Between The Palace And The Police: Where Does Justice For Don Pedro Obaseki Lie? -By Isaac Asabor

The disturbing video of Don Pedro Obaseki being publicly humiliated in Benin City is more than just another viral outrage in Nigeria’s endless news cycle. It is a mirror held up to the country’s unresolved conflict between modern law and traditional authority, a conflict we routinely ignore until it erupts in public violence. At the centre of this moment is a simple but uncomfortable question: between the palace and the police, where does justice for Don Pedro Obaseki truly lie?

To strip away the noise, start with what is undeniable. A private citizen was attacked in a public space. He was stripped naked, physically assaulted, and forcefully taken to the Oba of Benin’s palace, where he was made to kneel like a conquered criminal. No arrest warrant was shown. No charge was read. No police officer intervened. The justification offered by his attackers was not law, but allegiance; he was described as an “Oghion,” an enemy of the Oba. That should worry anyone who believes Nigeria is governed by rules rather than raw power.

Supporters of traditional authority may argue that the palace ultimately prevented further harm. Palace chiefs reportedly calmed the situation, took Obaseki inside, and avoided a clash on a day of religious thanksgiving. If that is accurate, then restraint deserves recognition. But restraint after the fact does not erase the violence that preceded it. It does not answer the central issue: who gave a group of suspected thugs the confidence to assault a man in broad daylight and deliver him, like a trophy, to a revered institution?

This is where Nigeria’s contradictions come into sharp focus. Traditional institutions occupy a complicated but respected space in Nigerian society. In Benin, the Oba is not just a cultural symbol; he is history incarnate. The palace represents centuries of authority, order, and identity that predate colonial Nigeria itself. For many, the Oba embodies moral legitimacy in a way modern political offices often fail to do. That respect is real, earned, and deeply rooted.

But tradition was never meant to function as a parallel criminal justice system. It was never intended to override constitutional rights or sanction public humiliation. Respect for culture does not require surrendering the idea of due process.

Nigeria’s Constitution is unambiguous on this point. The dignity of the human person is inviolable. Assault is a crime. Unlawful detention is a crime. Public humiliation is not justice, it is abuse. None of these offences become permissible because someone invokes the name of a traditional ruler.

Yet, time and again, Nigerians watch the law retreat when tradition or power steps forward. This incident exposes a dangerous pattern: the selective disappearance of the state. Where were the police when a man was stripped naked in a school field? Where were the security agencies tasked with preventing mob action? Why has there been no official statement from the police, whose constitutional duty is to investigate such incidents regardless of the victim’s identity? Silence, in this context, is not neutrality. It is institutional failure.

When the state refuses to act, it creates a vacuum. That vacuum is quickly filled by mobs, enforcers, and self-appointed defenders of “order.” In that space, accusations replace evidence. Loyalty replaces law. Violence becomes ritualized as justice. Today, the label is “enemy of the Oba.” Tomorrow, it could be “enemy of the community,” “enemy of the party,” or “enemy of the faith.” This is how societies slide into arbitrariness.

Some will argue that Nigeria’s legal system is slow, corrupt, and inaccessible, and they are not wrong. Courts drag on for years. Police investigations are often compromised. Justice is frequently delayed or denied. But the failure of modern law does not justify its replacement with street justice or cultural vigilantism. Two wrongs do not produce justice; they produce chaos.

Ironically, many traditional justice systems were originally built on restraint, not spectacle. They emphasized mediation, restitution, and reconciliation. Matters were handled quietly, with dignity preserved where possible. What happened to Don Pedro Obaseki bears little resemblance to that philosophy. Stripping a man naked in public is not cultural justice; it is degradation masquerading as authority.

The danger here is not limited to this single incident. It lies in the precedent it reinforces. If people believe they can assault others by invoking tradition, then tradition itself becomes corrupted. It turns from a source of moral guidance into a shield for abuse. That should alarm traditional institutions more than anyone else.

If the Oba’s Palace stands for order and continuity, then it should be the loudest voice demanding accountability. Not defensive silence. Not quiet distancing. Accountability. The palace does not lose dignity by insisting that anyone who commits violence in its name faces consequences. It loses dignity when it appears indifferent.

Equally troubling is the role, or lack thereof, of the Nigerian state. The police have not commented. No arrests have been announced. No investigation has been confirmed. This passivity reinforces a long-standing public perception: that the law bends when powerful names, institutions, or sensitivities are involved.

Don Pedro Obaseki’s connection to a former governor has already coloured public reactions. Some see the incident through a partisan lens, as payback or political symbolism. That framing misses the point. Justice does not change based on surname or affiliation. If anything, this case should be easier for the state to act on precisely because it is so public, so documented, and so indefensible. In fact, as you read this piece, the video conveying how Don Pedro was publicly humiliated is virally trending on social media platforms.

Failure to act sends a clear message: that public humiliation is negotiable, depending on who is involved and whose name is invoked.

Nigeria cannot keep pretending that modern law and traditional authority exist in separate compartments. They intersect daily, in markets, communities, religious spaces, and political life. When they clash, the question is not which one is louder, but which one protects citizens from abuse.

Justice cannot lie in fear. It cannot lie in mobs. It cannot lie in silence. Justice lies in a firm boundary: traditional authority must complement the law, not compete with it. Traditional rulers should serve as moral anchors and mediators, not alternative courts of punishment. The police must do their job without fear or favour. And the state must reassert that no individual, royal, political, or otherwise, stands above the Constitution.

If this incident fades without consequences, Nigeria will have learned nothing. Worse, it will have normalized another form of lawlessness, one wrapped in the language of culture and reverence. That path leads nowhere good.

Today, it is Don Pedro Obaseki kneeling at palace gates. Tomorrow, it could be any citizen unlucky enough to be branded an “enemy.” A society that allows that to stand is not governed by justice. It is governed by power. And that is the real disgrace.