MY FIRST COURT EXPERIENCE AS A LAWYER
By Gabriel Omachi
They say law school is a battlefield, and surviving it makes you a warrior. Well, I emerged from that warzone alive, with a certificate to show for it and a wig and gown waiting to transform me into a real-life gladiator in the courtroom. But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared me for the comedic chaos of my first court appearance.
Having passed the Bar Finals and attended my Call to Bar ceremony, I was officially a Barrister and Solicitor of the Supreme Court of Nigeria. The wig and gown felt like armor, but it wasn’t until two days into my first job at a law firm that I learned I’d be thrown straight into the Colosseum.
“It’s just a motion,” my principal said casually, already halfway out the door on his way to some distant destination. “Get the authorities, and you’ll be fine.” Spoiler alert: I was not fine.
I stared at the case file like it was written in hieroglyphs, then dashed into the library, where the books looked like they were laughing at me. A senior colleague, clearly enjoying my misery, patted me on the back and said, “Ah, first baptism of fire? Good luck, boy.” Comforting words.
The night before court, sleep abandoned me like a fair-weather friend. By dawn, I was the first person at the court complex, standing there like a soldier awaiting battle. My heart? Oh, it wasn’t beating—it was auditioning for a drumline.
The opposing counsel arrived, an older man flanked by three junior lawyers who looked like they’d eaten law textbooks for breakfast. He glanced at me, the rookie, and his disdain was palpable. “Where’s Emmanuel?” he demanded, referring to my boss. “He’s fine but won’t be in court today,” I replied. His smile evaporated. “Hope you’re ready,” he grumbled. Spoiler alert again: I was not ready.
The court session began, and the judge entered—a stern-looking woman whose mere presence could straighten the wrinkles in your wig. She had a shaved head under her wig, which somehow made her more intimidating. Her nod alone felt like a verdict.
When our case was called, the opposing counsel announced his appearance with theatrical flair, followed by his entourage of junior lawyers. My turn came. I stood up, knees threatening mutiny, and said, “With utmost respect and humility, I am Gabriel Omachi for the Respondent/Applicant.” The humility part was genuine—I felt as small as an ant under a magnifying glass.
Then came the moment to address the court. My brain? A total blank. I froze like a deer caught in headlights. The judge’s gavel snapped me back to reality. “Omachi,” she said sternly, “if you don’t know why you’re here, withdraw your application, or I’ll strike it out.”
Panic gave way to a surge of adrenaline. Somehow, I apologized, regrouped, and moved the application. To my shock, I found myself delivering arguments that even I didn’t know I had in me. The opposing counsel started shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
When I concluded, the judge decided to deliver a ruling immediately. I stood there, barely breathing, as she struck out the suit for lack of jurisdiction, agreeing with my argument that proper service had not been effected.
It was over. I’d won. Me—the rookie, the new wig. The joy that followed was indescribable. I floated out of the courtroom, but not before the judge asked, “When were you called to the Bar?”
“Last week, my Lord,” I replied, bracing for criticism. Instead, she smiled—a rare and terrifying sight. “Well done,” she said. “You did really well, not just for a new wig, but as a lawyer.”
I left the courtroom grinning like I’d just won a lottery. Back at the office, I regaled my colleagues with every detail, basking in their applause. And that, dear friends, was how I survived my first court appearance—not just surviving, but thriving.
