In the heart of Igbo society, the Umuada embody a paradox of power. They are daughters of the land who, once married out, retain the right to return and speak with a voice that often eclipses that of men. Across the Igbo landscape, their influence still resounds, sometimes as a shield for tradition, and sometimes as a sword that cuts into dignity and rights. However, as the clash between culture, law, and human rights heightens, GODFREY GEORGE asks if they are timeless custodians of identity, or have become instruments of exclusion and abuse
“A chorom ima (I don’t want to know). You will pay everything, and not one kobo will be left. Okwa onu gi na ga wa wa wa? (You have a sharp mouth, right?) We shall see who is who!”
According to Nneoma, the only surviving daughter of a retired civil servant in Ekwusigo Local Government Area of Anambra State, those were the harsh words flung at her during her father’s burial; they were uncompromising demand of the Umuada.
The Umuada, literally translated as “daughters of the land,” are not just a gathering of women but a formidable institution in Igbo culture. Bound by tradition, they return to their natal homes as custodians of customs, wielding a kind of authority that shapes both the social and spiritual fabric of their communities.
Their presence can sanctify a burial, settle festering disputes, or, as in Nneoma’s case, turn moments of grief into tense negotiations of power.
Nneoma’s eldest sister had died during childbirth, leaving her and two brothers, who work as builders in Delta State, to shoulder the weight of family responsibilities.
Years earlier, when her mother died after a brief illness, her body was taken to Ihite for burial. Some Umuada objected, insisting her marriage rites had not been fully completed and that she could not be regarded as a true wife of the community.
“I didn’t even know my mother was not fully married to my father till that day. It was both shocking and embarrassing to be referred to as ‘children whose legs have not reached the ground,” Nneoma recalled.
The group was split, their voices rising in sharp disagreement. It took relentless pleas, coupled with the payment of fines by the in-laws and the intervention of the Umunna, the male counterpart of the Umuada, before her mother’s body was finally allowed to be lowered into the ground.
Nneoma remembered the day vividly. She and her late elder sister had clashed openly with the women, their grief colliding with tradition.
Though still young, she had refused to cower. Her voice, sharp with anger, rose against the authority of the Umuada.
Looking back now, she admits she might have spoken more harshly than she intended, but at that moment, fear had no place, only defiance.
“I think they took offence and kept a record of me,” she said with a smirk on her face.
So, when her elder sister died in childbirth and was brought home, unmarried to the man who fathered her child, the Umuada again resisted.
This time, not because of family ties, but because she, being the first daughter of her family, refused to associate and identify with the Umuada.
Nneoma’s father and brothers were forced to plead and pay some fines before the burial could proceed. The women, Nneoma noted, were only forgiving because of the circumstances surrounding the young woman’s passing.
“They accused us of failing to pay dues or join in communal chores like cleaning the village square,” Nneoma said.
Living in Lagos, with her sister in Abuja, she struggled to see the relevance.
“My father and aunts mentioned it once or twice at Christmas, but honestly, these women’s practices didn’t sit well with me. I discarded the idea,” she said.
By the time her father was laid to rest, the demands of the Umuada had become relentless, almost suffocating. For two straight days, they turned the family compound into their base, expecting to be catered for at every hour. Morning began with bread and steaming tea; by midday, full meals were required; and at night, nothing less than plates of spicy isiewu would suffice.
One midnight, as the compound lay in heavy silence, they banged on doors and roused her brother from sleep, ordering him to fetch goat meat to satisfy their craving. Their preferences were non-negotiable: a specific brand of chocolate beverage for their tea, a particular malt drink at hand, and a beer brand of their choice to “step down” their pepper soup.
“They just wanted to punish us,” Nneoma said with painful recollection. “It was terrible. We kept paying fine after fine, mostly because I couldn’t hold my tongue.
“…And my father was a very popular man, and these women claimed we abandoned him till he died, alleging that it was the same way we abandoned our mother till her demise.
