The Ghosts in the Machine: When a New SIM Inherits an Old Crimes

The Ghosts in the Machine: When a New SIM Inherits an Old Crime 

Nigeria’s digital security policy has a problem it refuses to name: in the rush to fight crime, we are criminalising innocence.

Buying a SIM card should be mundane. Yet today, that small act can quietly expose a Nigerian to arrest, interrogation, and the stigma of criminal suspicion not for anything they have done, but for the digital sins of a stranger. This is not a hypothetical risk. It is already happening, and it should worry anyone who believes technology ought to serve citizens, not endanger them.

The policy linking SIM cards to the National Identification Number (NIN) was well intentioned. It promised accountability in a country plagued by kidnapping, cyber fraud, and violent crime. Make phone numbers traceable, the logic went, and criminals will have nowhere to hide. In principle, that makes sense. In practice, however, the policy has collided with Nigeria’s telecom reality: SIM recycling.

NIGERIA SIM CARDS

Mobile numbers are routinely reassigned after periods of inactivity. A number used years ago for ransom calls or online fraud can quietly return to the market, sold as “new” to an unsuspecting buyer. Once that buyer links the SIM to their NIN, the number’s past does not always disappear. When law enforcement retraces criminal calls, the trail ends at the current owner. Innocence becomes an afterthought.

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This is where the system fails and fails dangerously.

In a justice system where arrest often precedes investigation, digital traces are treated as proof. A phone number linked to a crime can override common sense and timelines. Citizens are asked to explain themselves from interrogation rooms, not from the safety of their homes. The burden of proof is reversed, and the state, armed with flawed data, becomes judge and accuser.

Supporters of the NIN–SIM policy may argue that such cases are rare. That misses the point. A single wrongful arrest enabled by state policy is one too many. Security initiatives are not judged only by how many criminals they catch, but by how well they protect the innocent. By that standard, Nigeria is falling short.

The deeper issue is how we now define identity. A phone number has become an extension of personhood. Once linked to a NIN, it can summon the attention of law enforcement, banks, and regulators. But unlike fingerprints or DNA, phone numbers are not permanent. They are recycled, reused, and reassigned. Treating them as fixed identity markers is a fundamental design flaw.

Telecom operators cannot escape responsibility. Recycling numbers without robust safeguards may be efficient business practice, but it is socially reckless. At the very least, numbers previously linked to serious crimes should never be returned to circulation. Where recycling is unavoidable, clear, time-stamped audit trails of ownership must be accessible to investigators before arrests are made—not after citizens have been detained.

Law enforcement agencies, too, must adjust. A phone number should be a lead, not a verdict. Verifying when a SIM was issued should be standard procedure before inviting or arresting a suspect. The absence of this basic check reveals an alarming comfort with collateral damage in the name of security.

Ultimately, this is a question of trust. Citizens are repeatedly told to submit their biometrics, link their identities, and comply with digital regulations in the interest of national safety. That trust collapses when compliance exposes them to harm. A system that can turn an innocent Nigerian into a suspect overnight is not merely flawed; it is unjust.

If Nigeria is serious about digital security, it must confront this issue now. Otherwise, the ghosts will keep calling voices from recycled numbers, dragging innocent people into crimes they never committed.