As Commissioner of Police, Lagos State Command back then, my Saturdays usually started at 10:00 a.m. On this particular day, I had a 10:00 a.m. official appointment. But I woke up early—by 6:00 a.m.—and decided to get to the office ahead of time.
Driving my Jeep through Herbert Macaulay, I chose to check on policemen on duty. This was part of my style: I personally visited divisions and police posts under my command to have a firsthand assessment of their work.
At one checkpoint, the policemen on duty stopped me. A constable approached:
“Good morning, young man. Where are you going in your father’s Jeep?”
He asked for my particulars and my name. I told him, “My name is Mohammed.” He then insisted I show my ID to prove it.
Playing along, I asked him to show me his ID first. He didn’t have one. He called his team leader—a Sergeant—who also demanded my ID. I insisted he show me his first. Eventually, they decided to take me to Yaba (Panti) station.
At the station, there was no parking space except the DPO’s. I parked there. The constable shouted at me not to park in the DPO’s space.
Inside, they took me to an Assistant Superintendent of Police (ASP). The ASP, in shorts, ordered me to come in. I refused, saying he wasn’t in uniform. He pushed me inside. As I pulled him back, he took a closer look at me.
Meanwhile, an old man at the station quietly tiptoed to the DPO’s office, looked at the photo on the wall, and confirmed—they had just “arrested” the Commissioner of Police. He quickly jumped out through a window.
The Sergeant who brought me in was confused about why I was still there. A colleague whispered to him that I was the CP. His face dropped instantly. The ASP in shorts also jumped out through a window.
Not long after, the Area Commander called me. I learned that the DPO, the ASP, and those involved were already in the cell awaiting my decision.
My anger came from the fact that just a week earlier, I had cautioned that same station about their conduct.
But in the end, I released them. By Monday, over 100 families came to my office crying and begging. One elderly man pleaded, saying one of the policemen was the only officer from his village—if I dismissed him, there would be none from their village.
I realized that dismissing one officer meant affecting thirty families—because each officer had parents, siblings, and dependents.
So I didn’t dismiss any of them. Instead, I used the incident as a strong deterrent to others.
Lesson: Leadership is not always about punishment. Sometimes, mercy speaks louder—and teaches a deeper lesson.
— MD Abubakar
Former Inspector General and Commissioner of Police, Lagos State