“That’s not true. On several occasions, we had asked our father to move to Delta State to stay with the boys, but he declined. He insisted on staying back at home after retirement. What were we supposed to do? When my elder sister was still here, we wanted to take him to Abuja, but he refused, saying he didn’t love the noise.”
In the end, Nneoma and her brother had no choice but to comply. They paid the fines, served bread and tea to the women for the two mornings they camped, and ensured there was more than enough refreshment throughout the funeral.
“We were warned by my father before he passed that we must obey the traditions of the land so his spirit would be accepted by the ancestors in the other world,” she explained.
“So, we just did it as part of his dying wishes. Left to me, I would have buried my father in Lagos. Let me see how they would come and drink tea at Ikoyi Cemetery,” she blurted.
Nneoma’s experience is far from isolated. Across many Igbo communities, especially among women, punishments are meted out for alleged infractions, whether neglect, abandonment, adultery, petty crimes, or even something as simple as failing to provide every item demanded during a customary occasion.
Bathed in muddy water
Umuada women in action
One February morning in a quiet Igbo community, the air heavy with the wails of mourners, an incident unfolded that unsettled many. A woman, long accused of neglecting her mother-in-law while she was alive, had dared to show up at the funeral. Her presence sparked outrage. The Umuada swiftly intervened. They accused her openly before the crowd and declared that she must be punished.
They led her to the village stream, forced her to fetch water with a clay pot balanced precariously on her head, and marched her back along the dusty path. In front of the gathered crowd, she was made to kneel while the Umuada bathed her with the water, then smeared her skin with mud scooped from the ground. Her dignity stripped, she was publicly shamed, the Umuada insisting they were enforcing cultural rights.
Scenes like this are neither rare nor entirely hidden. They speak to the enduring power and controversial role of the Umuada, once revered as custodians of morality and peacemakers in Igbo society.
Traditionally, they stood above factional politics and were known to challenge patriarchy, step into land disputes, and intervene where men’s councils faltered. But in contemporary Nigeria, their actions have become layered with contradiction: part shield, part sword.
Social media is littered with videos of Umuada gatherings where women are doused with dirty water for allegedly neglecting family obligations, some forced to grovel for forgiveness, while others are painted with ashes or mud.
Demands for bread and tea at funerals
Three months later, another episode made the same cultural friction plain. On July 5, 2025, a burial in the South-East went viral after a Facebook post from an attendee complained that a local Umuada group allegedly behaved insensitively at the service of songs held for a 26-year-old woman. They were said to be consuming tea and bread in a way the poster described as “uncaring” and inappropriate for such a young deceased.
The post, the images and video that accompanied it produced hundreds of online reactions with debate centred on what constitutes respectful mourning and the authority of Umuada at funerals.
The incident was reported and dissected by local news sites and lifestyle blogs, framing it as a flashpoint in changing expectations of ritual behaviour.
That episode surfaced a second truth: the same institution that acts as community custodian and mediator can also be seen, by many observers, as having become ritualistic, performative, or out of step with contemporary norms—tensions now amplified and archived on social media.
The pattern on video is familiar: public shaming, forced “cleansing,” and community discipline. Since February and July, reporters, rights groups, and private users have uploaded several short clips fitting two related patterns: crisis-era rites directed at widows, and local enforcement and social sanctioning at weddings and funerals.
Blockade of a monarch’s gate
A viral video from Akokwa in Imo State showing members of the Umuada storming the residence of Eze Okachie after he allegedly locked them out of his palace and refused to grant them an audience recently sparked outrage online.
In the footage, the women, armed with sticks, hurled dirt into his compound and were even seen defecating on the premises as a form of protest. For them, this dramatic display was not just defiance but a way of enforcing their authority in a community where their role remains both revered and feared.
Commenting on the video, social commentator Dr. Uche Nworah noted that while Umuada are recognised as a powerful collective of women born into a kindred or village in Igboland, their methods are often confrontational, sometimes crude, and widely considered excessive. He explained that during burials, marriages, and other ceremonies, many Umuada still insist on practices such as sleeping over in bereaved families’ homes and being served tea in the morning, an ancient tradition that some say has been overtaken by time.
