Recent arrests of citizens who publicly voiced grievances against service providers have reignited critical discussion around Section 24 of Nigeria’s Cybercrimes (Prohibition, Prevention, etc.) Act, 2015. In one widely circulated case, a digital influencer was detained following a petition from a real estate company he had criticised online. In another, a woman known for protest-style consumer activism—combining online and offline methods—was reportedly arrested and hospitalized after clashing with vendors over product complaints. These incidents reflect a broader legal and social dilemma: the increasing use of criminal law to punish speech in digital spaces.
Section 24, while ostensibly designed to curb cyberbullying and malicious communication, criminalises the online transmission of content considered “grossly offensive,” “insulting,” or intended to “cause annoyance.” Though likely well-intentioned, the language of the provision is vague and subjective. Its broad phrasing—lacking clear thresholds for harm, falsehood, or intent—creates room for arbitrary application. It risks being used not to protect against genuine cyber abuse, but to shield the powerful from criticism, satire, or consumer complaints. This undermines Section 39 of the 1999 Constitution (as amended), which guarantees freedom of expression, and conflicts with international obligations under Article 19 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and Article 9 of the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights.
Crucially, defamation is already criminalised under Nigeria’s Criminal Code (Sections 373–381) and Penal Code (Sections 391–395). These older laws are structured, requiring proof of falsity, malice, and reputational harm. By contrast, Section 24 permits criminal proceedings without such rigorous standards—targeting speech simply for being “annoying” or “insulting,” even if truthful or in the public interest. Though it is framed as a cybercrime statute, its overlap with traditional defamation laws is significant and, arguably, redundant.
The situation is further complicated by legal inconsistencies across jurisdictions. For instance, Lagos State decriminalised defamation in 2015, recognising it as a civil issue. Yet, federal law—specifically the Cybercrime Act—remains binding nationwide, enabling arrests even in states where the underlying conduct is no longer a crime. This contradiction fosters a fragmented legal landscape and perpetuates uncertainty.
In practice, this has led to troubling consequences. Law enforcement officers, often responding swiftly to petitions from influential individuals, have arrested citizens without prior civil adjudication or thorough legal scrutiny. Truth remains a defence to defamation—but in several instances, individuals are arrested before any judicial inquiry into the truth of their claims. This reverses the principle of presumption of innocence and effectively punishes individuals before they are found guilty. It raises fundamental questions about the role of police in speech-related disputes: Is it their duty to determine truth, or should that remain within the exclusive remit of the courts?
Moreover, this legal reality has a chilling effect on public discourse. Whistleblowers, consumer advocates, and social critics increasingly fear retaliation not through civil suits, but via criminal petitions. Even when later acquitted or vindicated, they are left with arrest records and reputational damage. In a society where reputational harm can carry lifelong consequences, the mere threat of arrest becomes a powerful deterrent to free speech.
This pattern reflects deeper cultural dynamics. In Nigeria, deference to age, wealth, and social status is deeply ingrained. Public criticism of prominent figures is often viewed as insolence, regardless of its legitimacy. This creates an imbalance of power: ordinary citizens who raise concerns—especially online—may find themselves criminalised, while the alleged misconduct they report remains unexamined.
Globally, best practices suggest a more balanced approach. The United Kingdom abolished criminal defamation in 2009, replacing it with civil remedies under the Defamation Act 2013. The Act introduced a “serious harm” threshold and protects statements made in the public interest. It reflects the principle that free speech should not be unduly restricted unless there is demonstrable harm to reputation, and even then, through civil—not criminal—processes. Similarly, in South Africa, the courts have adopted a robust interpretation of constitutional speech protections, while Ghana and Kenya have enacted whistleblower protection laws. Kenyan courts, in particular, have struck or read down overly vague speech provisions, while Ghana has repealed criminal defamation laws as part of broader speech reforms.
Nigeria can learn from these reforms. By transitioning defamation from a criminal offence to a civil matter, the legal system can better balance reputational protection with constitutional freedoms. Civil courts allow for evidence to be tested, truth to be examined, and proportionate remedies to be applied—without the stigma of criminality or trauma of arrest. Additionally, a formal whistleblower protection law is urgently needed. Nigeria’s 2016 Whistleblower Policy—though well-meaning—lacks statutory force. A binding legal framework would guarantee anonymity, prevent retaliatory arrests, and protect good-faith disclosures in the public interest.
If Section 24 is to remain, safeguards must be introduced. Prosecutorial screening or judicial oversight should be mandatory before any arrest is made under the provision. This would ensure that complaints are vetted by independent legal minds before escalating to criminal charges. Police officers are not trained to determine whether a statement is defamatory, truthful, or in the public interest. That responsibility lies with the courts. Requiring legal scrutiny at the pre-arrest stage would prevent misuse of criminal process as a tool of intimidation.
Ultimately, freedom of expression is not merely the right to praise; it includes the right to criticise, warn, protest, and report wrongdoing. A legal system that prioritises dignity and truth must recognise that discomfort is not harm—and that criticism, even when harsh, is often essential to public accountability.
Nigeria’s digital future must be built on laws that protect citizens, not silence them. Reforming Section 24 is not just a legal imperative—it is a democratic necessity.