“Okwulora!”

“Barri! Good morning!”

These are the normal accolades every lawyer hears from fellow dwellers in their apartment buildings; from vendors hawking in the streets; from friends and family; from strangers we run into when we board Keke Napeps on our way to and fro our daily engagements.

We are known for our reserve, mostly. We are known as the last line of Nigeria’s legal defences, fighting against the elements of the police, SARS, the oppression of fellow citizens—to people we the lawyers present a certain unattainable aura. I say the aura is unattainable because, for most educated people in the Arts, Law was the first choice, a choice they saw dashed to the rocks before they migrated to other courses due to low cut-off grades or the paucity of deep pockets that could have secured an admission when their marks couldn’t get them through the gates.

For Igbos, the name “Okwulora” is a lawyer’s second title, or official title; for they do not need to know your name. No one bothers to find out your real name—as far as they are concerned, your official title is all you need. All they need to understand is your affiliation to the hallowed Black of the Law, then you gain that title from the seniors in your street, the ones that watch your every move even as you are seemingly unaware of their deep scrutiny; the ones that watch you as you exit your apartment building on the mornings when you have court sittings, your dark suit covering your frame, a large bag bearing the arsenals for your legal battles for the day: your wig, your gown, your bib and collar, your court file which in many cases may predate your entry into the profession or even your first anguished cries as you exited from the dark cocoon of your mother’s womb several years ago, your pads and pen.

“Ah, Barri, you are going to Court today!” a loquacious dweller in your street will hail you in passing as you flag down a Keke—that is, if you have not saved up enough money to buy a small Camry or Honda for your daily commute.

“Nice day, nna,” one of the smiling grandmothers would respond to your greeting.

“Good morning Barri!” little Lotanna from apartment 4B will say, prompted by a pull from the ever busy hand of his mother, reminding him that you are an adult and should be greeted.

And then you worry about the particularly dicey Motion ensconced in the file you are carrying to Court, ready for hearing. You are pegged with the nagging worry that the senior on the other end will decimate your arguments, floor you with well-reasoned argument flung out from a well-polished mind that’s danced the Courtroom dance with better seasoned dancers than you are since before you began suckling on your mother’s breasts. You mentally tremble as you draw up the potential countenance of the judge’s face, a face that will be unbothered with your prayer for yet another amendment since the case had been dragging on for the past twelve years, not yet past the gates of pre-trial conference.

As “Barri”, you worry about the “small agreements” Onitsha or Idumota businessmen call on you to draft for them.

“Barri, I just bought one small land at Badagry,” Chief would gist you through the phone, his voice unnecessarily loud over the speakers while you wonder if the man genuinely thinks you are deaf. “I need you to tidy one small agreement for the land.”

Of course, you need the money. For some, you have beaten your way past the “small agreements” type of clients that will come knocking on your doors when they have smaller fry for your ilk but will go crawling to “Big Lawyers” with the juicy briefs that has the potential to set a practice in big money. Or not. You may still need those “small agreements” to survive, and you will negotiate a “small” fee of about ₦60,000, only to discover that chief had actually purchased the land for a whooping ₦26 million. Ha! They are smart, those clients, but you have to survive, yes? So you give him a “small agreement”, the type he’d asked for since he wasn’t smart enough to contact you in the first instance before entering negotiations for the purchase. And of course, you are sure that litigation will spring from it; then he’d pay the Big Money to get it sorted out.

You save up and buy the hallowed Camry, the entry-level car for 2nd and 3rd year associates of your standing. You had even purchased your NBA stickers for the front and back windshield three days before the purchase. Now, they will call you “Barri!” with a difference. You can cruise into the police station to talk about a client that was detained there and the police officers behind the counter won’t insult you because they’d seen you drive in in your thoroughly washed car, so you cannot obviously be a “charge-and-bail lawyer”. Where they got that moniker from, you still wonder even as you age at the Bar.

As per Nigerian lawyer, you understand the vagaries of Police; you understand how they operate, how their love for ₦50 can make them detain a driver for hours under the scorching sun. Of course you settle your expression into the appropriate deadpan look they have come to notice in you “loyas!” whenever you chance upon them at checkpoints. You have taken the time to memorize various portions of the Federal Road Safety Act and your State’s Traffic Offences Law so that you can verbally wangle your way out of any encounters with these mercenaries of the road.

“Ah, oga loya. How you dey?” these marshals would greet, cheesy smiles plastered on sweating faces beaten by the sun, lacklustre gun pressed against their chest as if you had the magical means to magick it away.

“Officer, good afternoon, how are you?” you’d deadpan.

And then they’d flag you off—no one wants wahala.

You are acutely aware of the inadequacies of the Nigerian system; of the need to “grease” the palms of literally everyone that you come across in the course of the performance of their official duties: from the court clerks in many cases refusing outright to handle files to get you the CTCs you requested for, to the police stretching out their hands for “bail money” even though it’s boldly inscribed in a wall right there on their station that bail is “free”, to the bosses that send you on errands empty-handed even though they know that you have to grease literally all the palms you come across.

On many occasions you have course to wonder about the absurdity of it all: of practising law in a country supposedly touted as a “Democracy” whereas people are subject to the vagaries of their leaders who don’t care a penny for the rule of law. You wonder at people’s “God is in control” attitude when they can take action. You watch, disgusted, as state governments wake up and ban okadas; as police heavily extort commercial drivers and they say nothing because they want to “leave it for God”. You are stupefied when you try to educate people on their rights on Facebook and many comment with “No be Nigeria we dey? Abegi, bro, forget. Na God hand we dey so o”.
You remember your midnight candles burned to its stub as you struggled to read for that hallowed law degree, and you wonder if it was worth it. Sometimes you just wonder if you’d made a mistake by studying law and becoming a lawyer in Nigeria.


Kingsley Ugochukwu Ani is a legal practitioner and writer. He just recently wrote his latest book: “Law Firm and Attorney Marketing: A 21st Century Guide”. He can be reached on aniugochukwu@gmail.com

Very true

NoChill:
Very true

Glad you agree. Thank you for reading this.

Nice read

In addition to okwuluora we call them counsel pronounced as kansul.

Onitsha Ado

Your written English is breathtaking.

doggedfighter:
Nice read

In addition to okwuluora we call them counsel pronounced as kansul.

Onitsha Ado

Thanks. Glad you liked It. And you got the Onitsha Ado part correct 100%. There's an onitsha friend I had then who used to pronounce it exactly like that.

IFEOLUWAKRIZ:
Your written English is breathtaking.

Thanks for your kind comment. I'm actually a fiction writer, have been for several years.

Will surely smile to this your comment for days to come.