Yet, to avoid conflict, families frequently negotiate with them or pay cash settlements.
As Nworah observed, “They are a very powerful group and play varying roles in society. People don’t like to incur their wrath.”
The beginnings of Umuada in pre-colonial Igbo history
They are born into a house but summoned back to it by duty. The Umuada carry an authority that is at once intimate and public, ancestral and performative.
In the pre-colonial village, according to several scholarly accounts, this authority was intensely practical: they washed the dead, asked the difficult questions, quelled feuds, and shaped the morals of a community in ways that male councils often could not. Their power was not a legal precinct so much as cultural pressure, a mobilisation of daughters that could shame, reconcile, or restructure behaviour overnight.
With the coming of colonial courts and missionary exhortations, many outward trappings of that authority shifted. Some communities saw the Umuada’s rituals curtailed by a new law; others adapted, folding their work into emerging civic roles. Where the colonial state weakened male line stability, the Umuada sometimes reasserted themselves as functioning institutions still able to move families and markets. Their survival was not merely conservatism; it was a capacity for reimagination in the face of new constraints.
The late 20th and early 21st centuries brought another transformation: institutionalisation.
Umuada chapters emerged as organised associations, engaging in education, widow advocacy, and diaspora outreach. They mounted campaigns to secure women’s inheritance rights and represented communal grievances in state fora.
Yet alongside this civic turn, a more troubling continuity persisted. The same mandate that authorised daughters to discipline, ensure a woman honoured her marital obligations, test a widow’s conduct, and regulate ritual propriety could, when unchecked, slip into humiliation and coercion. In practice, the mechanism of enforcement that once held men’s excesses to account can paradoxically become a tool that polices women’s bodies and choices.
The central question for a just modern polity is a normative one: how can customary institutions retain their conflict-resolving virtues without violating inalienable rights?
A considered answer appears in an essay by a former Dean of the Faculty of Social Sciences at Ebonyi State University, Dr Ngozi Emeka Nwobia. In her July 2021 piece, “Understanding Gender Complementarity in Igbo Society: The Role of Umuada and Umunna in Peacebuilding”, Emeka Nwobia, who served as the Southeast regional consultant for the Nigerian Women Trust Fund on a Ford Foundation-backed project, argues that gender roles and relations in Igbo peacebuilding are essentially complementary, though popular misconceptions have obscured this fact.
Of note is the portrayal of Igbo women by some early scholars as subservient, voiceless, and merely appendages to men. Quoting G. T. Basden, Emeka Nwobia reproduces a sentiment that has long coloured outsider accounts of Igbo life:
“Women have but few rights in any circumstances and can only hold such property as their lords permit. There is no grumbling against their lot; they accept the situation as their grandmother did before them, taking affairs philosophically; they managed to live fairly contentedly.”
Basden’s opinion, however, has been critiqued by later scholars, notably Akachi Ezeigbo, as misleading and rooted in a limited understanding of Igbo sociopolitical relations.
Barely eight years after Basden’s observations, Igbo women rose to confront colonial policies during the anti-colonial Aba Women’s Riots of 1929. That these same women, earlier represented as powerless, could mobilise so forcefully suggests they already possessed deep social clout.
Ifi Amadiume, as cited by Emeka Nwobia, captures the flexibility of gender construction among the Igbo. She notes that women can occupy roles conventionally assigned to men in particular situations, acquiring statuses such as “male daughters” and “female husbands.”
The practice of designating a “male daughter” is often adopted when a man has no male heir: a daughter may remain in her father’s household to produce male children who will carry his name. Parents may arrange or accept a lover for her, or the daughter may choose one herself. Similarly, the role of “female husband” can be assumed by a woman who is childless or widowed and who wishes to ensure the continuity of a lineage. A female husband may marry women who will bear children in her husband’s name, or she may acquire sufficient wealth and authority to assume public power akin to that exercised by men.
