Holding the Line: Why the EFCC Deserves Support in a Difficult Fight -By Prof. John Egbeazien Oshodi

A SYSTEM TIGHTENING ITS OWN ROPE

Nigeria’s foremost anti-corruption body is not fading because it has forgotten its mission. It is fading because the very space in which it works is quietly withdrawing air. This institution was built to confront greed, to challenge financial impunity, to say no in rooms where most people whisper yes. It was meant to stand between public resources and private appetite. Yet today it moves through a landscape where opposition does not come only from criminals. It sometimes comes, softly and indirectly, from those who should have been its natural allies in law and governance.

What I see is not a clumsy agency. I see an institution working under extraordinary pressure. I see officers returning again and again to a fight that constantly shifts shape. I see professionals who once operated within clear rules now watching those rules quietly bend around them. They are sent into battles where conditions change without warning, where expected protections vanish at the moment they are most needed, and where, afterward, the same public that demanded action is invited to mock the result. This is how suffocation happens in a system — not through one dramatic blow, but through many small, quiet tightening of the rope.

Yet there is something important Nigerians must also understand. The men and women inside this institution have not surrendered. They are not helpless. They wake up each day and return to the field, believing that even if the fight cannot cure corruption overnight, it can still reduce its reach, slow its damage, and protect what can still be saved. They continue because they believe the general fight is still possible, and because walking away would mean leaving the country completely undefended.

And in the middle of this pressure stand the leaders of the EFCC. They cannot shout. They cannot accuse. They cannot publicly point fingers at those who quietly make their work harder. They are expected to be calm, disciplined, professional — even when the institution they guide is fighting storms it did not create. They are caught between the demands of justice and the realities of power. Yet, despite the strain, they remain standing. They continue to say, “We will follow the law,” even when the path of that law feels tilted and uneven beneath their feet. For that restraint, they deserve understanding — not mockery.

WHEN THE SYSTEM SILENTLY ERASES A CASE

There are moments when a citizen steps forward and decides to help the country. He walks into an office, signs a statement, answers questions, and entrusts his future to the promise that the law will honour his courage. For a short time, he is treated as someone the nation needs — a person whose information may help expose wrongdoing.

Then, slowly, his situation changes.

Documents begin to follow him. Unexpected hearings appear. Step by step, he moves from being a cooperating voice to someone caught inside legal processes that were never meant for him.

His world becomes smaller. Not because anyone threatened him — but because paperwork quietly surrounds him. Restrictions appear. Property questions arise. The system he trusted begins to feel like a maze rather than a shield.

This is not imagination. We saw a version of it in Bauchi.

In that case — widely reported — a man linked to an anti-corruption investigation cooperated with authorities. Later, he found himself taken before a different court, placed in custody, and watched as decisions affecting his house were processed while he remained behind bars. It was not dramatic. There was no national outcry. Everything happened quietly, through forms, orders, and signatures.

Then came another layer. When records connected to the situation were later sought, confusion arose. Some files were said to be unavailable. Access became difficult. Answers were vague. The trail did not end — it simply faded.

No explosions.

No televised arguments.

Just administrative darkness.

Inside that darkness, the agency that is supposed to defend the nation finds itself asking not only where the papers went, but whether the larger system is still standing beside it.

This is how psychological suffocation works. You do not openly attack an institution. You simply remove clarity, inch by inch, until even its most committed officers begin to wonder:

Is the ground beneath us firm — or slowly giving way?

WHEN A PHOTOGRAPH SENDS A MESSAGE

There are moments when a single photograph speaks more clearly than any speech. A national gathering is convened. A new strategic committee is introduced. The symbolism is intentional: unity, strength, continuity, preparation for the future. Leaders arrange themselves for the official portrait — the image that will travel.

In the photograph, everyone appears settled and confident. And standing among them is a familiar figure whose name still appears quietly in unresolved legal matters. He smiles. He stands comfortably. He looks returned to the center of relevance. The camera captures inclusion. The nation is invited to read calmness.

For the ordinary viewer, it may seem like just another political handshake moment. But inside the anti-corruption community, the picture lands differently. Those still working on related files look at that image and feel something shift. Investigators who have spent long nights tracing transactions wonder whether truth can compete with visibility. Prosecutors pause — not because the law has changed, but because perception may have.

Inside some courtrooms, a quiet thought settles: the world is watching how judgment will look now. A judge who must decide in the future senses eyes turning toward the bench. Another judge reflects privately on the meaning of neutrality in such a climate. None of this is spoken. It hangs silently around the work.

Witnesses who once stepped forward begin to question whether courage still has a destination. Citizens scrolling past the photo feel a message they cannot easily describe: perhaps justice waits, while power walks ahead. And somewhere in the EFCC, men and women steady themselves, determined to continue, yet painfully aware that symbolism can sometimes move faster than institutions.

No statement announced this message. No decree declared it.

Only a photograph appeared.

Yet the photograph quietly suggested that while the watchdog may continue its duty, the house it guards might already be rearranging itself around realities not yet resolved.

THE PEOPLE WHO STILL HOLD THE LINE

Behind every investigation, every charge sheet, every courtroom argument, there are human beings whose work is seldom seen. Investigators follow cold trails that stretch for years, sacrificing rest and dignity. Analysts sit over screens and ledgers until numbers begin to resemble stories. Prosecutors craft arguments knowing the path ahead may be uneven before they even step into court. Clerks preserve documents so that national memory cannot simply vanish. Leaders absorb criticism in public while trying to shield the institution from damage behind closed doors. They are not perfect. No institution is. But they are not enemies of the nation. They carry fear, frustration, fatigue — and still return each day, because duty refuses to release them.

