A Farmer’s Last Breath: The Tragedy of Sunday Jackson (True Life Story)

Kandey Alhassan June 11, 2025 0

 

On the 7th of March, 2025, a terrible hush fell upon Nigeria—a silence so heavy, it wrapped itself around the nation like mourning cloth. In the chaos of Lagos, in the forgotten villages of the North, in every home where hope has long been fragile, hearts broke as one name trembled through the air: Sunday Jackson. The Supreme Court had spoken. And with that final judgment, a poor man’s life was signed away—not by the hands of justice, but by a system that never truly saw him.

Sunday Jackson wasn’t a man of status. He had no influence, no voice in high places. He was simply a farmer—one of the millions—tilling dry land, fighting off hunger, holding on to the one thing he had left: his dignity. In his small village of Kodomti in Adamawa State, he lived a life so quiet, you could mistake him for invisible. But now, the whole nation knows his name. Not as a murderer. Not even as a victim. But as a symbol—of injustice, of fear, of what it means to be poor and powerless in a country that too often forgets its own people.

In 2018, a day like any other shattered Sunday’s world forever.

He had gone to harvest thatching grass under the hot sun—just like he always did, just trying to survive. But the peace of the fields turned into horror. A Fulani herdsman named Ardo Bawuro appeared, accusing Sunday of kilin his cattle. Sunday denied it, but the accusation came with rage, and the rage came with a dagger. The man lunged. In those frantic seconds, Sunday fought—not to kil, but to stay alive. He wrestled the weapon away. He was terrified. Alone. Bleeding. And in that chaos, in that blur of panic and instinct, he stabbed. Over and over. And then, it was over. The man lay d3ad. And Sunday ran.

He ran not because he was guilty, but because he was afraid. Because deep down, maybe even he knew what the system would see: not a poor man fighting for his life, but a criminal. And he was right.

When the police found him, they didn’t see his wounds. The court didn’t hear his fear. From the trial court to the Court of Appeal and now the Supreme Court, his voice—shaking, pleading—was drowned by the cold rhythm of legal technicalities. They said he went too far. That once he had the dagger, he should have walked away. But how do you teach calm to a man who thought he was about to die? How do you explain legal restraint to someone whose hands were shaking with fear, whose heart was pounding with the terror of leaving his children fatherless?

And so, the court gave its final word: Sunday Jackson will hang.

Now, in a dark prison cell, he waits. Every sunrise brings him closer to his last breath. Every footstep outside his cell might be the one that ends it all. His life now depends on mercy—from a governor, from a world that may or may not be listening.

But his story refuses to fade.

Because Sunday is not just Sunday. He is every poor man who’s been backed into a corner. Every mother who has cried over the injustice her son faced. Every Nigerian who has stared at the sky and wondered if justice still lives in this land. His name is no longer just his—it is ours. It is the name of every soul that has ever been punished for surviving.

As his final days inch closer, a nation grieves. Not just for Sunday, but for what we’ve become. For the fear in our courts. For the silence of our leaders. For the justice that comes too late—if it ever comes at all.

And so we ask, with broken voices and tearful eyes:

Will someone save Sunday? Or will Nigeria once again let the innocent die while the powerful sleep in peace?

Justice is bleeding.

And Sunday Jackson may be hanged before the nation wakes up to stop it.

African Tales by Kandey