There is an old saying across many African communities: when two elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers. In Northeast Nigeria, however, another truth quietly competes with it: when neighbours quarrel over land, everyone inherits the conflict. One of my many profound takeaways during my learning trip to the northeast.
Housing, Land and Property (HLP) disputes are rarely about land alone. Beneath every contested boundary lies a story of memory, identity, belonging, displacement, inheritance, dignity and survival. A farmer does not merely defend a field; he protects the labour of generations. A widow seeking her husband’s land is asking for more than property; she is asking whether justice remembers her name. A returning family does not simply reclaim a house; it seeks to reclaim a life interrupted by conflict.
This is why the conversations that unfolded among traditional leaders, community justice actors and government representatives from Borno and Adamawa over three remarkable days were so significant. They were not merely discussing Alternative Dispute Resolution (ADR). They were discussing the architecture of peace itself.
The people of Borno have a saying that reminds us that “the road knows the traveller before the traveller knows the road.” The Hausa equally remind us that “zaman lafiya yafi zama ɗan sarki”… living in peace is better than being a prince. Across Adamawa, one hears variations of the timeless wisdom that a river does not drink its own water. Every institution exists for others. Justice, therefore, is never about itself; it exists so communities may continue to live together.
Perhaps that explains why traditional institutions have survived centuries of political transitions. Governments have changed. Constitutions have evolved. Administrative boundaries have shifted. Yet when disputes emerge in villages across Northeast Nigeria, people still first walk toward the palace before they walk toward the courthouse.
That reality should neither alarm lawyers nor offend judges. It should instead challenge policymakers to recognise what communities have always known: justice works best when it is closest to the people.
One of the most fascinating discussions during the training centred on the remarkable experience emerging from Adamawa State through the Kabara Mediation Centre, a locally rooted dispute resolution mechanism that has quietly demonstrated what happens when tradition, community ownership and structured mediation meet each other with mutual respect.
The Kabara approach deserves far more than admiration; it deserves replication.
Its strength is not that it rejects formal justice. Quite the opposite. It complements it. It recognises that not every disagreement requires litigation and that not every dispute benefits from producing a winner and a loser. Sometimes communities need something far more valuable than victory. They need restoration.
There is profound wisdom in a system where respected traditional rulers, religious scholars and trusted community elders sit together to help disputing parties speak before they shout, understand before they accuse and reconcile before they separate forever.
The brilliance of Kabara lies in its simplicity.
It understands something modern institutions sometimes forget: people are more likely to comply with agreements they help create than judgments imposed upon them.
Imagine that.
Centuries of customary wisdom arriving at the same conclusion modern behavioural science now celebrates. Perhaps our ancestors were conducting social psychology before universities gave it a name.
Yet the conversations in Maiduguri also exposed uncomfortable truths.
Documentation remains weak. Monitoring of agreements is inconsistent. Women still struggle to occupy spaces where decisions affecting family land are made. Young people are often treated as observers rather than contributors. Persons living with disabilities remain insufficiently represented.
Many mediators possess enormous practical wisdom but have limited exposure to structured conflict analysis, ethical mediation standards or systematic record keeping.
These are not failures.
They are opportunities.
One participant observed that “a good mediator listens more than he speaks.”
That simple sentence contains an entire philosophy of justice.
Listening is not passive. It is investigation without intimidation, respect before resolution., and listening is conflict prevention disguised as conversation.
Another participant reminded the room that “every conflict has a story and every story deserves to be heard.” How different our communities might become if institutions competed not merely to deliver judgments but to understand stories.
Conflict analysis taught during the programme further reinforced that what communities often call “the problem” is usually only the visible branch of a much deeper tree. Beneath every land dispute lie roots… displacement, poverty, unclear documentation, inherited grievances, damaged trust, competing identities or historical injustice.
Removing only the branch guarantees another one will grow. Addressing the roots changes the forest.
This is precisely why Alternative Dispute Resolution represents not merely another legal option but perhaps Africa’s oldest innovation.
Long before ADR became fashionable in conference rooms, African communities practised it beneath trees. The courtroom arrived later.
The conversation came first. That is why ADR feels familiar. It speaks the language communities already understand. It values dialogue over domination. Consensus over conquest. Restoration over revenge. Relationships over records alone.
This does not diminish formal justice.
Courts remain indispensable. Certain disputes require authoritative judicial determination. Rights must be protected. Criminal accountability cannot be negotiated away. Yet there exists a vast middle ground where mediation prevents tomorrow’s litigation.
