The unfolding drama between the Nigerian Senate and Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan has become more than a disciplinary scuffle. It is now a national constitutional moment—a vivid collision of law, politics, and institutional power that forces the question: when a legislative chamber punishes an elected representative beyond the limits of its own rules, whose voice is really being silenced?
What began in March as a six-month suspension for alleged insubordination has mutated into a full-blown constitutional standoff. Senator Natasha, representing Kogi Central, completed the term of her suspension only to receive an official letter from the Acting Clerk of the National Assembly insisting she could not resume until the Court of Appeal ruled on the matter. Her supporters see this as an attempt to extend a political exile that the Constitution never authorized.
Behind the procedural language, the senator alleges a more personal vendetta: that the Senate President, Godswill Akpabio, is using the chamber to settle political scores after she accused him of misconduct. What the Senate calls discipline, Natasha and many observers now call oppression.
The Senate defends its action by invoking the doctrine of sub judice, the legal principle that discourages interference while a case is before a court. Traditionally, this doctrine prevents multiple suits on the same matter and guards against prejudicial commentary, as seen in precedents such as Governor of Lagos v. Ojukwu (1986) and Bello v. Attorney-General of Lagos State (2006).
But in this case the rule has been stretched far beyond its natural contours. Instead of shielding justice, it has become a sword of suppression. As I argued, it is like a landlord who, while an eviction case is still in court, bolts the door and tells the tenant: “Because the matter is in court, you must remain outside until the judge decides.” The tenant suffers the very penalty he contests long before the court rules.
The stakes go well beyond Senator Natasha herself. To suspend her is to suspend the constitutional voice of Kogi Central. The Nigerian Constitution vests sovereignty in the people and outlines the few grounds—defection, conviction, resignation, recall—under which a legislator can lose a seat. Indefinite suspension is not one of them.
Court decisions from INEC v. Musa (2003) to Amaechi v. INEC (2008) underscore that the electorate’s mandate is paramount and cannot be overridden by party or institutional whim. Likewise, in Speaker, Bauchi House of Assembly v. Rifkatu Danna (2017), the Court of Appeal ruled that suspending an elected lawmaker violates the right of constituents to representation. Senator Natasha is not an employee of the Senate; she is the custodian of her people’s mandate.
Every day she remains barred, Kogi Central is absent from critical national debates—on budgets, constitutional amendments, infrastructure, and security—not by choice, but by institutional fiat. This is not discipline; it is disenfranchisement.
Suspension as an internal disciplinary tool cannot override the 1999 Constitution. Section 14(2)(a) declares that “sovereignty belongs to the people of Nigeria,” while Section 68 lists the only valid grounds for removing a legislator. By creating a new, undefined ground through indefinite suspension, the Senate undermines the supreme law of the land.
An institution that forgets its source of legitimacy courts decay. The Senate exists only because constituencies exist; a tail cannot wag the dog. Natasha may be one senator, but she embodies the collective voice of hundreds of thousands.
This confrontation is more than a quarrel over parliamentary decorum. It is a referendum on democratic representation itself. Authority without restraint becomes tyranny. The doctrine of sub judice may counsel caution, but it cannot annul the clear provisions of the Constitution or justify silencing an entire constituency.
The question is not whether Senator Natasha has erred, but whether an institution sworn to protect democracy can punish the people it serves in the name of procedure. History’s verdict is clear: the people’s will endures beyond the ambitions of any chamber.
What does the Senate lose by recalling Natasha now that her six-month suspension has elapsed? The honest answer is nothing. This is no longer a legal puzzle; it is a matter of conscience—“an open wound; only truth can heal,” in the immortal words of Usman Dan Fodio.
