Lifestyle
Unseen struggles of ex-convicts chained to crime by stigma
For countless Nigerians who have served time behind bars, stepping out of prison is far from the freedom it promises, as a harsher sentence is silently handed down by society.
Stripped of opportunities, denied jobs, and branded by neighbours who whisper their past like a curse, ex-convicts often discover that the real punishment lies outside the walls they left behind, writes GODFREY GEORGE
Toba’s life changed forever in 2021, the day he was accused of theft. Until then, he had worked diligently as a recorder and storekeeper at a building materials factory. The job, though modest, gave him a sense of dignity and pride.
At about 33, he was a lanky man with a calm demeanour, trusted enough to oversee and safeguard goods worth millions. But trust, once broken, is rarely restored.
That fateful day, he recalled, a group of men arrived in a truck, presenting an invoice with his boss’s signature and the company’s logo. Everything about the document appeared authentic. The men were insistent, claiming they had travelled from afar and needed their goods loaded without delay.
Toba tried desperately to reach his boss, dialling his number repeatedly, but his calls went unanswered. In desperation, he posted a photo of the invoice on the company’s WhatsApp group, hoping for swift guidance. Silence.
Meanwhile, the truck driver revved impatiently, the men’s agitation rising with each passing minute. Torn between caution and the pressure before him, Toba made a choice that would alter the course of his life: he authorised the release of goods valued at over N2.4m.
Barely two hours later, his phone buzzed. On the line was a senior staff member from the Lagos headquarters, his voice sharp with urgency: “Don’t release the goods! The invoice is fake; it didn’t come from the head office.”
The factory management insisted that Toba had been negligent. He, however, maintained that he had been deceived. The police were called, and before long, he was in handcuffs, clamped in detention, and eventually standing before a judge.
What followed was a draining legal tussle, a bitter back-and-forth between lawyers and accusers, that dragged on until he was finally sentenced to prison.
“It was not just prison,” his youngest brother (name withheld) recalled quietly. “It was the beginning of his end.”
Toba spent years behind bars, watching the world outside move on without him. By the time he secured his release in 2024 through a successful appeal, his family expected a fresh start, a long-awaited relief.
Instead, freedom brought only chaos. Barely four months later, he was back in police custody in Delta State, where the family had since relocated.
This time, he faced accusations of disrupting public peace, theft, and, more gravely, the sexual assault of a minor. Though he was released on bail and the charges were later dropped, the shadows of suspicion clung to him.
That was only the beginning. Not long after, Toba was rearrested yet again, this time for physically assaulting the boyfriend of a young corps member he had unsuccessfully tried to woo. She had rejected his advances, telling him she was already in a relationship.
Enraged, Toba reportedly hunted the young man down and beat him mercilessly. The victim, one Isaac, reported the matter to the police, and Toba’s family was summoned.
After much persuasion, Isaac agreed to withdraw the complaint, but the damage to Toba’s reputation deepened.
His youngest brother, just 21, spoke in despair:
“It’s like prison made him worse. That place is supposed to be a correctional centre, but my brother… the man who once loved God, who was peaceful, who never smoked… now he smokes marijuana, fights at every provocation, and lives on the streets, causing mayhem. He is no longer the same.”
Home, too, had become a place of grief. Their mother died only months before Toba’s release, while their father, once a strong and resilient farmer, is now bent with arthritis and rheumatism.
From his frail frame, the old man spoke with a mixture of pain and bitterness about his first son.
“We asked him to go to the National Open University, but he refused. Several people like him have gone there and built a life for themselves.
“We paid for him to learn a trade, but look where we are. He brings us shame. We have arranged with my cousin in the Benin Republic, a retired military officer, to take him away this September. That is the best thing to do.”
But even that plan may prove elusive. Since his release, Toba has become a ghost. He owns no phone, has no fixed address, and vanishes for weeks, only to resurface in police custody or in connection with another troubling allegation.
“People said he was attacked on a farm where he tried to steal crops. This was after a Pentecostal church accused him of stealing some plastic chairs and their speakers, which he rented out for an event,” his younger brother added. “But no one really knows. I will let you know when I find him, so you can ask him what exactly he wants to do with his life.”
