The death of CSP Ekene Nwosu has been met not with grief, but with open celebration. For many in Akwa Ibom State and beyond, the demise of the former Officer in Charge of the Anti-Robbery Squad is not a tragedy—it is a moment of relief, even vindication. Nwosu, who built a career on violence, intimidation, and cruelty, has exited the world much like he lived in it—abruptly, divisively, and with a chilling legacy trailing behind.
Across social media and public forums, survivors of his brutality have expressed joy at his passing. Some have shared personal stories of torture, unlawful detention, and the sheer terror his name evoked. The reaction is not surprising to those who knew him. Nwosu was no ordinary officer; he was, by most accounts, a monster in uniform—a man who wielded the authority of the state to inflict pain on innocent people.
His conduct was nothing short of barbaric. Victims say he arrested at will, tortured without remorse, and mocked the justice system with impunity. He had no regard for the law, no respect for the courts, and treated lawyers as irritants to his reign of terror. Several court rulings condemned his actions as gross violations of fundamental human rights. But those judgments did little to stop him.
Despite repeated complaints and legal victories against him, Nwosu continued to operate above the law. His immunity was rooted in a corrupt network of political patrons who used him to harass, intimidate, and silence opponents. He was not just a rogue cop; he was a political tool—lethal, loyal, and conveniently untouchable.
The silence of the Police Force during his worst years is as damning as his own actions. Successive Commissioners of Police turned a blind eye. While victims cried out for justice, the institution charged with enforcing it enabled him, protected him, even rewarded him with continued service.
One lawyer who had multiple legal run-ins with Nwosu described him as “a devil in police uniform,” and it is a label that has stuck. For years, he operated as judge, jury, and executioner. The fear he inspired was real, and the damage he caused is still fresh in the minds of many.
When news broke that Nwosu had died shortly after being transferred to Ekiti State, celebrations erupted online. There were no candlelight vigils. No sympathetic eulogies. Just testimonies of the suffering he caused and the collective relief that the suffering has come to an end. According to sources within the police, he had celebrated the death of a former Commissioner who had finally transferred him out of Akwa Ibom. In a dark twist of fate, he followed soon after.
Some have argued that celebrating a person’s death is morally wrong. But that argument collapses in the face of the trauma he inflicted. People are not rejoicing because a man died—they are rejoicing because a tyrant, long shielded by power, finally lost his grip.
There is something deeply human in that reaction. When evil dies, joy is natural. For too long, people lived under the shadow of Nwosu’s brutality, unable to speak, protest, or seek justice. Now, that shadow has lifted. And the sun is being welcomed with songs, laughter, and a sigh of long-awaited relief.
CSP Ekene Nwosu's death is a stark reminder that even the most powerful enforcers of violence are still mortal. They, too, must answer to the final court—one where power holds no sway, and legacy becomes the only testimony. His legacy, as told by those he tormented, is one of pain, cruelty, and impunity.
Let his death serve as a warning to others like him: when evil walks this earth with a badge, it may command fear—but when it falls, the people will dance.
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