My Innocence: My Guilty Vote -By Esther Pius Ekong

In 1974, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that people who are held in jail and have not been convicted of a crime maintain their right to vote. “You’re not even guilty until you’re actually proven guilty,” said Amjad Asaad, who voted from the Cook County hail in 2023 while being held pretrial.

Ei incumbit, probatio qui dicit, non qui negat.  In the hallowed walls of our courts and the thick volumes of our jurisprudence, this maxim stands as a sentinel of liberty. It is the bedrock upon which our criminal justice system is built, the presumption of innocence. This is not merely a legal suggestion; it is a Constitutional command and mandate enshrined in Section 36 (5) of the 1999 Constitution of the Federal Republic of Nigeria (as Amended 2023). It states, with unambiguous clarity, that:

“Every person who is charged with a criminal offence shall be presumed to be innocent until he is proved guilty: Provided that nothing in this section shall invalidate any law by reason only that the law imposes upon any such person the burden of proving particular facts”.

If this is the law of the land, which we echo, sing and dance to the tune of “innocence” in the courtroom, why then do we deny these citizens in the correctional centers (i.e. formerly known as  prisons) their family relationships, their social dignity, and most crucially their right to choose who governs them?

A significant number of the inmates in the correctional centers have valid voter’s cards, and may have voted before they were incarcerated. They were taxpayers, fathers, sons, and contributors to the national economy. Yet, the moment the iron gates shut behind them, they are politically castrated, and deprived of the opportunity to vote.

The current electoral architecture is fundamentally restrictive, i.e., a system where one’s franchise is tied to a specific patch of earth, a registered polling unit. Before and during elections, to vote Nigerians travel across dangerous highways, incur staggering financial costs, endure psychological strains, etc. to reach a specific box in a polling unit to cast their votes.

In an age of digital transformation, why is the government yet to centralize our voting system? Whether a citizen is hospitalised in Gombe State or in a correctional facility in Rivers State, their right to vote should be made portable. During the last Nigerian Bar Association national elections, I voted in the garden (not the Garden of Eden). I did not have to leave the comfort of the house to the branch secretariat or Abuja to participate in the elections.

I have visited the correctional centers in Oyo State, Akwa Ibom State and Kano State, amongst others. These facilities, originally designed to accommodate a specific number of inmates have been outrageously overstretched and overcrowded. From the correctional centers mentioned above and others spread across the country, the number of awaiting trial inmates or in another way, those enjoying the presumption of innocence, are manifestly 80%. They are legally innocent, yet live in conditions that defy the basic tenets of human hygiene, dignity and standard of living.

Walking through these crowded cells, one cannot ignore the overwhelming presence of the male child. This tells a story of a societal tapestry that has frayed. We have spent decades focusing on the protection and moral uprightness of the female child, while allowing the male child to wallow in the facade of a patriarchal world where “might is right” and “hustle” justifies crime. We teach our daughters the rules of life, while our sons are left to learn the rules of the street, which sometimes lead to permanent tenancy in the correctional centers. The Holy Book in Proverbs 22:6 admonishes thus:

“Train up a child in the way he should grow so that when he is old, he will not depart from it.”

The above divine instruction did not specify any gender. When we fail to train our sons, we create the very “awaiting trial” population that now overflows our correctional centers.

These men and women awaiting trial have waited 2, 5, 7, 10, or more years for a day in court to be free. That day seems not to come soon. The alleged proceeds of crime recovered have been injected back into the national purse while they await trial. Yet, they cannot vote for the leaders who will decide their feeding allowance or the reform of the legal system that holds them captive.

Allowing awaiting trial inmates to vote is not just a matter of logistics, it is a matter of constitutional integrity. It would not only enfranchise the marginalized, but would also serve as a bulwark against rigging and the logistical nightmares that haunt our election cycles. If they are innocent until proven guilty, then they deserve a voice. And a vote. They deserve the chance to vote for someone who understands that a “Renewed Hope” must also shine through the bars of a cell.

The management of partisan political disputes by inmates and the consequences cannot be overlooked. However, an intentional approach towards creating a system that will checkmate the likelihood of political wrangling in the correctional centers will assist in realising the aim of allowing inmates to vote.

Until we consider the rights of the most vulnerable among us, especially those awaiting trial behind bars, our own hope is not yet fully born. If I am innocent, why then is my vote guilty?