In Nigeria’s political arena, where institutions are engineered to exclude women, invoking the law is itself an insurgent act. It is a shield, a buffer against political erasure, and a spotlight: an illumination of the very systems that isolate, silence, and punish women who choose dissent. Legal action in this context is not merely about the possibility of winning in court; it is a public stance, a refusal to disappear quietly.

But first, we need to consider the series of gendered attacks that prompt women politicians to resort to the legal battlefield. Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan’s suspension, after all, is not an isolated event. Across Africa and beyond, women in politics who challenge power structures or demand accountability often face severe consequences. In Zimbabwe, Joice Mujuru, once seen as Robert Mugabe’s successor, was expelled from the ruling party and accused of treason. In Rwanda, Diane Rwigara was arrested and disqualified from politics after criticizing Paul Kagame. Uganda’s Stella Nyanzi was repeatedly jailed for her unfiltered criticism of Yoweri Museveni. Liberia’s Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, despite breaking barriers as Africa’s first elected female head of state, faced exile, imprisonment and relentless political resistance. Even on the global stage, women face similar issues. Venezuela’s María Corina Machado, a leading opposition figure in Venezuela, was banned from running for office despite winning a primary election by a landslide; her punishment for standing against an entrenched regime. In Tunisia, opposition leader Abir Moussi was sentenced to two years in prison after criticizing the election process. Detained since October 2023, she faces politically motivated charges, highlighting the state’s crackdown on dissenting women, just as Finland’s Sanna Marin endured relentless scrutiny and sexist attacks.

What all these cases point to is that the silencing of women in politics is a global issue. However, I argue that in Nigeria, it takes on a particularly entrenched form. Women who dare to challenge the status quo are often met with institutional pushback designed to diminish their influence and credibility. The message is clear: women who refuse to stay silent will always be made to pay a price. They are told, by actions, not just words, that power is not theirs to hold.

This silencing is rarely subtle. In 2018, Nigerian lawmaker Boma Goodhead famously stood up to security forces attempting to barricade the National Assembly. Her act of defiance was met with threats and a media frenzy that sought to question her temperament rather than applaud her courage. Across the continent, similar patterns emerge: Ugandan opposition leader Betty Nambooze has faced multiple arrests, her activism painted as unruly and dangerous, with attacks often targeting her gender as much as her politics.

This is the pattern: women who assert their right to lead, who dare to hold power accountable, are branded ‘troublesome,’ accused of corruption, or subjected to orchestrated smear campaigns. Their personal lives become fair game. Their bodies, their motherhood, their sexual histories; nothing is off-limits. In extreme cases, they face imprisonment, forced exile, or worse. The attacks are never purely political; they are intimately gendered, designed to degrade as much as discredit.

How then may women politicians find justice within such a maliciously dirty play? On paper, the 1999 Constitution, the Electoral Act 2022, the Violence Against Persons (Prohibition) Act, and the Cybercrimes Act all provide statutory protections for women in politics, from physical threats to online abuse. However, as Deborah Orji describes, the legal landscape in Nigeria is one of ‘promising frameworks and poor enforcement. The law exists, but women still struggle to rely on it.’ She cites inconsistent implementation, judicial delays, and the failure of political parties to adopt internal mechanisms against gender-based discrimination.

This legal ambivalence plays out visibly in cases like Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan’s suspension, a move Orji suggests contradicts constitutional provisions that protect elected officials from arbitrary removal. Precedents like Rifkatu Danna v. Bauchi State House of Assembly (2017) and Ali Ndume v. Senate President (2018) reinforce this point: Nigerian courts have ruled legislative suspensions unlawful, and yet such tactics persist, particularly when the dissenting voice is female. Women who speak out, whether in Nigeria, Uganda, or elsewhere across Africa, are often met with swift institutional retaliation. They are labelled ‘difficult’, accused of misconduct, or punished for challenging entrenched hierarchies. ‘Legal and procedural barriers are often weaponized to silence women,’ Orji explains. ‘Not necessarily because they broke the law, but because they dared to confront power.’

Despite this, women continue to turn to the law, not because it always protects them, but because it forces a confrontation. Every court filing, every constitutional challenge, every act of legal defiance becomes part of a larger record, an archive of resistance that chips away at the myth that women do not belong in power.