As of press time, Toba remained missing. Although a senior police officer in the state said there were plans to join the family in the search, no official report had been filed with the police to track his whereabouts.
“He is our regular customer. I know he will return. It’s not in doubt,” the officer told our correspondent on Thursday afternoon.
Rearrested after five days of freedom
On August 30, 2025, a Toyota Sienna rolled along the Asaba–Ibusa Road in Delta State. To the ordinary eye, it was just another vehicle blending into the evening traffic. But to the Eagle-Net Special Squad of the Delta State Police Command, something felt off. They waved the car to a stop. Beneath the driver’s seat, they found 75 rounds of live cartridges carefully concealed.
The driver, 58-year-old Albert Opene of Ashaka, could offer no convincing explanation. He was immediately arrested.
That same week, a distress call from Asaba brought police and members of the Nigeria Hunters Security Services racing after two men who had snatched a motorcycle. When the suspects were finally pinned down, one of them turned out to be a familiar face: 27-year-old Precious Okoro.
Precious had barely tasted freedom. Only weeks earlier, on August 6, he walked out of the Ogwashi-Uku Correctional Facility after completing a two-year jail term for, ironically, the theft of a motorcycle. By August 11, barely five days later, he had allegedly gone back to the same crime.
“The said suspect is an ex-convict…he went back to steal another motorcycle just five days after returning from prison,” the command noted in its report.
Okoro’s accomplice, an 18-year-old identified as Buhari Deyegu, was also arrested. The stolen bike was recovered.
“It is the same motorcycle issue, sir,” he said, his voice subdued. He claimed that another man, identified only as Mohammed, pressured him into stealing again.
“This one na where them park am I go tif am,” Precious confessed, recalling how he attempted to snatch the bike. “As I tif am, disconnect am, where I dey try move, na em one boy catch me. My slippers fall, as I say, make I go carry my slippers, the security man saw me, tell me say make I wait. I no fit lie for him. I tell am say na tif I go tif am for person house.”
His story laid bare the tragic reality of ex-convicts in Nigeria: men released from prison with no support structure, no rehabilitation, and no means of survival, almost destined to fall back into the same crimes that put them behind bars in the first place.
The Delta State Police Command would later announce another breakthrough: the dismantling of a five-man robbery syndicate operating in Ughelli and beyond. At the centre of it was a man known as “Big Man”, real name Samson Ugbe.
Ugbe and his gang had allegedly terrorised communities, stripping victims of electronics, cars, and even looting a warehouse where more than 180 bags of rice vanished overnight. Police traced some of the stolen items, including laptops, a PlayStation 4 console, and a 65-inch television, to his hideout.
His girlfriend and another accomplice, arrested first, gave him up. Soon, Ugbe and his men, Emmanuel Edam, Frank Aminu, Sampson Irorowo, and Yahaya Bashir, were rounded up. Two stolen cars, taken from Ozoro and Orerokpe, were recovered.
It was not the first time the gang’s name had surfaced. Police had earlier linked them to an armed attack on Niger Delta University, Oghara, in 2024.
“Interrogation of the suspect led to the arrest of the gang leader, Samson Ugbe, AKA ‘Big Man’, who has been on the command’s wanted list,” the statement read.
Two ex-convicts jailed in Ibadan
When the Ilesanmi brothers, Amos Remilekun and Olanrewaju Samuel, walked out of court in October 2024 after serving three months of community service for internet fraud, it might have seemed like a second chance.
They were young, first-time offenders, convicted of impersonation and obtaining money by false pretence. The punishment was light, more corrective than punitive, a warning shot rather than a full sentence.
But less than a year later, the brothers were back in the dock. This time, alongside another man, Ugbeh Emmanuel Ukali, they faced Justice Uche Agomoh of the Federal High Court in Ibadan. Their offence? Spraying and trampling on naira notes at a nightclub in Akure, Ondo State.
The Economic and Financial Crimes Commission told the court the trio desecrated N391,400 worth of N500 and N200 notes on June 6, 2024, violating Section 21 of the Central Bank Act. All three pleaded guilty.