THE INVISIBLE HAND THAT TWISTS JUSTICE

Not every threat to justice arrives with noise. Some walk quietly, wrapped in courtesy and proper language. A necessary document is delayed, without explanation. A crucial file becomes difficult to reach. A hearing shifts to another date that seems harmless at first. Conversations occur in rooms where no record is kept. Nothing appears unlawful. Nothing seems alarming enough for outrage. And yet outcomes slowly lean toward those who already possess advantage. Justice does not collapse in one moment. It drifts, gently, until the original truth becomes hard to find. This is the deadliest obstruction — the one that insists everything is normal while quietly removing breath from the system.

AN IMPERFECT INSTITUTION STILL WORTH SAVING

The EFCC is not perfect. It must reform, adapt, and remain accountable. But imperfection does not erase purpose. Around the world, anti-corruption bodies face hostility precisely because they disturb comfortable patterns of wrongdoing. Weakening such an institution simply because it sometimes falters is not maturity — it is surrender. We may correct it. We may demand higher standards. But we should not emotionally break it, politically isolate it, or allow the nation to mock it into silence.

WHEN CITIZENS BEGIN TO GIVE UP

Societies rely on a shared psychological belief: that the law exists for everyone. When witnesses disappear, when serious cases fade quietly, when familiar faces reappear in power before truth completes its journey, that belief begins to die. Citizens stop expecting fairness. They stop reporting wrongdoing. They retreat into private survival. When trust in justice collapses, a nation does not simply lose money. It loses its moral north.

A QUIET PRAYER FOR THE WATCHDOG

Anyone who observes this struggle with honest eyes will feel compassion. One hopes that leadership remains steady. One hopes that investigators hold their nerve. One hopes prosecutors feel strengthened rather than isolated. One hopes clerks keep history intact. And one hopes that the nation does not abandon its watchdog simply because its work makes powerful people uncomfortable.

LET THE WATCHDOG BREATHE

We cannot claim to value justice while quietly suffocating the agency created to defend it. Reform should be thoughtful, not punitive. Oversight should be strong, not humiliating. Expectations should be firm, not cruel. Because once society convinces its watchdog that the battle is hopeless, corruption does not return to hiding — it walks confidently in daylight. Today, the watchdog is not defeated. But it is breathing under pressure. And it is asking — gently, and without complaint — for something it has always deserved: the space to breathe, and a nation willing to stand beside it as it continues its difficult work.

A SYSTEM TIGHTENING ITS OWN ROPE

Nigeria’s foremost anti-corruption body is not fading because it has forgotten its mission. It is fading because the very space in which it works is quietly losing air. This institution was created to confront greed, to challenge financial impunity, to say no in rooms where most people whisper yes. It was built to stand between public resources and private appetite. Yet today, it moves through a landscape where resistance does not come only from criminals. At times, it comes softly — and indirectly — from those who should have been its closest allies in law and governance.

What I see is not a clumsy agency. I see a weary one. I see institutional fatigue — officers returning to a battle whose shape keeps changing. I see emotional exhaustion — people who once trusted clear rules now watch those rules bend quietly in the shadows. They are sent into fights where the conditions shift without warning, where promised protection disappears at the moment it is needed most, and where, afterward, the very public that begged for action is invited to laugh at their “failure.” This is how suffocation happens — not with one dramatic strike, but through many slow, tightening turns of the rope.

Yet there is something Nigerians must also remember: the men and women inside this institution have not surrendered. They are not helpless. They rise each day and return to their duties, believing that even if corruption cannot be erased overnight, it can be reduced, restrained, and prevented from swallowing everything. They continue because they still believe the fight is possible — and because walking away would mean leaving the nation completely undefended.

And in the center of this pressure stand the leaders of the EFCC. They cannot shout. They cannot accuse. They cannot openly point to those who quietly make their work harder. They are expected to remain calm, disciplined, professional — even when the storms they are battling were not of their making. They stand at the crossroads between justice and power. And still, despite the strain, they remain on their feet. They continue to say, “We will follow the law,” even when the path feels tilted beneath them. For that restraint, they deserve understanding — not ridicule.

About the Author

Prof. John Egbeazien Oshodi is an American psychologist, an expert in policing and corrections, and an educator with expertise in forensic, legal, clinical, and cross-cultural psychology, including public ethical policy. A native of Uromi, Edo State, Nigeria, and son of a 37-year veteran of the Nigeria Police Force, he has long worked at the intersection of psychology, justice, and governance. In 2011, he helped introduce advanced forensic psychology to Nigeria through the National Universities Commission and Nasarawa State University, where he served as Associate Professor of Psychology.

He teaches in the Doctorate in Clinical and School Psychology at Nova Southeastern University; the Doctorate Clinical Psychology, BS Psychology, and BS Tempo Criminal Justice programs at Walden University; and lectures virtually in Management and Leadership Studies at Weldios University and ISCOM University. He is also the President and Chief Psychologist at the Oshodi Foundation, Center for Psychological and Forensic Services, United States.

Prof. Oshodi is a Black Republican in the United States but belongs to no political party in Nigeria—his work is guided solely by justice, good governance, democracy, and Africa’s development. He is the founder of Psychoafricalysis (Psychoafricalytic Psychology), a culturally grounded framework that integrates African sociocultural realities, historical awareness, and future-oriented identity. He has authored more than 500 articles, multiple books, and numerous peer-reviewed works on Africentric psychology, higher education reform, forensic and correctional psychology, African democracy, and decolonized models of clinical and community engagement.