Nigerian courts are wondrous zones,
Where lawsuits grow grey hairs and bones.
A matter starts when youth is sweet,
And ends when grandchildren fill the seat.
One man filed land case long ago,
By judgment time, his son had grown.
The boy became a lawyer too,
Still arguing what his father knew.
Why?
Because of one immortal ghost,
Our courts and system cherish most.
A spirit nobody can overthrow:
The mighty doctrine called “De Novo.”
Ah yes.
The legal art of resurrection,
Where suffering receives fresh injection.
A case may die and rest in peace,
Then De Novo grants it fresh release.
The Judge may hear eight witnesses complete,
And listen to counsel generate heat.
Addresses filed, the end in sight,
Then death, retirement or transfer comes to restart the fight.
Then the system tells you with solemn glow:
“Matter will start De Novo.”
The litigant’s heartbeat starts to bend:
“God, not this road again.”
Then comes the sermon the system will favour:
“The Judge must observe demeanour.”
Observe what exactly, if one may ask?
Whether PW1 scratched his back?
Whether DW2 blinked too fast,
Or coughed emotionally at the last?
Meanwhile, our Judges still write by hand,
Like weary scribes across the land.
The witness speaks at lightning pace:
“I saw the accused around the place…”
But the Judge is still struggling below:
“I… saw… the…”
And by the time His Lordship reaches the scene,
The witness has travelled and returned from Benin.
So when exactly did he observe demeanour?
During commas, or counsel’s grammar?
We copied this from oyibo nations,
Without conducting investigations.
Hook, line and sinker, we copied all,
Without asking whether it fits at all.
No statute said: “Thou must restart,”
No Act compelled this art.
We merely saw oyibo do so,
Then we carried suffering through De Novo.
Like man who enters barber shop:
“Give me Alibat’s exact crop.”
But you and Alibat share no skull,
So why copy haircut, pain and all?
Over there, computers record every proceeding,
Leaving Judges free for demeanour-reading.
But here, our Judges write every line,
Question and answer, time after time.
Was that not how we copied wig and gown as well,
In tropical heat that feels like hell.
Oyibo wears wig in winter breeze,
We wear ours and nearly freeze in disease.
We copy with pride,
Wig in the sunlight, sweat trapped inside.
Like Fela’s ‘Gentleman,’ we sweat, smell, and faint in the heat,
Yet still call this torture ‘tradition’ complete.
Borrowed tradition, borrowed dress,
Then wondered why our courts know stress.
And where a Judge has sold his mind,
Demeanour is simply ignored and left behind.
If envelope enters private room,
Justice may quietly sign its doom.
Then judgment comes with Latin glamour:
“Status quo ante bellum,” of what use then is the bandied “demeanour.”
Some judgments wear a Latin coat,
Yet common sense can barely float.
Grammar everywhere like festival rain,
But reasoning missing from the brain.
Meanwhile litigants suffer more,
Transport fare drains the pocket floor.
Lawyers’ fees rise, hope grows thin,
Witnesses vanish, memories dim.
Some litigants die before De Novo starts,
Leaving children to inherit the parts.
Cases inherited like family land,
From father’s hand to children’s hand.
So when De Novo enters the room,
Justice wears the perfume of doom.
Suffering jumps from the grave below,
Laughing and shouting:
“I have risen through De Novo!”
*Chinedu Agu*
+2348032568512
onyeokaiwu@gmail.com
21 May 2026
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