Their lawyer pleaded for leniency, insisting they had shown remorse. But the court was unmoved. Justice Agomoh sentenced them to six months’ imprisonment each, without the option of a fine, and ordered that the sprayed money be forfeited to the Federal Government.
For the Ilesanmi brothers, this was no longer a story of youthful indiscretion. Having been spared prison once, they still found themselves trapped in the judicial system again, proof of how easily offenders in Nigeria drift in and out of crime, with correctional measures doing little to change behaviour.
Their journey back behind bars underlines a sobering reality: when the structures meant to rehabilitate convicts falter, relapse becomes almost inevitable, and the line between petty offences and hardened criminality begins to blur.
State pardoned ex-convict re-arrested
On Christmas Eve of 2024, Osun State Governor, Ademola Adeleke, extended a gesture of mercy. Among the beneficiaries was 33-year-old Sunday Omisakin, convicted of minor offences and remanded at the Ilesa Correctional Centre. The pardon was meant to offer him a clean slate, a symbolic act of redemption in the spirit of the festive season.
But barely days later, Omisakin’s name resurfaced, though not in the way anyone hoped. On January 3, 2025, he allegedly broke into a home in the Iludun area of Osogbo and stole a plasma television worth N600,000.
The charge sheet was straightforward: Count I accused him of breaking; Count II of outright theft, both under Sections 411 and 383 of the Osun State Criminal Code.
When he appeared before Magistrate A. Adeyeba, the prosecution strongly opposed his bail application, and the magistrate agreed. Omisakin was remanded once again at the Ilesa Correctional Centre, just days after leaving it.
Omisakin’s case casts a harsh light on the paradox of state pardons in Nigeria. Intended as tools of compassion and reintegration, they often release offenders into the same unforgiving realities that drove them to crime in the first place: unemployment, stigma, and a lack of social support. For many, like Omisakin, the pull of crime remains stronger than the promise of reform.
His swift return to criminal activity raises uncomfortable questions about the effectiveness of Nigeria’s correctional and pardon systems. Mercy, in this instance, did not bring redemption. It merely reset the clock on another cycle of arrest, arraignment, and incarceration.
For 21-year-old Simeon Mathew, freedom was short-lived. On January 1, 2024, he walked out of prison in Ondo State after completing a sentence for drug offences and robbery. By January 5, he was in handcuffs again.
Operatives of the Amotekun Corps, the Ondo State Security Network Agency, arrested Mathew for drug peddling and theft, the very crimes that had landed him in prison in the first place.
“The ex-convict, Simon Matthew, claimed to be a drug dealer and had been convicted for drug and robbery activities, and that was exactly what he did again,” Amotekun Commander, Adetunji Adeleye, told journalists while parading Mathew and 28 other suspects in Akure.
In a single week, Adeleye’s men dismantled four robbery gangs, seized locally made firearms, and apprehended cattle herders violating the state’s anti-open grazing law. Yet it was Mathew’s re-arrest, just days after his release, that cast the starkest shadow over the event.
His case underscored how Nigeria’s correctional system often churns out young men who leave prison not rehabilitated, but hardened, with nowhere to turn but back to crime.
Stigma and the short road back
For many men and women leaving Nigeria’s prisons, the hardest sentence begins when the gates open. Freedom comes with a shadow: rejection, suspicion, and stigma that weigh more heavily than the iron bars ever did. With families strained, communities unforgiving, and jobs out of reach, ex-convicts often find themselves pushed back into the very cycles of crime they had hoped to escape.
A 2023 paper by researcher, Kioba Kio Anabraba, in the International Journal of Innovative Legal & Political Studies, noted that the label of “ex-convict” carries “lifelong implications such as social stigma or reduction of opportunities in various aspects of society.”
The study stressed that in Nigeria, civil disabilities further compound these challenges: ex-convicts are barred from contesting certain political positions and often denied sensitive jobs or occupational licences. “What we have on ground,” Anabraba observed, “is a situation whereby the inmates are not only separated from their freedom, but their human dignity, which is needed to aid their rehabilitation and social reintegration.”
