The 37 who did not come home

Wednesday Column By Egena Sunday Ode

Thirty-seven people went into the custody of the Nigerian state last week. They did not come out alive.

That sentence is difficult to write, and perhaps it should be.

In Nigeria, we have become so accustomed to alarming numbers that even tragedy sometimes arrives looking like a statistic.

Thirty-seven dead. An investigation ordered. Some officials suspended. A few angry protests. Then, eventually, another story takes its place.

But 37 is not a statistic. It is 37 people whose families expected them to come home.

They were arrested in Niger State during an operation against suspected illegal mining. Whatever the circumstances of their arrests, and whatever the investigation eventually establishes about the deaths, one fact remains: they died while in government custody.

That fact alone should make us uncomfortable.

And Nigeria has seen mass deaths in state custody before.

During the Boko Haram insurgency, Amnesty International reported in 2015 that more than 7,000 people had died in military detention since 2011, allegedly from starvation, thirst, disease, severe overcrowding and torture. The organisation said the true figure was impossible to confirm. It also reported that more than 4,700 bodies were taken from Giwa Barracks to a mortuary in 2013 alone.

In 2016, Amnesty reported that at least 149 detainees, including 11 children under six, had died at Giwa Barracks between January and April of that year.

Those numbers are difficult to comprehend.

But there is an important difference between that period and what has happened in Minna.

The Northeast was living through a brutal insurgency. Boko Haram had killed civilians, attacked communities and security personnel, and created an atmosphere in which suspicion itself could become a basis for detention.

That context helps explain why the public response to detainees in the Northeast was not always comparable to the response now unfolding in Niger State. People suspected of association with Boko Haram did not necessarily command the same sympathy as people arrested for suspected illegal mining.

But that difference in public sympathy is precisely why the principle of custodial responsibility matters.

A person does not become less deserving of humane treatment because the offence of which he is suspected is more frightening, more politically charged or less sympathetic.

Nor does a person suspected of illegal mining become more deserving of protection because the alleged offence appears less serious.

The state’s responsibility begins when it takes someone into custody.

That is why the Niger tragedy deserves more than another cycle of outrage, denials and forgetfulness.

Illegal mining is a serious problem. The government has every right to enforce the law, protect communities and stop activities that damage the environment or threaten public safety. But enforcement does not end with arrest. In fact, that is where another responsibility begins.

Once the cell door closes, the person inside is entirely dependent on those holding the key.

That is what makes this story so troubling.

The initial explanation reportedly pointed to a possible disease outbreak. Survivors and relatives have subsequently described overcrowding, poor ventilation and mistreatment, while other possible explanations are also being examined.

The Federal Government has constituted a 10-member independent committee to investigate the deaths, while the Niger State NSCDC commandant and 20 other officers have been suspended pending the outcome. The government says the committee is to establish the identities of the deceased, examine their arrests and detention, and determine the cause and circumstances of their deaths.

At this stage, these competing accounts must remain claims and possibilities until the evidence establishes what actually happened.

I am not interested in deciding the case from a newspaper column.

I am interested in ensuring that the people whose job it is to establish the truth are allowed, and required, to do so.

The Federal Government has constituted an independent committee. That is a necessary beginning.

But Nigeria has had enough committees to know that announcing one is not the same as resolving anything.

The Oputa Panel, established to investigate human-rights violations during Nigeria’s years of military rule, completed its work in 2002. Its report was not officially published at the time and its recommendations were not implemented.

In the case of the 2001 Zaki Biam killings, in which soldiers killed civilians in Benue State following the killing of 19 soldiers, a commission of inquiry was established, but its report was never made public. A later UN account noted that the pattern of inquiries without effective criminal accountability had persisted in Nigeria.

Even the more recent #EndSARS experience offers reason for caution. Civil-society groups monitoring the judicial panels complained that many of the reports were not publicly accessible and warned that this could obstruct public engagement with their recommendations and their implementation.

So the issue is not that Nigeria does not know how to establish committees.

We do.

The real test is what happens after the committee finishes its work.

Will the Niger committee establish the actual conditions inside the cell? Will it examine the medical and forensic evidence? Will it speak to survivors and relatives? Will it establish how many people were detained, who was responsible for their welfare and what happened during those crucial hours?

And when the investigation is completed, will Nigerians be allowed to see the truth?

I hope the answer is yes.

Because behind every official description of this tragedy are human beings.

Reports indicate that some of those arrested were teenagers; many of them were aged between 14 and 18.

That detail has stayed with me.

It is easy to write “suspected illegal miners” and move on.

The phrase tells us what the authorities say the people were doing. It does not tell us who they were.

They had names.

They had families.

They had people waiting for them.

And some of them were very young.

That does not make illegal mining acceptable. But it should remind us that law enforcement is only one part of the story. If young Nigerians are entering dangerous mining operations, we should also consider what economic circumstances are pushing them there, who profits from the trade and why enforcement so often appears to reach the most vulnerable people first.

Still, none of these broader issues should obscure the immediate one: 37 people died while in custody.

Whatever brought them there, their safety became the responsibility of the institution holding them.

This is why the investigation must be transparent and fearless. If disease caused the deaths, let the medical evidence establish it. If overcrowding or poor detention conditions contributed, let the evidence establish that. If there was negligence or misconduct, those responsible should answer for it. And if allegations prove unfounded, that should be stated just as clearly.

Justice is not about satisfying public anger. It is about establishing facts and applying the law fairly.

The protests that followed the deaths are another reminder of what happens when public confidence begins to disappear. Anger can quickly become disorder, and disorder cannot be excused. But neither should disorder become an excuse to ignore the legitimate demand for answers.

People are often more willing to accept painful facts than they are to accept silence.

And this is where I worry.

Nigeria has seen too many tragedies follow the same familiar script. Shock. Condemnation. Investigation. Committee. Promises. Then silence.

The headlines disappear. The public moves on. Officials resume their duties. Families are left with questions that never quite receive answers.

We should not allow that to happen here.

Thirty-seven people died. The number is large enough to dominate a headline, but every family will experience the loss individually.

For one mother, it is one son.

For one wife, it is one husband.

For one child, it is one father who did not come home.

That is why I keep returning to the number 37.

Numbers can make us forget the people they represent.

This time, we should remember.

The investigation must be allowed to follow the evidence wherever it leads. The findings must be made public. And if responsibility is established, accountability should not stop at suspension letters or official expressions of regret.

Because the true measure of a society is not how loudly it mourns its dead. It is how seriously it seeks the truth about how they died.

Thirty-seven people went into custody.

They should have come out alive.