Digital Dissent and State Power: The Sowore Case and the Battle for Nigeria’s Digital Soul

It seems the line between robust political speech and criminal incitement is not just thinning in Nigeria; it is being actively redrawn by the state in real-time, with each new lawsuit and social media post. We have become accustomed to the performative outrage of micro-celebrities and the fleeting scandals that define our digital discourse. The legal battle, which pits activist Omoyele Sowore against the Nigerian state is no joke for it goes beyond the ‘catching cruise’ format of social media content. It comes as no surprise at all, this being another one in a long, tortuous history of state-sponsored attempts to limit free speech in one form or another. This kind of frosty government-press relations dates back to the dark days of the Sedition Ordinance of 1909; includes the notorious Decree 4 of 1984 and unfortunately it seems, the Cybercrimes Act of 2024. So, once the Department of State Services (DSS) decided to initiate a five-count charge against Sowore, we have to consider it as another twist in an old tactic, one that suggests that the state remains in conflict with the very idea of a critical citizenry, twenty-six years after a return to democratic rule.

To view the Sowore case in isolation is to suffer from historical amnesia. We need only glance back through the annals of Nigerian governance to see a consistent thread. The colonial administration, often wrongly remembered for its “liberalism,” quickly moved to control the nascent press. The 1903 Newspaper Ordinance forced registration, the 1917 law demanded a hefty bond against “seditious” publications, and the 1909 Seditious Offences Ordinance specifically targeted criticism of the government. As scholars note, the press functioned only within whatever rights the colonial laws made possible. This appears to have set the tone for an unfortunate principle of the state being the one that can ultimately determines what is permissible as free speech.

Sadly, it seems, the illogical nature of that foundational principle survived the colonial rule, with succeeding administration appropriating it in some form or another as it fits their whims. The First Republic saw the press weaponised along ethnic and political lines, with regional governments and political parties establishing newspapers as mouthpieces to attack opponents. The outcome?  A structure of ethnic ownership where journalists were “not expected to enjoy much opportunity for individual self-expression” and “functioned within the narrow confines of official interests.”

But the true dark age for free speech arrived with the military. Regime after regime promulgated decrees designed to silence dissent: Aguiyi Ironsi’s Defamation Decree, Muhammadu Buhari’s infamous Decree 4, and the brutal enforcement under Buhari, Babangida, and Abacha are clear examples. Their goal was never to win in court but to deliver a chilling message. The proscription of newspapers, seizure of editions and imprisonment of journalists like Tunde Thompson and Nduka Irabor were all part of the message. That brutal message did not kill free speech but rather produced a collective reaction by the most vocal section of the media whose “guerrilla journalism” of the 1990s saw the likes of Tell, The News, and Tempo operating from hideouts, their hit-and-run tactics probably a perfect response to repressive administrations. They saw themselves not as neutral observers but as activists in a struggle to reclaim Nigeria, a mindset for which they were often criticised but which was forged in the fire of state persecution.

The return to democracy in 1999 promised a new dawn, but the tools of repression were merely refurbished, not discarded. The state’s strategy evolved from military decrees to sophisticated legal instruments like the Cybercrimes Act. Until the return to democratic rule, the print media and electronic media had been primary targets but now social media platforms became the focal point of attempts to moderate communications of the political type. If we take a critical look at the DSS’s court case against Sowore, it seems the intention is the same – limit dissenting voices as much as possible.

This pattern is not uniquely Nigerian; it is part of a global playbook where powerful figures weaponise the legal system to punish criticism. The threat by former U.S. President Donald Trump to sue the New York Times for $15 billion, while different in context, employs the same strategy: using the immense weight and cost of the judiciary to deliver a sobering message. The goal is processual punishment—to drain the target’s resources and create a spectre of legal retribution that hangs over every potential critic. Sowore’s case, with its multiple counts and invocation of both cyber and criminal law, fits this pattern perfectly, demonstrating how legal systems worldwide are being co-opted for political silencing.

In the current case, the state argues that Sowore’s posts, which labelled President Bola Tinubu a “criminal,” are knowingly false and published with the intent to cause a “breakdown of law and order.” This charge hinges on a dangerously subjective logic: that the Nigerian public is an irrational mob, perpetually on the verge of violence, requiring protection from its own emotions by the wise hand of the security apparatus. It is a logic that presumes the state to be the sole arbiter of truth.

