The relationship between the family of the late Nteja Ibotul and the Kpandai police has become a painful story of unfulfilled promises, suspicion, and silence. What began as a shared goal—seeking justice after a 33-year-old man was lynched over a witchcraft accusation—has devolved into mutual frustration and finger-pointing.
On April 15, 2026, Ibotul was attacked after a soothsayer implicated him in the death of an elderly community member. He fled, but unknown assailants caught him, inflicted severe head injuries, and left him by the roadside. He died on arrival at the Kpandai District Hospital.
In the days that followed, the family reached out to the police with a list of five names—given by Ibotul before his death—and asked for a swift, committed response. But nearly two weeks later, they say the police have gone cold. “We have not heard anything,” a relative said, fearing abandonment.
For their part, the police describe the family as a reluctant partner: slow to arrange a post-mortem, hesitant to help identify the suspects. “We cannot make hasty arrests without proper evidence,” they explain, suggesting the family’s lack of cooperation is the real barrier.
The District Chief Executive, Haruna Abdul-Karim, has stepped in like a concerned third party, condemning the killing as “pure murder” and urging both sides to do better—the police to investigate thoroughly, and the community to share credible information.
But the family’s grief is now tangled with distrust. They wanted justice. Instead, they feel blamed and neglected. And the police, bound by procedure, feel stonewalled. Neither side has broken the deadlock.
In any serious relationship—whether between a family and the state, or a victim and the system—communication, transparency, and shared responsibility are everything. Right now, this one is hanging by a thread.
