According to history, tradition, and Nigerian media narratives—when all else fails, when the presidency, legislature, and courts betray, when the police turn against the people, when those in power like Tinubu, Akpabio, Wike and others silence the truth—Nigerians have always turned to the gods, spirits, and ancestral forces for justice.

This pattern is not new. It is cultural. It is psychological. It is historical.

And in that spirit, this moment reflects the collective cry of a people who have been betrayed by every arm of modern governance—and are now turning, once again, to the powers beyond man.

The Phrase That Became a Curse: “Go to Court”

There was a time in Nigeria’s life when the words “go to court” reflected faith in the nation. A belief that the Constitution was not just a document, but a covenant. That the judge’s bench was a sacred altar where truth could still find a home.

But today, those words have been defiled. They are no longer said with humility. They are thrown like stones, soaked in arrogance, used as weapons of psychological domination.

When Tinubu says it, he does not mean it.

When Wike repeats it, he knows it is a trap.

When Ibas parrots it, he’s already benefitting from its emptiness.

And when the Senate says it, it is not advice—it is laughter behind power.

They say go to court not because they believe justice will be served, but because they believe they own the court.

And most tragically, they are often right.

Ibok-Ete Ibas: The Military Man Who Now Sits in a Throne Never Meant for Him

In the heart of Rivers State, the people woke up to find that their democracy had been suspended without warning, without vote, without law. The elected governor, Sim Fubara, was sidelined. Elected officials were removed. And in their place stood one man—Ibok-Ete Ibas, a retired Chief of Naval Staff.

He did not campaign. He did not swear an oath to the people. He was not chosen—he was planted.

Under a cloak of “emergency rule,” he governs not like a caretaker, but like a military emperor. He installs. He dissolves. He allocates. He threatens. He mocks. And when the people resist, when the NBA relocates its entire national conference in protest, when the women march in agony, his response is chillingly consistent:

“Go to court.”

The cruelty of it is unbearable.

Yes, the People Are Going to Court—But They Know the Game Is Rigged

Now, in the face of these abuses, the PDP has gone to court. Human rights groups, constitutional lawyers, and civil society coalitions have followed. They have filed suits asking the judiciary to declare the emergency rule in Rivers unconstitutional. They are trying to hold onto the last shred of constitutionalism.

But even they—the plaintiffs themselves—know that this path is littered with obstacles, and the outcome has already been whispered among the corridors of Abuja.

It is almost theatrical now.

The court proceedings are performed for optics.

The robes are clean, but the bench is trembling.

The legal filings are submitted, but the judgments may be pre-ordered.

And the phrase “go to court” continues to echo—not as a solution, but as psychological warfare.

It is the elite saying to the people, “We dare you. Try it. Watch what happens.”

The Judiciary Is Silenced. The Media Is Bought. The People Are Alone.

In a healthy nation, the judiciary is the conscience of democracy.

But in Nigeria today, the courts have become decorative institutions, often used not to protect the oppressed, but to validate the plans of the powerful.

The media, once the loudest voice of the people, has become a soft murmur.

Brown envelopes have muted the headlines.

Political favors have re-written the editorials.

Truth has been sacrificed on the altar of access.

Even traditional media—local elders, town criers, palace voices—have either been silenced by fear or invited into the patronage network.

So now, the people look around and see:

The law does not serve us.

The police do not protect us.

The journalists do not report us.

And the soldiers do not stand behind the flag—they stand behind orders.

And So, the Women Rise in a Way That No Government Can Contain

The women of Nigeria have risen. Not with weapons, not with votes, but with ancestral vengeance.

In one protest, they wore black. Mourning not just for lives lost, but for democracy itself. For justice buried. For truth erased.

In another protest, they wore red. A spiritual color of battle. A declaration that this is no longer negotiation—this is resistance. This is war.

They marched barefoot—not out of spectacle, but out of sacred urgency. Their feet kissed the earth with each step, not in strength but in surrender, as if pleading directly to the soil to remember their pain. The hot ground beneath them bore witness. Every footprint became an imprint of unanswered prayers.

They held no placards in some moments—only grief, only portraits of children lost, only cloth soaked in tears.

And yet, **they did hold microphones—**but not for politics.

They used them to sing.

They used them to cry.

They used them to chant the names of the forgotten.

They used them to call on powers greater than the state.

Their voices cracked, but they sang.

They wailed songs of mourning.

They sang psalms, they sang laments.

They cried into the speaker not for attention—but for justice.

The microphone became not a tool of protest—but an altar of invocation.

Each amplified word was not just sound—it was sorrow with a target.

And yes, they cursed.

Not in wickedness.

Not with malice.

But with trembling hands and broken hearts.

They cursed because every formal channel had betrayed them.

