The Searchlight Journal

Justice has spoken, and it deserves to be acknowledged. Accountability is not optional—it is the backbone of any sane society.

No one has the right to brand another human being a murderer without credible evidence. Words are not harmless; accusations are not entertainment. When falsehood is dressed as truth, it destroys reputations, distorts public discourse, and erodes the very fabric of justice.

And those who choose to lie must also be prepared to face the consequences of those lies.

This judgment is more than a personal victory for one man; it is a clear signal to a culture increasingly intoxicated by unverified claims and reckless commentary. It reminds us that the courtroom still stands as a place where truth is tested, not trending hashtags.

For the growing army of social media opportunists who trade in sensationalism to gain followers, this is a moment of reckoning. Influence is not a license for irresponsibility. Freedom of expression does not include freedom to defame.

Truth matters. Evidence matters. And accountability, sooner or later, always comes calling.

ON THE CORRUPTION IN CAF

Patrice Motsepe says there is no corruption in Confederation of African Football (CAF). That is a reassuring claim. But it raises an obvious question: when a match has been played, concluded, won on the field and the trophy handed over to the winners by CAF, yet the result is later awarded to the team that actually lost, what exactly should that be called? Should we call it abracadabra?

Football has always been built on a simple principle—matches are decided on the pitch. When administrative decisions overturn two what happened in ninety minutes of play two months after, the credibility of the game inevitably comes under scrutiny.

Perhaps CAF has its explanations and regulations. But to ordinary football fans, such outcomes raise troubling questions about fairness, transparency, and integrity. If that is not corruption, then CAF owes the public a clear explanation of what it is.

WHEN AIR PEACE BROKE THE PEACE!

“It is not possible! It is not possible!! My family is waiting for me in Calabar!!”

Clad in a pristine white nylon shirt and tight blue jeans, the fiery young woman cut a striking figure—like a Hollywood starlet caught in a dramatic outburst. Her forefinger stabbed the air as she charged toward her target: a hapless Air Peace employee who had just announced the cancellation of her Calabar-bound flight. Her narrowed eyes gleamed with indignation, and her movements were as forceful and unpredictable as a comet on a collision course.

The Abuja airport lounge, filled to capacity, was a chaotic scene, a cauldron of discontent boiling over with irate passengers. It was December 23, 2024—a day meant for holiday cheer but now etched in infamy as the day Air Peace shattered the fragile tranquility of Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport's domestic wing. The Calabar flight was originally scheduled for 11:20 a.m. With high hopes, I had even arranged a ferry for my onward journey to Akwa Ibom State through my friend and brother, Pastor Kelechi Chibuzor. Tickets in hand and waiting in Calabar, we were ready.

But the lords of air travel had other plans. The flight was rescheduled for 2:50 p.m. —a minor inconvenience, or so I thought. I promptly informed Pastor Chibuzor of the change, urging him to adjust accordingly.

As 1:50 p.m. approached, another ominous announcement shattered any sense of calm: the flight would now depart at 3:00 p.m. Anxiety gnawed at me as my dreams of a smooth transition to Akwa Ibom dimmed. Then came another delay—to 5:00 p.m. By the time the clock struck five, Jimbo, a gaunt young man clad in a kaftan appeared to deliver the final, crushing blow: the Calabar flight was canceled. His voice was as cold and detached as a judge delivering a death sentence.

His pronouncement had the same effect as detonating a gr***de - it ignited the crowd. Passengers who had endured hours of frustration now erupted in fury.

“You’ve kept us here all day, treating us like pawns in a chess game, only to tell us to go home and return tomorrow? Are we robots?” I thought, incredulous at the audacity of Air Peace.

The leader of the revolt—a fiery woman who could intimidate even the boldest among us—advanced toward the kaftan-clad man. He stammered something about poor visibility in Calabar.

“Nonsense!” the crowd roared in unison.

Hadn’t an Ibom Air flight departed just twenty minutes earlier? A woman of slight built, standing at few inches above five feet, her voice dripping with disdain, claimed her brother was stationed at the control tower in Calabar and had confirmed the recent arrival of an Aero Contractors flight at Margaret Ekpo International Airport, Calabar. The Air Peace employee, clearly trained in the art of flight cancellation damage control, struggled to maintain his composure. No one apparently informed him that passengers could mine such professional information.

“Visibility requirements differ,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. “We need 3,000 meters of visibility to land. Other airlines may have different requirements.”

“Are you putting us in a hotel?” someone demanded, desperation lacing their voice.

The response was a resounding no.

“I paid N20,000 to get here. You expect me to spend ₦20,000 to get back to town, another ₦20,000 tomorrow, and return here again?” a passenger fumed.

A huge, towering woman (about six feet in her bare feet) with blazing eyes threatened the employee, declaring she had nine people in her company and would not hesitate to take drastic action. She promised to squeeze the life out of the man. Sensing imminent trouble, the man whispered urgently to an assistant, who scurried off to pacify her.

Meanwhile, the rest of the passengers were told to “bear with us.” This was met with a fresh wave of outrage. When someone demanded a refund, the response was equally maddening: “Refunds will be processed in 21 working days.”

“Fly us to Port Harcourt, then!” a man bellowed. “Don’t dare me, or you’ll lose some teeth.”

Others blocked the boarding gates, vowing no flights would leave until the issue was resolved.

“God punish you!” became the rallying cry, echoing through the terminal.

Amid the chaos, the Port Harcourt suggestion gained traction. Suddenly, the Air Peace representative announced that four passengers could be accommodated on the Port Harcourt flight, which was not fully booked. Desperate to escape the pandemonium, I rebooked seats for myself and my son.

By 10:00 p.m., an Airforce officer arrived with armed soldiers, promising hotels for the stranded passengers—a promise that felt more like a cruel joke at that point. After enduring six hours of turmoil, I finally boarded the Port Harcourt flight, escaping the hellscape of the airport lounge.

We arrived in Port Harcourt at midnight. Thanks to the swift arrangements made by my pastor, the amazing Dr. Sylvanus Ukafia, and our resident pastor in Uyo, Dr. Samuel Udoh, Pastor Joe Akpan, our pastor in Port Harcourt received us at this unholy hour at the airport. He booked us into a hotel in Port Harcourt by 2:00 a.m., where I collapsed into bed, exhausted and relieved.

As I lay there, my thoughts drifted to those we had left behind—victims of Air Peace’s incompetence.

“Have you lost your mind?” my friends chided when they heard of my ordeal. “Air Peace? Really? What were you thinking?”

I had heard rumors of their notorious flight cancellations but, as a man of faith, I ventured forth in optimism. However I blame myself. I had forgotten the wisdom of Matthew 17:21: “But this kind does not go out except by prayer and fasting.”

Next time—if there is a next time—I’ll fast and pray.