Citing scholars such as Pansag and colleagues, Anabraba notes that while an ex-convict is technically “a person liberated from incarceration,” the reality is far more complex. Freed individuals often struggle to re-enter society, hindered by internal disorientation and external prejudice. Without proper transition support, the difficulties extend to families and communities.
In Nigeria, the consequences are particularly stark. Under Section 107 of the 1999 Constitution (as amended), ex-convicts are barred from contesting certain political offices. As Iwarimie-Jaja observes, they also fall under “civil disability laws,” which restrict access to sensitive jobs and occupational licences. Obiora adds that prison conditions, overcrowding, prolonged pre-trial detention, weak skills programmes, torture, and broken family ties further erode chances of rehabilitation.
These systemic failures, Anabraba argues, deprive inmates not just of liberty but of the dignity and development needed for reintegration. The stripping away of civil rights deepens the problem. In many jurisdictions, felony convictions result in loss of voting rights, disqualification from public office, and exclusion from jury service. Nigerian courts have stressed that committal proceedings must strictly follow due process, as in Dikibo v. Ibuluya. Yet once a conviction stands, even a brief prison term leaves an indelible mark: the stigma of “ex-convict.”
International standards provide some counterbalance. Human rights law, with its guarantees of equality, privacy and protection from abuse, could shield ex-offenders from discrimination. Anabraba cites McVeigh v. United Kingdom (1981) under the European Convention on Human Rights as an early case influencing how criminal records are handled. The article warns, however, that privacy is often threatened twice: at data collection (fingerprints, records) and at dissemination, where state or private actors may exploit such information. More troubling still are cases where victims of human rights violations are criminalised—when state or non-state abuses lead to records, or when prosecutions rely on laws that contradict international human rights treaties.
NCoS speaks to stigma
In a report by The PUNCH, the Nigerian Correctional Service admitted that stigma and rejection remain major drivers of recidivism. Officials explained that many ex-prisoners are shut out by their communities, leaving them with little choice but to reoffend for survival. Advocacy groups like Prison Rehabilitation and Welfare Action echo the same warning: without acceptance, correctional programmes collapse once inmates step outside the prison gates.
Journalistic investigations also show how weaknesses inside prisons worsen outcomes. Overcrowding, lack of skills training, torture, and long stretches of awaiting trial rob inmates of both dignity and work readiness. By the time freedom comes, they are released into a society already primed to reject them. As The Guardian Nigeria observed, “the Nigerian correctional system prepares inmates for survival in prison, not life outside it.”
The stigma is both pervasive and measurable.
A 2020 mixed-method study in the African Journal of Criminology and Justice Studies found that reluctance to rent homes to or employ ex-prisoners was one of the strongest predictors of recidivism in Nigeria.
“Stigmatisation not only isolates ex-offenders socially,” the study concluded, “but practically denies them the legal means of survival.”
Community rejection, therefore, is not just cultural disdain but an engine of criminal relapse. In Edo State, a former inmate told The Cable: “When nobody wants to hire you, when even your family doesn’t trust you, you go back to what you know. Crime becomes the only place you’re not judged.”
International research mirrors this reality. Comparative studies across sub-Saharan Africa and Europe confirm that discrimination in employment, housing, and civic participation sharply increases the risk of reoffending. The United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime has emphasised that reintegration requires far more than policing: it depends on robust correctional education, after-care support, and community programmes that reduce stigma.
In Nigeria, reformers have echoed these calls. Scholars like Anabraba advocate restorative-justice models to rebuild trust between offenders and their communities, while organisations such as PRAWA demand structured post-release monitoring and reintegration support. UNODC-backed pilot projects show that when traditional leaders and local institutions actively welcome ex-prisoners back, recidivism rates drop significantly.
Yet Nigerian society still equates punishment with permanent exclusion, especially in the workplace.
97 out of 115 employers say ‘No’ to hiring ex-convicts
When 115 Nigerian founders, Human Resources professionals, and recruiters were asked if they would hire an ex-convict, 97 respondents, 84 per cent, flatly refused. The shadow of prison followed regardless of the offence or sentence.