They cursed because the courts were no longer courts. The police no longer protected. The media no longer listened.

So their curses took many forms:

Some spoke of death—not because they were vengeful, but because death had visited their own homes first.

Some spoke of illness—not out of spite, but as a mirror to the sickness of power.

Some whispered prayers for misfortune—asking the heavens to disrupt the comfort of those who live by injustice.

Some called for accidents—not for cruelty’s sake, but because the roads of Nigeria have already been painted with the blood of the innocent, while the powerful drive on untouched.

These were not the curses of witches.

These were the tears of women with no one else to turn to.

These were the curses of mothers whose sons had been beaten, whose daughters had been silenced, whose homes had been erased by silence.

Their placards said it plainly, and their microphones carried the message across the land:

“We Cannot Go to Court—So We Go to the Spirits.”

And so, they cried—not to the Chief Justice, not to the Senate President, not to the Inspector General.

They cried to the Almighty God, the one whose justice is not delayed.

The one whose courtroom has no backdoor.

They cried to:

Amadioha – god of thunder, who hears no bribe, misses no target.

Ani – the earth herself, whose back carries every lie and every unburied injustice.

Egbesu – the divine lawgiver of the Niger Delta, who waits in silence until balance must be restored.

Esu – the spiritual messenger, the trickster who delivers truth with vengeance when arrogance rises too high.

Kuri and Jam Maraki – the northern spirits feared even in the palace, whose names are never called lightly, and never ignored when invoked in grief.

These women did not gather in anger.

They gathered in sacred protest.

They sang, they cried, they knelt, they cursed—not because they wanted destruction, but because the system had destroyed them first.

When the courtrooms are silent, and justice becomes a performance, the women of Nigeria will speak to a higher court.

And now they have.

With microphones in hand and spirits at their side.

This Psychologist Does Not Practice Religion—But the People Do

Let me say this plainly:

While this writer, a psychologist, is not into religion and does not practice African traditional religions, it must be acknowledged that Nigerians, including President Tinubu, Wike, and indeed many Nigerians, have been conditioned by their cultural and religious upbringing to fear God and the spiritual realm.

The reality is that people have been conditioned to believe that higher forces—be they deities, divine beings, or the Almighty—have the power to intervene in human affairs.

Nigerians in general, including those in positions of power, understand that their actions and decisions are never far from the gaze of a higher spiritual presence, one that has the power to shape outcomes far beyond human influence.

And the women who protest—they know this.

They are not foolish. They are not weak.

They have simply gone to the final court. The one without bail. The one without technicalities. The one that judges not with delay, but with fire and finality.

Conclusion: You Own the Courts, But You Cannot Silence the Cry of the Earth

To those in power—Tinubu, Gbaja, Wike, Akpabio, Egbetokun, Ibas, and the hidden hands behind the judiciary, the uniformed men with weapons, the shadowed voices controlling the police, and the media brokers who trade silence for coin—you may believe you own everything.

Yes, you may command the courts, but the law no longer lives there.

Yes, you may control the military, but the soldiers no longer march with justice.

Yes, you may distribute the money—but much of it carries the quiet weight of unseen sorrow, exchanged not in service, but in silence.

Yes, you may shape the narratives, but truth has a voice that no editor can delete.

You may own the buildings.

You may own the seals.

You may own the cameras.

You may even own the men in robes.

But you do not own the cries of the people.

You do not own the trembling of the earth beneath your polished shoes.

You do not own the groan of a broken nation echoing in the streets and rivers and farmlands.

You do not own the gods, whom you may pretend not to fear, but still whisper about in the dark.

You do not own the curse of a mother in black, whose child has been swallowed by your greed, your silence, your lies.

You do not own the rage behind the red wrapper, worn not for style, but for spiritual war.

You do not own the ancestors who have risen with fire in their bones and judgment in their mouths.

You do not own the women who have passed beyond complaint, beyond petition, beyond fear.

You may keep saying “go to court.”

Say it on your podiums. Say it in the Senate. Say it in your media-sponsored interviews.

But know this:

The women have gone beyond that now.

They have gone to God—the one not elected, not influenced, not corruptible.

They have gone to the gods—those whose names cannot be summoned without consequence.

They have gone to the spirits—those who judge beyond the noise, beyond the television, beyond the courts.

And they have cried out in ways that no soldier, no lawmaker, no court clerk, no police commissioner can intercept.

And when the spirits respond—they do not delay. They do not consult. They do not miss.

When they answer,

no microphone will shield you.

No robe will protect you.

No army will defend you.

No press release will erase you.

No alliance will save you.

No political godfather will stand between you and what is coming.

Because when justice is denied for too long, and the people are mocked too deeply, the cry of the earth becomes a weapon— and those who ignored it shall taste its dust.