By Muktar Adamu Wudil
In a country where public institutions are expected to uphold law and order above politics, the Nigeria Police Force has once again revealed itself as a tool in the hands of power—willing to bend facts, shift language, and reverse its own narrative, all in service of interests far removed from justice. The events surrounding the recent Eid-el-Fitr celebration in Kano, and the treatment of His Highness Emir Muhammad Sanusi II, expose a troubling pattern of manipulation and quiet allegiance to political masters.
On April 6, 2025, the police released an official press statement explaining the withdrawal of an invitation sent to Emir Muhammad Sanusi I to appear before the Force Intelligence Department in Abuja. The release, careful in tone and posture, attempted to frame the invitation as a routine move to obtain Emir Sanusi’s account of what it described as a breakdown of law and order. It claimed that despite an agreement reached with both Emir Sanusi and Aminu Ado Bayero—not to hold Durbar processions on Sallah day, Emir Sanusi violated the understanding by mounting a horse after prayers. The police narrative concluded that this act triggered a confrontation leading to the death of one Usman Sagiru. Although it is curious to know in what capacity, Aminu Ado Bayero, who is now an ordinary prince since his dethronement, was asked not to organize a durbar. He is neither the Emir of Kano nor Wamban Kano.
But that version of events simply does not hold up against the police’s own internal communication, parts of which were made public by the Daily Nigerian newspaper. A police signal sent on Sallah morning clearly reported that Eid prayers across Kano were conducted peacefully. It confirmed that Emir Sanusi prayed at the traditional Kofar Mata Eid ground, later joined by the executive governor of Kano State, and that Aminu Ado Bayero prayed separately at the Nasarawa mini-palace. The report concluded that the area was calm and that events proceeded without incident. This was not speculation—it was a contemporaneous situational report from officers on the ground.
The contradictions didn’t end there. A follow-up signal, also reported by Daily Nigerian, detailed a violent incident that occurred after prayers: an attack on alleged members of Emir Sanusi’s convoy. Two vigilantes assigned to him were stabbed by a group led by one Usman Sagiru. One of the victims later died from his injuries. The attacker was arrested. Notably, the report did not attribute the violence to any procession or Durbar, nor did it blame the Emir. On the contrary, it confirmed that Emir Sanusi’s entourage had been the target of a criminal assault. Even more damning, the signal stated that the murder occurred at 12:40 p.m., hours after the Emir had already retired to his residence.
So why, then, did the police headquarters in Abuja publicly link this violence to the Emir’s act of riding a horse, an act deeply symbolic in Kano’s cultural tradition and widely considered a Sunnah of the Prophet? And why was the Emir invited to Abuja over an incident that their own internal memo shows he neither caused nor escalated?
It gets even more suspicious when one examines the original invitation letter sent to Emir Sanusi. The letter addressed him as “His Royal Highness” (HRH) and acknowledged that the incident had occurred “within your domain”—a clear recognition of his status and jurisdiction. But after the public reacted with criticism and scrutiny, the police quickly withdrew the invitation and shifted the investigation to Kano. Suddenly, in the official press release announcing that the Emir was no longer needed in Abuja, the tone changed: Emir Sanusi was now simply “Alhaji Sanusi,” and the police made no reference to the incident occurring in “his domain.” This linguistic shift was not accidental—it was strategic. It marked a deliberate effort to strip the Emir of the respect and authority initially granted in internal communication, aligning instead with a federal narrative that seeks to delegitimize him.
It is impossible to ignore the broader context: Emir Sanusi was lawfully reinstated by the Kano State Government, which has exclusive constitutional authority over the appointment of traditional rulers. Aminu Ado Bayero, the pretender, remains ensconced in the Nasarawa mini-palace under heavy federal security, defying the state government’s directive—thanks to the police, whose refuge in false neutrality continues to enable a constitutional crisis.
If neutrality were truly the goal, then why did the police deploy to protect Aminu Ado Bayero’s unauthorized occupation of public property? Why did they turn a blind eye to federal interference in a state matter, while rushing to hold Emir Sanusi accountable for being the target of a criminal assault? Why is a federal police force rewriting its own internal reports to craft a narrative that blames the victim? Since the first leaked police signal that informed Abuja of the murder stated that the arrested thugs attacked Emir Sanusi’s entourage, what is the result of the police investigation? Who hired the thugs to attack the Emir? Why is the Emir suspect in a case the Kano State police already absolved him of, and in which he is a target? Would the IGP have treated the Oni of Ife or Oba of Lagos the same way if they were involved?
These inconsistencies reveal a deeper institutional rot. The IGP did not act independently. He acted on instruction—whether whispered or direct—from political patrons who find Emir Sanusi’s presence inconvenient. Emir Sanusi’s return and uprightness threaten entrenched interests. And so, as has happened before, the system is being marshaled not to protect the law, but to suppress a man who speaks inconvenient truths.
This is no longer about a Durbar procession. It is about the Inspector General of Police surrendering the police mandate at the altar of politics. When law enforcement agencies change their story to suit shifting political winds, when the IGP redacts honorifics and revises titles to suit new allegiances, and when he ignores violence against a state-recognized first class Emir of international repute while targeting him with bureaucratic intimidation, the public has every right to ask: who is the IGP really serving?
The police’s so-called “peacekeeping” strategy is defeatist already. Rather than uphold the law and protect legitimate authority, the police reportedly pressured the Kano Emirate Council under Emir Sanusi to cancel the traditional Durbar simply because Aminu Ado Bayero also intended to hold his own. This is not neutrality; it is capitulation. If the police were truly impartial and committed to law and order, they would have enforced the governor’s lawful decision by arresting Bayero for breaching the peace and impersonating a public office he no longer holds. Bayero was formally deposed as Emir of Kano. He has neither challenged his removal in court nor contested Emir Sanusi’s reinstatement. Yet he continues to parade himself as Emir, unlawfully occupying a government facility under federal protection. That the police have not only tolerated this but adjusted lawful public activities around his unlawful presence proves their complicity.
If the police were serious about resolving tensions in Kano, they should have engaged the Kano State Governor, who—as the Chief Security Officer of his state—has both the constitutional mandate and the moral authority to guide the police response. Instead, they bypassed him entirely and treated the deposed Emir as an equal stakeholder in a matter that had already been settled by the constitution. That the police chose to act on “dialogue” with a pretender rather than follow the governor’s rightful instructions is a disgrace to due process. The complications we see in Kano today are not organic, they are artificially created and sustained by Abuja’s interference. A local matter that should have been resolved through the lawful authority of the state has been turned into a federal project of disruption. It is not Emir Sanusi’s procession that threatens the peace—it is the Abuja-backed charade of pretending that Ado Bayero still has a throne to sit on.
Mukhtar Adamu writes from Sydney, Australia and can be reached via mukyadamu@gmail.com
