rather than consigning Farotimi’s book to oblivion, Babalola’s actions have achieved the antithesis—propelling it into the epicenter of national discourse and igniting widespread curiosity. This debacle recalls two cautionary tales with sobering clarity. Let me share.
Story one
The first tale takes us back to British colonial India. Alarmed by the proliferation of venomous cobras in urban areas, particularly New Delhi, British authorities devised a seemingly rational incentive: a cash bounty for every dead cobra. Locals were encouraged to exterminate the snakes and present their skins to claim the reward.
Initially, the scheme appeared to succeed, as numerous cobras were killed and their population seemingly diminished. However, the ingenuity of human enterprise soon upended the plan. Realising the profitability of the scheme, some individuals began breeding cobras solely to kill them and claim the bounties.
When the colonial administration uncovered this subterfuge, it promptly terminated the bounty programme. Bereft of financial incentive, the breeders released their now-worthless cobras into the wild, exacerbating the very problem the policy sought to resolve.
What began as a well-intentioned solution spiraled into an even greater crisis. The term “Cobra Effect” has since become a cautionary metaphor for the perils of poorly conceived interventions that backfire spectacularly.
Story two
The second tale is closer to home and equally instructive. It concerns Nnamdi Kanu, the leader of the Biafran separatist group, IPOB.
Before his arrest in 2015, Kanu was a marginal figure, known primarily within niche circles for his incendiary broadcasts on Radio Biafra. While his rhetoric was provocative, it had not yet garnered significant traction beyond a small, dedicated audience. However, the government’s decision to detain him indefinitely without trial transformed him overnight into a symbol of defiance.
In seeking to silence him, the state inadvertently sanctified him, elevating him to the status of a martyr among many Igbos. His detention shone a glaring spotlight on long-standing grievances about the marginalisation of the Igbo people, igniting protests and bringing issues of ethnic injustice to the forefront of both national and international discourse.
Rather than quelling dissent, the government’s actions galvanised Kanu’s movement, the Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB). Conversations about the scars of the Biafran War, the systemic exclusion of the Southeast from Nigeria’s political architecture, and the economic neglect of Igbo regions gained unprecedented prominence. Kanu’s detention became a rallying cry, sparking demonstrations across the Southeast and among the Nigerian diaspora.
What the government intended as a silencing act instead amplified Kanu’s voice, transforming a regional grievance into a cause célèbre. It is a classic instance of how repression can inadvertently embolden resistance, with outcomes far more damaging than the problem originally perceived.
These two tales—the Cobra Effect and the saga of Nnamdi Kanu—serve as cautionary examples of how actions, bereft of foresight and nuance, can spiral disastrously out of control.
In this context, Mr. Babalola’s handling of Farotimi’s book is yet another illustration of the same principle. In his petition to the police, he lamented:
“The book has been circulated all over the country, particularly in Ekiti State, where many people who hold me in high regard as an elder statesman have expressed their disdain due to the defamatory statements made by Dele Farotimi.”
If Babalola is so unsettled by the reactions of Ekiti’s populace, one wonders how he might reconcile himself to the knowledge that his own actions have now exposed the alleged misconduct to the world at large. By resorting to the instruments of state to suppress dissent, rather than seeking redress in the courts—the very institution that defined his illustrious career—Babalola unwittingly magnified the allegations he sought to quash.
This episode underscores the enduring relevance of the law of unintended consequences: the principle that interventions can yield outcomes far beyond their intended scope—often to catastrophic effect. For a man of Babalola’s stature and legal acumen, this should have been a foregone conclusion. Instead, his actions serve as a poignant reminder that even the most influential individuals are not immune to the perils of miscalculation.
Osmund Agbo is a US-based medical doctor and author. His works include, Black Grit, White Knuckles: The Philosophy of Black Renaissance and a fiction work titled The Velvet Court: Courtesan Chronicles. His latest works are Pray, Let the Shaman Die and Ma’am, I Do Not Come to You for love.
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