Is the Nigerian Law School Vicariously Responsible for a Student’s Death by Suicide?

The tragic death of Ayomiposi “Ojay” Ojajuni, a Bar Part II student at the Nigerian Law School, Yola campus, has once again exposed the fragile emotional climate within Nigeria’s legal education system. It has also raised an uncomfortable but necessary question: Did institutional actions or omissions contribute to his death? Ojajuni, a graduate of Olabisi Onabanjo University, reportedly ingested a poisonous substance after discovering on the morning of December 6, 2025, that he had been disqualified from sitting for the Bar Final examinations. He died the following day at the Modibbo Adama University Teaching Hospital, Yola.

While suicide is ultimately a personal act, the circumstances of his final hours point strongly to systemic pressures—avoidable ones—that may have played a significant role in his decision. Students at the Yola campus trace the crisis to a sudden and controversial change in exam eligibility procedures.

Until recently, the list of approved candidates was released about two weeks before examinations, allowing time to reconcile attendance discrepancies—especially those arising from illness or other legitimate challenges. Under the new policy, however, the list is released only hours before examinations begin.

For a student like Ojajuni—who reportedly struggled with insufficient class attendance and had received earlier disciplinary queries—the abrupt announcement left no time to appeal, clarify, or seek redress. According to multiple reports, he consumed the poisonous substance almost immediately after confirming his exclusion.

Students argue that the new policy strips candidates of procedural fairness. With no advance notice, no opportunity to defend themselves, and no immediate access to counseling or administrative review, vulnerable students may find themselves trapped in panic, despair, and catastrophic decision-making.

Ojajuni’s death is now the second suicide at the Nigerian Law School within a year. In May 2025, Victor Chibueze Olumba of the Port Harcourt campus died in similarly alarming circumstances. Although authorities announced a police investigation, the Council of Legal Education (CLE) has yet to release any findings.

For many students, this silence reflects a familiar national pattern: once a sensitive incident occurs, institutions cite “ongoing investigations” only for the matter to quietly disappear without transparency.

Across the legal education community, concerns are mounting that the Law School’s structural rigidity—and its weak mental health support system—may be fostering an environment where stress, fear, and uncertainty severely strain students’ wellbeing. Observers argue that the institution’s custodial duty extends beyond teaching evidence law and civil procedure; it also includes ensuring the psychological safety of the young people in its care.

A legal commentator writing on LinkedIn described the situation as “a collapse of the Law School’s guardian and counseling systems.” Many others have echoed similar concerns, noting that the School’s welfare structures appear weak, inaccessible, or simply inadequate for the realities students face. While Ojajuni’s disciplinary history and attendance record are part of the story, they do not fully explain the emotional shock that precipitated his suicide.

What stands out more clearly is the timing and suddenness of the eligibility notification. Psychologists consistently note that abrupt, high-stakes negative feedback—especially when delivered without avenues for appeal—can act as a severe emotional trigger. In this case, the absence of a transparent review process, the lack of advance warning, and the high pressure surrounding Bar Finals appear to have combined to produce an extreme emotional response.

The Law School’s administrative decisions therefore cannot be viewed as merely procedural; they carry profound human consequences. As of the time of this analysis, the Nigerian Law School has not issued any official statement on Ojajuni’s death. The Adamawa State Police Command, through its spokespersons SP Suleiman Nguroje and Yahaya Suleiman, said it had not received any formal report from the School.

Attempts to contact the institution reportedly yielded no response. To many Nigerians, this silence deepens the sense of institutional detachment. If a student can die under such circumstances and neither the Law School nor the police provides immediate clarity, what message does it send about accountability? The recurring tragedies reveal deeper systemic failures: administrative opacity, weak welfare structures, absence of mental health support, lack of investigative transparency, and policies that prioritize discipline over student wellbeing.

In response, stakeholders are calling for urgent reforms, including:  restoring early release of exam eligibility lists;

*establishing mandatory counseling and psychological support services on all campuses;

*implementing clear, humane, and transparent disciplinary and appeals procedures;

* providing public updates on fatal incidents involving students. These proposals reflect growing recognition that the Nigerian Law School is not merely an academic institution—it is the gateway to a profession built on principles of fairness, justice, and human dignity.

From a legal perspective, “vicarious responsibility” depends on whether an institution’s actions or omissions contributed materially to a harmful outcome. While determining liability would require a thorough investigation, the facts raise compelling ethical questions: Did the sudden policy change create an emotionally unsafe environment? Did the Law School fail to anticipate the psychological impact of last-minute disqualification? Should a professional training institution provide accessible mental health support? Does continued silence after repeated tragedies amount to negligence? Even if the Law School is ultimately not found legally liable, its moral responsibility appears difficult to ignore.

When a student dies under psychological stress that could reasonably have been foreseen—or mitigated—questions of accountability inevitably arise. In the aftermath of Ojajuni’s death, grief hangs over his family, classmates, friends, and the broader legal community. Beyond the loss of a young man aspiring to join the Bar, this tragedy underscores the human cost of rigid systems, opaque rules, and institutional silence.

The Nigerian Law School now stands at a crossroads. Its response—or lack of response—will determine whether it acknowledges the depth of the crisis or reduces another student’s life to an unfortunate institutional footnote.

For now, one fact remains painfully clear: Ayomiposi Ojajuni did not die in isolation. He died within a system that many believe failed to protect him.