Sowore’s counter-suit, framing the state’s action as “unconstitutional censorship,” positions him in a long lineage of Nigerian resistance. He is not just defending his own tweets; he is channelling the spirit of John Payne Jackson, whose Lagos Weekly Record in the 1890s “always hung on the edge of sedition,” and the guerrilla journalists of the 90s who operated from hidden presses. The case against the DSS is anchored on Section 39 of the Nigerian Constitution, which guarantees the right to freedom of expression, won through decades of resisting state-sponsored attempts to control political communication under the colonial and military rulers.

Notwithstanding, the issues are not as straightforward as a critical look at both sides of the argument shows complexities. For instance, even if the government’s case, is dressed in legalism, it is clearly fraught with dangerous subjectivity. How, if we may ask, is it possible to prove a claim about corruption, knowing that this is often shrouded in secrecy and open to different interpretation? The tactic makes it look like a fine attempt to weaponise the law, a hallmark of digital authoritarianism.

Yet, Sowore’s argument, while philosophically compelling, also brushes against the complex realities of absolute free speech. His choice of language sits in a grey zone between robust criticism and personal defamation. This is not to legitimise the state’s criminal charges, which are disproportionate and dangerous, but to acknowledge that the defence of free speech is most powerful when it acknowledges its own complexities. The appropriate arena for such a dispute should be civil libel law, not the Criminal Code wielded by secret police.

This case also forces a critical examination of the role of social media platforms, the new battleground in this old war. Sowore’s lawsuit rightly argues that Meta and X must not become “tools of repression.” However, this charge clashes with the messy reality of platform governance. These are global corporations, not democratic governments. Their “neutrality” is a myth; their decisions are calculations based on a maze of conflicting national laws, commercial interests, and political pressure. Their refusal to delete Sowore’s account is a positive outcome, but it is likely a business decision, not a principled stand for Nigerian democracy. To expect otherwise is to misunderstand their fundamental nature as profit-driven entities in the attention economy.

Outside the legal battle, there is a far more worrying thing. We have to ask; Is there a chance that we are seeing the onset of something more profound? We know that social media has the tendency to create eco-chambers and rewards outrage and emotionalism over reasoned debate. However, the far more fundamental change has to be the affective polarisation of political discourse, which shapes identities based on animosity and forces people to replace dialogue with diatribe.

There can be only one outcome in an environment like this: The deliberative, rigorous debate of issues that should be the foundation of a healthy democracy will be more difficult to achieve because it is crowded out by inflammatory language by government and activist alike. The DSS’s case against Sowore does nothing to ease the polarisation; it actually risks inflaming the tension by legitimising a cycle of action and reaction where the only casualty is truth itself.

If we take a look at our most recent history, what do we make of this high-stakes legal battle? The outcome will set a precedent. A victory for the state would embolden further censorship, signalling that any criticism of power can be criminalised under the nebulous guise of “national security” or “public order.” It would affirm that Nigeria’s democratic experiment remains fragile, perpetually vulnerable to the authoritarian instincts of its rulers.

The ideal resolution would not be a victory for unrestrained speech, but for a proportional and rights-based legal framework. This requires:

• An unequivocal judicial confirmation of Section 39 of the Constitution as the principal law of the land when it comes to free speech; which cannot be abridged in any way by any security outfit on a whim.
• An urgent re-evaluation and repeal of other pieces of legislation like those on cybercrime and criminal defamation that can be easily abused by those in power.
• An immediate national conversation around where to draw the line between free and harmful speech; the aim of which is to arrive at a consensus outside the influence of state coercion.

Clearly, it would be wrong to personalise this legal battle between Sowore and the DSS. It looks more like a proxy war for the soul of Nigeria’s digital future; a future caught between its own repressive history and a global wave of modernised authoritarianism. The question is whether our collective public spere can accommodate open, if rigorous, deliberation, or a mediated space for predominantly state-approved thoughts. To think this is a choice between order and chaos is not only simplistic but plain dishonest. This looks every inch like a choice between a democratic environment where people can think for themselves and an authoritarian environment that fears exactly that. The ghosts of Jackson, Ironsi, and some of the guerrilla journalists are watching to see which choice we make.