By Chinedu Nwafor

In Lagos, land is more than an asset. It is power, identity, and increasingly a trigger for violence. Yet beyond the brazen invasions, demolitions, and the growing body count lies a more troubling reality: a justice system many believe has become either too weak or too compromised to hold perpetrators to account.

The latest controversy surrounding the sudden withdrawal of a land dispute case file involving Nasco Town Limited and property developer Abiodun Ariori, has once again exposed deep cracks in the system.

Without prior notice to the claimants or their lawyers, the Chief Judge of Lagos State reportedly ordered the case file to be retrieved from the Ikeja High Court, halting proceedings indefinitely. No reasons were given. For observers, it was not just unusual; it was ominous.

For a case already plagued by delays since 2020, the move has heightened fears that justice may once again be derailed in a state where land disputes too often follow a familiar script of intimidation, violence, and ultimately, legal ambiguity.

However in another twist, the case came up before another judge, Justice Yakub Oshoala today Wednesday, April 29, 2026, without notice to the claimants, Nasco Town Limited. Apparently, the Chief Judge has reassigned the case to the new judge. The defendants were the only party in court and one of them notified the claimant’s lawyer by asking why they were not in court.

At the centre of the storm is Abiodun Ariori, a controversial and powerful figure in government circles whose name has surfaced repeatedly in high-stakes land disputes across Lagos. Ariori is always seen in government circles as he also runs a non governmental organisation that deals with domestic violence issues, which is believed to be a ruse to cover up his land grabbing deals.

In the Nasco case, the company claims decades-long possession of the disputed land, dating back to 1978, backed by federal lease, development activity, and documented registry records.

Yet in 2018, that possession was violently challenged when Ariori and associates allegedly stormed the land with armed security operatives, invoking a 1997 Consent Judgment between the late Chief Michael Mojisola Cole and some other persons. Nasco insists they were not a party to the consent judgement and that it does not apply to their property. Nasco further argued that documents obtained from the case file during their investigation show that the said consent judgement had already been executed at a different location by the late Chief Cole , the original benefactor of the consent judgement before his demise.

This pattern, asserting legal authority while deploying force, appears consistent across multiple allegations against Ariori. In Owode-Onirin, the stakes turned deadly. What began as a land enforcement operation spiralled into a massacre in August 2025, leaving at least six traders dead. The police initially appeared resolute. Officers linked to the killings were arrested, dismissed, and evidence, including autopsy and ballistic reports, was reportedly assembled.

Then came the twist.

The Lagos State Directorate of Public Prosecutions (DPP), Babajide Martins, issued a legal advice declaring that there was no prima facie case against the officers. The killings, it concluded, occurred in self-defence. Charges were withdrawn.

The decision stunned many, not least the police themselves. In a rare institutional clash, senior investigators, including the erstwhile Commissioner of Police, Moshood Jimoh and the officer in charge of the State Criminal Investigation Department, DCP Dayo Akinbisehin pushed back, insisting that sufficient evidence existed to prosecute. Their protest was ignored.

The result was that there was no trial, no convictions, and no closure for the victims’ families.

The DPP’s position, that evidence was insufficient, reflects a core principle of criminal law: prosecution must be based on proof, not suspicion. The Lagos Ministry of Justice, through the Attorney General, Lawal Pedro SAN, has defended its decision, citing gaps in forensic submissions and delays by the police.

Yet critics argue that the issue is not merely legal; it is systemic.

How does a case involving multiple deaths, dismissed officers, and forensic reports collapse at the prosecutorial stage? Why does the burden of investigative failure consistently fall in ways that favour the powerful?

These questions are not new. Nearly three decades ago, a similar controversy unfolded in the infamous Abiola Farms case.

After the brutal killing of a farm manager during a land dispute, suspects were arrested and charged. But in a stunning reversal, the DPP at the time issued legal advice that the killing was justified as a defence of property. Charges were dropped.

Today, the parallels are difficult to ignore.

Then, as now, land disputes turned violent. Then, as now, the legal system appeared to tilt in favour of those asserting ownership through force. Then, as now, justice dissolved into technical reasoning that left victims without redress.

Legal practitioner Monday Ubani has also sounded the alarm over what he describes as the weaponisation of state institutions in land disputes.

In a case involving his client, Idahosa Osa, Ubani alleged that land grabbers, led by Abiodun Ariori, and backed by security personnel and state officials, invaded a property under the guise of enforcing a court judgment that did not apply to the disputed parcel of land in the Ikeja area. Despite obtaining a court injunction, he claims enforcement agencies ignored it, demolishing structures and seizing control of the land.

More troubling were allegations that officials openly boasted of acting “on instructions from higher quarters.”

Whether proven or not, such claims reinforce a growing perception that in Lagos, access to power can shape not just outcomes but the entire process of justice.

Ariori himself has consistently denied all allegations of wrongdoing. He insists he is a legitimate developer acting on valid court judgments and land titles. In the Owode-Onirin case, he maintains he was not present at the scene and has accused the police of bias and media trial.

This dual narrative, of victim and accused, captures the complexity of land disputes in Lagos. Competing claims, overlapping titles, and historical ambiguities often create legal grey zones.

But what is harder to justify is the recurring descent into violence, and the apparent inability of the justice system to decisively resolve disputes.

Lagos State does have a law against land grabbing—the Property Protection Law of 2016—designed to curb precisely these abuses. It criminalises forceful land takeover and prescribes penalties for offenders.

Yet enforcement has been inconsistent.

Cases drag on for years. Defendants evade service. Court orders are flouted. And when violence occurs, prosecutions falter.

The withdrawal of the Nasco case file without explanation only deepens concerns about transparency. If judicial processes can be interrupted without accountability, what confidence can litigants have?

The consequences extend far beyond individual disputes.

Land grabbing undermines property rights, the foundation of economic stability. It deters investment, fuels urban chaos, and erodes trust in institutions. More dangerously, it normalises violence as a tool of negotiation.

In Owode-Onirin, that violence claimed lives. In other cases, it has displaced families, destroyed livelihoods, and left communities in fear.

When justice fails, people seek alternatives, often through self-help, retaliation, or vigilantism. This is how disputes escalate into cycles of violence.

At its core, the crisis raises a fundamental question: Is the Lagos justice system unable or unwilling to confront powerful interests?

The answer may lie somewhere in between.

Under-resourced investigations, bureaucratic delays, and legal technicalities all play a role. But so too do allegations of influence, connections, and selective enforcement.

The irony is obvious. In a state that prides itself as Nigeria’s commercial nerve centre, the rule of law, especially in land matters, remains fragile. The same system that should protect property rights is often accused of enabling its violation.

Restoring confidence will require more than rhetoric. Transparent judicial processes, timely case management, and independent prosecutorial decisions are essential. So too is accountability, both for perpetrators of land grabbing and for institutions that fail to act.

The Nasco case, the Owode-Onirin killings, the Ubani allegations, and the historical shadow of Abiola Farms all point to one conclusion: this is not an isolated problem. It is a pattern.

And patterns, left unchecked, become norms.

Perhaps the greatest tragedy is not just the violence, but the message it sends that in Lagos, land can be taken by force. That justice can be delayed or denied. And that, for the powerful, the system may bend just enough to protect them.

For the victims, traders, landowners, and families, the question is painfully simple: if the law cannot protect them, who will?

Until that question is answered, the cycle will continue, of land, of blood, and of broken justice.

Nwafor is a public policy analysts, writes from Lagos

Dear readers, we really need your support to keep on serving you with authoritative, truthful, and juicy stories everyday. For your support, please reach out to the editor @gavelinternational66@gmail.com