Why a sitting judge must confront a paternity claim
By Alusine A. Sesay
I caught the opening act of this love story back in December 2024, when a young woman named Edwina Hawa Jamiru shared startling details of her relationship with a sitting judge of Sierra Leone’s courts, Alhaji Justice Momoh Jah Stevens.
In that first video (attached to this post), Edwina—then a 19-year-old law student at Fourah Bay College—recounted how the pair met at City Hall in Freetown and soon embarked on a romance.
By her own account, they entered into a consensual sexual relationship without protection, a decision that predictably led to pregnancy and the birth of a baby girl.
It requires no legal training to know that unprotected intercourse between fertile adults carries an obvious risk of conception—a fact of which both parties were presumably well aware.
The chronology of events therefore suggests that consensual, albeit unprotected, intercourse resulted in a pregnancy and the subsequent birth of a daughter.
Edwina maintains that she trusted the judge’s professional stature as a signal of “responsibility,” and therefore assumed he would accept any consequences, including supporting their child.
She viewed his vocation as a judge as a proxy for reliability—a guarantee that he would, to borrow the colloquialism, man up and provide for any progeny.
Her present consternation stems from the allegation that he has reneged on this implied social contract.
Her dismay, she says, is that he has refused to do so.
That leaves two central questions on which the entire case pivots:
- Is Justice Stevens the biological father?
- Has a DNA test been conducted to establish the answer?
To date, I have heard nothing from the judge himself, so I cannot pronounce on guilt or innocence.
While the principle of audi alteram partem—hearing the other side—must be upheld, a simple proposition presents itself.
Given his public office, the most honourable path is obvious: take a DNA test and clear his name.
A positive result would oblige him to discharge his responsibilities with the civility expected of his station, thereby concluding the drama.
A negative result would exonerate him and restore his peace.
Instead, using influence to counter-charge the woman with three counts of domestic violence hardly inspires confidence—a manoeuvre that, to the neutral observer, seems decidedly unbecoming of a judicial officer. Is it not?
It is instructive to contrast the potential repercussions of such allegations in different jurisdictions.
In England and Wales, where standards of conduct for judicial officers are stringently upheld, such claims would likely trigger an immediate suspension pending a grave investigation into character and the potential misuse of public office.
Evidence of coercion or blackmail would almost certainly precipitate disbarment and a custodial sentence.
These standards reflect the gravity of alleged misconduct by those sworn to uphold the law.
Sierra Leone, sadly, is a different kettle of fish altogether. Too often the law weighs heaviest on the weak and the voiceless, while those with rank or title glide above it.
Over there in MaMaSalone, the application of the law often seems inversely proportional to the power of the subject.
It is a societal paradigm where accountability frequently eludes the influential—a state of affairs that may well explain the nation’s perennial struggle to cultivate and uphold men of unimpeachable integrity.
Until integrity is expected—indeed demanded—of the powerful, we will continue to wonder why men of genuine honour are so difficult to find in MaMaSalone today.