This explains why some Igbo names celebrate continuity. Examples include Amaefuna/Amaechina (“my compound will not go desolate”) and Ahamefula (“my name will not be forgotten”). The “female husband” status can thus be achieved either through strategic family arrangements or by amassing wealth and public influence. In both cases, the practice illustrates the adaptability of Igbo social institutions and how women have long negotiated power within customary frameworks.
Umuada vs. Ụmụnna
Emeka Nwobia notes that the dynamics of complementarity and power relations between Igbo men and women are visible in two transgenerational institutions, Ụmụada and Ụmụnna groups, whose legacies are passed from one generation to another.
She describes the term Ụmụada as derived from two Igbo words: Ụmụ (children) and Ada (a generic name for all first daughters, though it may loosely be used to refer to every female child of Igbo ancestry).
According to her, the Ụmụada is an association of daughters of the land from the same natal community. They are ever-present forces in their natal homes, as opposed to their matrimonial homes, where their powers are limited. They assume juridical and peacemaking roles and regularly perform purification as well as funeral rites for deceased members of their lineage.
The term Ụmụnna is derived from two Igbo words: Ụmụ (children) and Nna (a generic name for all sons). It is a group of men from the same family or sharing the same ancestry.
Like in most African societies, the extended family includes parents, grandparents, children, aunties, uncles, brothers, sisters, and cousins, and even extends to their children. This has given birth to neologisms such as “cousin-sister” and “cousin-brother” to emphasise affinity and blood ties with a cousin.
According to Emeka Nwobia, these are common terms used to describe kinship relations and show endearment and closeness.
“The duties of members of the family include education, training, and the transmission of family values, legacies, skills, and knowledge systems (such as medicine, architecture, vocation, craft-making skills, apprenticeship, trades, etc.) to the younger members of the families, who in turn transfer them to their younger ones.
“Thus, the family unit in Igboland is a transgenerational platform for the conveyance of values. The elders ensure that these transgenerational knowledge systems are effectively transferred and inculcated in the younger ones. That is why skills such as traditional orthopaedics, healing/medicine, craft-making, and artistry run in certain families. These skills are learned or transferred through participant observation and Igba boyi (apprenticeship),” she noted.
Membership of Ụmụada, Emeka Nwobia noted, comprises both married and unmarried females of a particular community, though some communities in Igboland do not welcome unmarried Ụmụada into the group.
“The unmarried daughters (those who have reached marriageable age) are not as powerful or outspoken as the married ones, as they are sidelined or easily dismissed as ‘Nna ga-alụ’ (literally meaning ‘father will marry’) or ‘Ọtọ n’aka Nne’ (‘abandoned in the hands of the mother’).
“Indeed, staying unmarried as a fully grown girl in Igbo traditional societies was a burden, and such unmarried ladies were largely treated as social outcasts. That is why, though they are daughters, their married counterparts are considered more respectable. One of the primary aims of the Ụmụada association is to enable women to sustain their matrilineal ties.
“This implies that every Igbo female at birth is socialised into automatic membership in the Ụmụada and Ndi Inyom, while upon marriage she becomes a member of both Ụmụada and Ndi Inyom / Nwunye di (a group of married wives in a particular community).
As a married woman, she performs a dual function as daughter (in her natal home) and wife (in her matrimonial home),” she noted.
According to the scholar, the association is a formidable sociocultural and political organisation in Igbo communities.
Umuada as peacekeeping pillar
The powers of Umuada can be observed in their natal homes, where they exercise power and influence, as well as contribute to informal peacemaking and peacebuilding. Decisions reached by Umuada are considered final, even by the Umunna, although their domains of operation are almost the same.
Emeka-Nwobia noted that the Umuada deploy various strategies to ensure the preservation of their cultural heritage and peaceful coexistence within the community and with their neighbours.
