Post by King Solomon ☝🏾⭐👑🤝 (@akundo_selumun)

The man in the picture is Barrister Jude.

Or at least, that's what everyone in Court 3 called him that morning.

He hadn't planned to be a barrister. In fact, if you had asked Jude ten years earlier what he wanted to be, he would have said "a welder with steady light."

But that morning in Abuja, the small claims court was hot. The fan was turning slowly, the wooden benches were squeaking, and his client — his cousin Emeka — was sweating through his Ankara shirt in the row behind him.

"Emeka, calm down," Jude whispered, adjusting the heavy wig that sat slightly crooked on his head. The white horsehair was borrowed from his old senior at chambers. The black gown was his own, bought second-hand at Wuse market and ironed the night before until it shone.

"They said the land is not ours," Emeka whispered back. "They said we have no paper."

Jude pushed his sunglasses up. The courtroom light was harsh, but the glasses made him feel steady. Like a proper lawyer.

When the clerk called "Suit No: CV/112/2026," Jude stood up. The gown was too big, so he had to gather it in his hand like a chief.

"My Lord," he began, and his voice cracked. The whole gallery — the woman in black standing by the aisle, the man in the Ghana print behind him — turned.

"My Lord, this case is not about land. It is about memory."

The magistrate raised an eyebrow.

Jude continued, "My client's late father planted the mango tree that now stands on that disputed plot in Kuje. Every December, the children of that compound ate from that tree. You cannot uproot a memory with a bulldozer. The paper the other side brings is new. The tree is thirty years old."

He didn't have many legal citations. He had one case he remembered from law school: Aiye vs. Aiye. He cited it badly.

But he had the tree. And he had brought three elders from the village who had sat under it.

For twenty minutes, the courtroom listened. Not because his law was perfect, but because he believed it completely.

When he sat down, his wig had slipped a little more to the left. Emeka clutched his shoulder.

"Whether we win or lose," Emeka said, "you looked like a Senior Advocate today."

Jude laughed, adjusted the wig one last time, and said, "Next time, let me win in air conditioning."

Outside, the sun was high over Abuja, and Barrister Jude walked out of court like he owned the place — gown flowing, glasses gleaming, ready for the next case that would need more heart than law.
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