Corruption: Maybe It Is Time to Reverse the Burden of Proof

By Frank Ofili

The fight against corruption under this administration appears to have quietly packed its bags and gone on indefinite leave.

No resignation letter.

No handover notes.

Just… gone.

Perhaps that is just as well. There is little point pretending to wage a war that increasingly resembles a peacekeeping mission.

The truth is that I have come to a rather uncomfortable conclusion.

We are unlikely to defeat corruption in Nigeria if we continue insisting that the prosecution must prove every corruption case beyond reasonable doubt before a conviction can be secured.

Before the constitutional lawyers sharpen their pencils and prepare to remind me of the presumption of innocence, let me confess: yes, I know this proposition sounds radical. It offends centuries of criminal jurisprudence.

But then corruption in Nigeria has long ceased to behave like an ordinary crime.

So why should we continue treating it like one?

Permit me a little heresy.

Suppose we reversed the burden.

Suppose that once investigators establish a credible prima facie case that a public official is living outrageously beyond his legitimate earnings, the law should presume corruption unless that official proves—beyond reasonable doubt—that the wealth was legitimately acquired.

Simple.

If your monthly salary is ₦800,000 and you own five choice properties in Ikoyi, three in Dubai, two private jets, a yacht, and your garage looks like an automobile exhibition, then the burden should no longer be on EFCC to explain your riches.

A country where nobody can explain their wealth will eventually become a country that cannot explain its poverty.

The burden should be on you.

Explain yourself.

Not with grammar.

Not with outrage.

Not with press conferences.

With evidence.

I know some people will scream that this is draconian.

Maybe.

But corruption itself is draconian.

It kills hospitals before patients die in them.

It destroys schools before children enter them.

It collapses roads before the rainy season arrives.

It steals electricity before darkness falls.

Corruption is not merely an economic crime. It is a serial killer that rarely visits the crime scene.

Nigeria has got to a point where every neighbourhood now has one mysterious “big man” or the other.

Nobody knows where he works.

Nobody knows what business he does.

Nobody has ever seen him leave for work in the morning.

Yet every Christmas or Sallah, cows are slaughtered in his compound as if he owns a branch of heaven.

Children admire him.

Adults respect him.

Nobody asks questions.

The only qualification required for respect is visible wealth.

Its source is considered an act of unnecessary curiosity.

Today, Nigerians possess a remarkable talent for asking every question except the one that matters.

Someone who has spent twenty-five years in public service suddenly builds a mansion that would make a Gulf prince request architectural drawings.

Instead of asking, “Where did the money come from?”

We ask, “Who was the contractor?”

Sometimes we don’t even ask that.

We simply admire the Italian tiles.

Our society has become so accommodating of unexplained wealth that honesty now requires explanation.

A civil servant retires after thirty-five years with a modest bungalow, one Toyota Corolla and enough savings to survive comfortably.

People shake their heads sympathetically.

“Kai! The man did not use his opportunity.”

Think about that sentence.

Somewhere along the journey, we transformed public office from public service into a harvesting season.

It reminds me of the old village story about the hunter who returned from the forest carrying an elephant on his head.

The villagers did not ask where he found the elephant.

They asked where they could buy the same type of rope.

That, unfortunately, is Nigeria.

We rarely interrogate wealth.

We merely admire its packaging.

Of course, reversing the burden of proof must never become an instrument for political witch-hunts. There must first be credible evidence of grossly unexplained wealth. There must be judicial oversight. There must be safeguards against abuse.

But once that threshold has been crossed, why shouldn’t the owner of the wealth explain its origin?

After all, nobody knows the source of your money better than you do.

Surely, that is easier than asking investigators to trace billions that have travelled through shell companies, foreign accounts, posh properties, proxy shareholders, exotic cars and jewelries, cousins, in-laws, childhood friends, and one charitable foundation established to “empower widows and less-privileged.”

Nigeria’s anti-corruption war has become a football match in which the referee knows the rules, the spectators know the rules, but the players have quietly agreed not to score.

Perhaps it is time to change the rules.

Not because justice has become less important.

But because corruption has become more dangerous.

The law must never become an accomplice to the crime it seeks to punish.

If an individual’s lifestyle bears no resemblance whatsoever to his legitimate income, then society should be entitled to ask one simple question:

“Please, help us understand.”

If the answer is genuine, let the person walk away with honour.

If it is not, then the handcuffs should do the talking.

Because a country where nobody can explain their wealth will eventually become a country that cannot explain its poverty.