In traditional Igbo society, family and land disputes, as well as inter- and intra-communal conflicts, are resolved or adjudicated upon by traditional institutions like the Umunna and Umuada.
She noted, “Their influence and power have survived in contemporary society, mainly because of the bias and lack of trust in inherited Western legal systems whose methods of adjudication are expensive, time-consuming, and tend to reward winners and punish losers without leaving space for reconciliation.
“Also, the courts mostly offered temporary relief, and conflicts tended to be reignited by the little provocation. Again, in the colonial era, it was common knowledge that the court clerks collected bribes to slant judgment in favour of erring parties.
“This led to a lack of trust in the colonial court system, as the Igbo people preferred settling their cases through customary law and traditions. Okechukwu Ibeanu observed that the colonial legal processes were alien to local people and took a long time, contributing to the preference and reliance on indigenous institutions where people felt free to express themselves without fear of being misrepresented or misunderstood.”
She further noted that the Umuada do not wait for crises to be reported to them before they weigh in, because their ears are always on the ground to identify conflict situations, though in some situations they may be formally invited, especially in cases that have defied the efforts of Umunna.
Thus, they are always the last resort when men fail.
Umuada meeting
A typical meeting of the Umuada starts with an opening prayer, then the generic greeting of, ‘Chee che che, Umuada ekelee m’ unu’ (‘Umuada, I greet you’), which is followed by the response, ‘Hia.’
“This is given by the oldest daughter, known as ‘Isi Ada,’ who provides discourse rights to whoever wants to speak.
“The Isi Ada hails the daughter by calling her an honourific name. This is to validate her right to speak and show solidarity. The daughters take turns speaking in a session usually moderated by the Isi Ada. From time to time, the owner of the floor calls on the listeners to validate her right to the floor and their support for her opinions. She calls out in the following words: ‘Kam kwube?’ (‘Should I continue?’). The women respond in the affirmative, and then she goes on to speak,” the scholar noted.
The contributions of Umuada toward resolving domestic and communal conflicts in Igboland are noteworthy.
To give a few examples, their interventions were significant in the peace processes that culminated in the resolution of the Aguleri/Umuleri conflict in Anambra State, the Umuode/Oruku conflict in Enugu State, and many others.
In the Aguleri/Umuleri conflict, the Umuada utilised the following strategies to ensure peace: questioning and information gathering (Igba Nju), dialogue, one-on-one conversations, and reconciliation meetings with the conflicting parties.
In Mbaise and other parts of Igboland, they may go as far as staging nude protests to ensure compliance with their verdict. People are afraid of incurring the wrath of Umuada; as such, they are the final arbiters in traditional conflict resolution in Igboland. Conflicts resolved under this platform are binding on every member of the communities and are usually sealed by oath-taking (iyi) or blood covenant (iko mme), which are performed or overseen by the Umunna.
Why do some people demand respect from everyone while treating others with disrespect?**
There is something deeply wrong with a society where people believe that respect should flow in only one direction.
Some people want to be respected because they are older, wealthier, more educated, more influential or occupy positions of authority. Yet they feel entitled to insult, intimidate, humiliate and belittle those they consider beneath them.
They want people to bow before them, but they refuse to treat others with dignity.
They want their opinions respected, but they dismiss the opinions of others.
They demand loyalty, but offer betrayal. They demand kindness, but practise cruelty. They expect understanding, but show little consideration for anyone else’s feelings.
**Is that respect, or simply an abuse of power?**
## Respect is not determined by wealth, age or status
Having money does not make you more human than someone who is struggling financially.
Being a boss does not give you the right to humiliate your employees.
Being a parent does not mean your children have no feelings or deserve no consideration.
Being older does not automatically make every decision you make right.
And holding a position of authority does not give you permission to treat people as though they have no value.
True respect is reflected in your character, behaviour and treatment of other people.
## Stop confusing fear with respect
This is where many people get it wrong.
Some people believe that because others remain silent around them, they are respected.
Sometimes people are simply afraid of your anger, your influence, your financial power or the consequences of disagreeing with you.
