There is something quietly dangerous about a system that prides itself on not seeing.
We have romanticised blindness as fairness, carved it into statues, elevated it into doctrine. In courtyards and courtrooms, she stands still, blindfolded, scales in hand, unmoved by the noise around her. The figure of Lady Justice was meant to protect judgment from prejudice, to ensure that justice listens before it reacts, weighs before it concludes. It is one of the most enduring symbols of civilisation’s attempt to rise above bias.
But somewhere along the line, we misunderstood the assignment.
We did not just interpret her blindness. We enforced it.
Justice was never meant to be blind to reality. Only to bias.
That distinction matters. And today, it is costing us a lot.
Because in practice, justice is not blind. It is selectively sightless.
It does not see the thousands of Nigerians who remain in prisons for years awaiting trial, some for minor offences like petty theft or street-level disputes, in some cases spending longer behind bars than the penalty their alleged offence.
Yet we have watched high profile cases stretch endlessly at home, from Diezani Alison-Madueke to the drawn-out legal turns surrounding Orji Uzor Kalu, where complexity often replaces closure.
And in moments that raise even harder questions, justice has seemed more decisive outside our borders, as seen in the conviction of James Ibori in the United Kingdom after years of stalled proceedings at home.
Between these realities lies a truth we rarely confront. Justice does not fail equally.
But it sees power.
It sees influence.
It sees connections.
Files move faster when names carry weight. Urgency appears when interests are threatened. Doors open where they were previously shut. In those moments, justice does not look blind at all. It looks sharply aware.
And that is where the illusion breaks.
Because a system that claims blindness but responds to power is not neutral. It is responsive in the wrong direction.
Justice does not fail loudly. It fails quietly until silence becomes policy.
Cases drag. Not because they are complex, but because they are inconvenient. People wait. Not because the law is thorough, but because the system is comfortable with delay. And over time, something dangerous happens. Delay begins to feel normal.
But delay is not neutral.
Delay is a decision.
Every postponed hearing, every missing file, every unnecessary adjournment carries consequences. Lives are put on hold. Opportunities disappear. Families absorb the cost of a system that asks for patience but rarely offers resolution.
A system that moves slowly for the powerless and swiftly for the powerful is not blind. It is calibrated.
And calibration like that is not accidental.
It is built.
We often defend this reality by retreating into principle. We say justice must be impartial, that it cannot take sides, that it must treat everyone equally. It sounds right. It feels right. But in an unequal society, treating everyone the same does not produce fairness.
It produces predictable outcomes.
A justice system that refuses to see inequality does not produce fairness. It manufactures distance.
Because people do not enter the courtroom equally.
Some arrive with lawyers, resources, time, influence, and appurtenances of their power, all acquired at cost to the public . Others arrive with none of those things. Some understand the system. Others are overwhelmed by it. Some can afford to wait. Others cannot.
To pretend these differences do not exist is not fairness. It is avoidance.
And avoidance is where justice begins to fail.
The blindfold was never meant to make her ignorant. It was meant to make her disciplined. A refusal to be distracted by status or identity. A commitment to weigh facts without fear or favour.
But discipline is different from denial.
A justice system that refuses to see inequality cannot correct it. One that ignores vulnerability cannot protect it. One that looks away from power cannot restrain it.
The scales she holds are not decorative. They are a demand for balance. And balance requires awareness.
You cannot balance what you refuse to acknowledge.
This is where the conversation must shift from symbolism to experience.
Because people do not experience justice as an idea. They experience it as a process.
They experience it in how long it takes to be heard.
In how seriously their case is treated.
In whether outcomes reflect facts or influence.
In whether the system works for them or around them.
And for too many, justice feels distant.
Not absent. Not entirely broken. Just out of reach.
There is no single moment where the system collapses. No dramatic announcement of failure. Instead, it erodes slowly. A postponed hearing here. A delayed ruling there. A quiet adjustment of expectations until people stop asking for justice and start negotiating with reality.
That is how systems fail without appearing to.
Not through chaos, but through quiet compromise.
And once people begin to lose faith in the fairness of the system, they do not just disengage. They adapt. They find shortcuts. They rely on influence. They bypass the process altogether. At that point, justice is no longer a guarantee. It becomes a gamble.
And a society where justice is a gamble is already in trouble.
Because justice is not just about courts or laws. It is about trust.
Trust that rules matter.
Trust that fairness is not selective.
Trust that outcomes are not pre-determined before arguments are made.
When that trust weakens, everything built on it becomes unstable.
So, the question is no longer whether justice should be blind.
The question is what that blindness should mean in a world that is anything but equal.
Let her be blind to bias, but not to reality.
Blind to identity, but not to injustice.
Blind to influence, but never to truth.
Let her blindness be discipline, not a disguise.
Because the goal of justice was never to avoid seeing the world as it is. The goal was to rise above the things that should not matter, while confronting the things that do.
That is harder. That is slower. That requires intention.
But that is what justice demands.
It is time to move beyond the comfort of symbols and confront the outcomes they are supposed to represent.
To ask harder questions about who the system works for and who it leaves behind.
To recognise that equality before the law is not achieved by ignoring inequality within society, but by actively correcting it.
Because when justice becomes comfortably blind, injustice becomes comfortably invisible.
And invisible injustice does not disappear. It deepens.
So perhaps it is time to stop admiring the blindfold and start interrogating it.
To ask whether it still serves its purpose or whether it has become a convenient shield for a system that no longer wants to see.
Because she was never meant to close her eyes to reality. Only to prejudice.
But somewhere along the way, we asked her to ignore both.
And in that silence, inequality found its loudest voice.
Shaakaa can be reached on: shaakaastephanie@yahoo.comÂ