Only six employers (five per cent) said they might be open to hiring an ex-convict, but only if the candidate disclosed their prison record upfront, a requirement that risks becoming another tool of exclusion. Twelve others (11 per cent) were slightly more flexible, willing to hire ex-convicts provided the crime did not involve sexual offences, kidnapping, or murder.
Taken together, the data paint a grim picture: the Nigerian labour market is overwhelmingly hostile to anyone with a prison record. Where there are cracks of openness, they are bound by caveats and suspicion, leaving most ex-convicts with few prospects for rebuilding their lives. Without meaningful opportunities, experts warn, many will be forced back into the same cycle of crime and incarceration the justice system is meant to break.
Civil disabilities add another layer of exclusion. Licensing boards routinely bar ex-convicts from regulated professions, erecting a formal wall of restriction. Coupled with informal stigma, the result is a double barrier to reintegration.
Experts argue that if Nigeria is serious about breaking the cycle of reoffending, stigma must be treated as a public issue, not a private burden. This means legal reforms to limit lifelong civil disabilities, investment in prison education and job-placement programmes, and community campaigns that normalise acceptance of those who have served their time. “Rehabilitation is meaningless if society refuses to forgive,” PRAWA insists.
There are, however, small glimmers of progress. In Lagos, a few NGOs have begun pairing ex-inmates with small businesses willing to offer second chances. Early results point to lower reoffending rates among participants. Internationally, countries that prioritise post-release care, such as Norway, record recidivism levels far below Nigeria’s.
Yet for many, the harsher sentence begins outside prison. As long as stigma denies dignity and opportunity, the path of least resistance often remains the same road that first led them behind bars.
Making Nigerian prisons reformative
For decades, Nigeria’s correctional system has been defined by overcrowding, underfunding, and a punitive philosophy that leaves inmates more entangled in crime than prepared for reintegration. Scholars, advocacy groups, and policy institutes have long called for a fundamental shift towards rehabilitation.
A 2022 UNODC report emphasises that reform must start with recognising inmates as individuals capable of change. It notes that rehabilitation-centred prisons significantly reduce recidivism, stressing that “education, skills training, and psychosocial support are the cornerstones of sustainable reintegration.”
Research elsewhere supports this. The U.S. National Institute of Justice, often cited in correctional studies, found that structured prison education reduces the likelihood of reoffending by up to 43 per cent. “Every dollar invested in prison education saves taxpayers four to five dollars in reincarceration costs,” the NIJ reported, a principle that Nigerian advocates believe applies locally.
PRAWA’s Executive Director, Dr Uju Agomoh, has repeatedly called for a paradigm shift. “Prisons should not be crime schools,” she explained in an interview. “The focus must be on preparing inmates for life after prison through counselling, vocational training, and family reintegration support.” PRAWA’s studies show that ex-inmates with vocational training are far less likely to relapse into crime than those simply released after serving time.
The CLEEN Foundation echoes this in a 2021 policy brief, stressing that aftercare is as critical as in-prison reform. It recommends halfway houses, community mentorship, and micro-credit schemes to help ex-convicts rebuild their lives. Without such support, the brief warned, “the cycle of stigma and exclusion almost guarantees reoffending.”
International scholarship reinforces these arguments. A 2018 article in the International Journal of Offender Therapy and Comparative Criminology highlights the success of restorative justice programmes across Africa. By bringing offenders and victims into dialogue, such initiatives not only reduce repeat offending but also rebuild communal trust. “Restorative justice works because it treats crime as harm to relationships, not just a violation of law,” the authors note.
The economic case is equally compelling. The Brookings Institution, in one of its criminal justice reform papers, stresses that rehabilitation-focused correctional systems are cost-effective in the long run. “Reoffending is not only a security risk; it is an economic drain. Breaking this cycle requires upfront investment in prison education and post-release support,” it argues.
The consensus among experts is clear: if Nigeria hopes to break the cycle of crime, its prisons cannot remain warehouses of human misery. They must evolve into centres of reformation, where inmates gain employable skills, receive mental health support, and are gradually reintroduced into society.
As PRAWA’s Agomoh bluntly puts it: “Do we want people coming out of prison better, or bitter?”
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