You may command obedience through intimidation, but you cannot force genuine admiration.
**People may fear your power without respecting your character.**
## Respect begins with how you treat people
If you want people to respect you, start by examining how you treat them.
Respect the poor. Respect the vulnerable. Respect people who cannot offer you anything in return.
Respect those who disagree with you. Respect people’s boundaries. Respect their dignity, even when you have more money, authority or influence than they do.
You do not have to agree with everyone, but disagreement should never become an excuse for humiliation.
Respect does not mean tolerating abuse or surrendering your boundaries. It means recognising that every human being deserves basic dignity.
## The question we must all answer
Before demanding respect from others, take a moment to examine yourself.
Are you the kind of person who gives the respect you constantly demand?
Do you treat your domestic workers, employees, relatives, neighbours and strangers with the same dignity you expect from those around you?
Or do you believe respect is something other people owe you simply because of who you are?
**Remember: Respect is reciprocal. You cannot continuously disrespect people and expect genuine respect in return.**
### NEWSBREAK365 FINAL THOUGHT
The true measure of a person’s greatness is not how many people bow before them, but how many people they treat with dignity.
Having money does not make you superior. Having power does not give you the right to intimidate others. And being in a position of authority does not make you the owner of another person’s dignity.
There is something deeply troubling about a society where some people believe that having money, connections, influence or authority gives them permission to treat less privileged people like they are worthless.
Some wealthy individuals look down on the poor. Some employers intimidate their workers because they know those workers depend on their salaries to survive. Some people in positions of authority exploit the vulnerability of those who cannot afford to challenge them.
Others use their financial advantage to humiliate, manipulate and silence people who have fewer opportunities.
But let us ask an important question: **When did having more become a licence to mistreat those who have less?**
## THE POOR ARE HUMAN BEINGS, NOT YOUR PUNCHING BAGS!
Being poor does not mean someone deserves humiliation.
A person struggling financially still deserves respect. Someone working for you is not your slave. A person who cannot afford to challenge your decisions is not someone you have the right to exploit.
Whether someone is a cleaner, security guard, domestic worker, factory employee, labourer, driver or street vendor, their dignity matters.
You may have the money, but they have feelings. You may have influence, but they have families to feed. You may have power, but they deserve justice.
Never confuse someone’s inability to fight back with permission to mistreat them.
What is the purpose of becoming wealthy if your success comes at the expense of other people’s suffering?
Why intimidate an employee who is already struggling to survive? Why refuse to pay someone what they have legitimately earned? Why use your position to frustrate someone simply because you know they cannot afford to challenge you?
True success should create opportunities, encourage fairness and improve lives.
Pay people fairly. Respect their contributions. Treat workers with dignity. Help vulnerable people when you can.
You do not have to become poor to show compassion to the poor.
## REMEMBER: LIFE CAN CHANGE
The person you humiliate today may not remain in that position forever.
Financial circumstances can change. Positions can change. Businesses can collapse. Opportunities can disappear. The person who appears powerless today may become successful tomorrow.
Nobody knows everything tomorrow holds.
That is why humility matters.
Do not allow your present success to make you arrogant. Do not allow your wealth to destroy your humanity.
## THE MESSAGE IS SIMPLE
If you have more than others, remember that your advantage comes with an opportunity to make a positive difference.
Stop exploiting the poor. Stop intimidating vulnerable people. Stop using money and authority to silence those who have less.
**Be wealthy, but remain humane. Be powerful, but remain humble. Be successful, but never lose your conscience.**
Because at the end of the day, your bank balance may reveal how much money you have, but your treatment of other human beings reveals your character.
The family of late singer Ilerioluwa Aloba, popularly known as Mohbad, has demanded the disclosure of the identity of a United States laboratory expected to conduct a DNA test to determine the paternity of Liam, the singer’s son.
The family also called for the postponement of the examination scheduled for Saturday, October 31, at the Mainland General Hospital/IDH, Yaba, Lagos, pending clarification of its concerns over transparency and compliance with a court order.
In a statement signed by the family head, Samuel Aloba, and sent to PUNCH Metro on Thursday, the family said it was concerned about arrangements for the tissue-based DNA examination, particularly reports that samples would be collected in Lagos and sent to a laboratory in the US for analysis.
The family said it wanted clarification on whether the Lagos State DNA and Forensic Centre, which it claimed was designated by a court order issued on May 5, 2026, would conduct the examination or merely collect and dispatch the samples abroad.
“This raises a fundamental question that must be answered before the exercise proceeds: Is the Lagos State DNA and Forensic Centre itself going to conduct the examination contemplated by the court, or is it merely going to collect and dispatch samples to another laboratory?
“The distinction is material. Where a court has directed that a scientific examination be conducted at a particular institution, the parties are entitled to clarity regarding the manner in which that directive will be implemented.
“If the designated centre intends to rely on a foreign laboratory to conduct the analysis, the arrangement should be explained and, where necessary, presented to the court for clarification,” the statement read.
The family said no institution or party should unilaterally substitute a materially different arrangement for one contemplated by a subsisting court order without appropriate judicial clarification.
The family also demanded the full name and address of the proposed overseas laboratory, evidence of its accreditation and technical competence, details of the testing procedure, and documentation showing how the samples would be collected, labelled, preserved, transported and examined.
It further requested a mechanism to verify that the samples collected in Lagos were the same ones received and analysed by the foreign laboratory.
The statement added, “The family has been informed that the identity of the proposed overseas laboratory may be disclosed only to the court. While the family recognises the importance of protecting legitimate confidential information, confidentiality cannot be permitted to defeat the basic requirements of transparency, accountability and meaningful verification in a process whose outcome may have far-reaching legal and personal consequences.”
The family said its concerns were not an attempt to frustrate the judicial process or prevent a scientifically valid examination but to ensure that the outcome could withstand independent scrutiny.
It expressed apprehension about possible interference, mishandling or manipulation of the process if adequate safeguards were not established before the examination.
However, the family clarified that it was not claiming that the proposed test had already been compromised or that manipulation had been established.
“In a matter as sensitive as Mohbad’s DNA, the result must not merely be announced; it must be demonstrably reliable. The integrity of the process must be capable of independent verification, from the point of sample collection to the final laboratory report,” it said.
The family also linked its concerns to questions it had previously raised about the handling of biological samples during the post-mortem examination conducted in connection with Mohbad’s death.
It questioned the role of the pathologist involved in sample collection during the coroner’s inquest.
The family further claimed that information it received from its enquiries indicated that the laboratory to which samples from the earlier process were purportedly sent had not received them or any specimen registered in the name of Ilerioluwa Promise Aloba.
It stressed, however, that the assertions represented its account of the matter and required clarification and verification, adding that they were not findings of a court or independently established proof of wrongdoing by any individual or institution.
The family maintained that it supported a credible DNA examination capable of resolving Liam’s paternity but insisted that the identity of the testing laboratory and the chain of custody of the samples must be clear.
It called on the relevant authorities to address its concerns, provide the necessary information and ensure that the examination complied with the court’s order and accepted forensic procedures.
The family consequently requested the postponement of Saturday’s exercise until the outstanding issues were clarified, adequate notice was given to all parties and their legal representatives, and further directions were obtained from the court where necessary.
It said its objective was not to predetermine the outcome of the examination but to ensure that the eventual result was based on a credible and properly documented process.
The family added that the public interest in establishing the truth should not be undermined by avoidable uncertainty or a lack of transparency.
Mohbad died at 27 on September 12, 2023. Following his death, the Lagos State Police Command inaugurated a 13-man special investigation team to probe the circumstances surrounding his passing.
Earlier reports in 2024 indicated that Aloba, through legal representatives, filed an application at the coroner’s court in Ikorodu to determine the cause of Mohbad’s death and later demanded a DNA test to resolve the paternity dispute.
