CAN SOMEONE SUE YOU FOR DEFAMATION BECAUSE YOU REPORTED THEM TO THE POLICE? I remember delivering a judgment on 16th May, 2024, in a case that raised a surprisingly interesting question. A gentleman sued another for defamation because he had been reported to the police as a thief. His argument, stripped of all legal decoration, […]

CAN SOMEONE SUE YOU FOR DEFAMATION BECAUSE YOU REPORTED THEM TO THE POLICE?

I remember delivering a judgment on 16th May, 2024, in a case that raised a surprisingly interesting question.

A gentleman sued another for defamation because he had been reported to the police as a thief.

His argument, stripped of all legal decoration, was simple:

“The police are third parties. You told them I was a thief. Therefore, you have defamed me.”

At first glance, that sounds reasonable enough. After all, defamation is the law’s way of protecting a person’s reputation from false statements that make others think less of them. Calling someone a thief is ordinarily a serious allegation.

But then think about where that argument leads.

If every citizen who reports a suspected thief, fraudster, or burglar to the police risks being sued for defamation, who would report crime? Police stations would become quieter than a classroom on a Friday afternoon after the teacher announces an early knock-off. Everyone would mind their own business and hope someone else makes the report.

The law, thankfully, has more common sense than that.

Picture this:

Your goat disappears.

A neighbour whisper, “Ba mudala, I saw your friend leading it away.”

You do not call a press conference. You do not post on Facebook. You do not hire a town crier to announce it at the market.

You simply walk into the police station and say:

“Boss, I think this man stole my goat. Please investigate.”

A few days later, instead of answering the police, your friend sues you for defamation because you called him a thief.

That was, in substance, the problem before the Court.

The Court accepted that calling someone a thief is ordinarily capable of damaging their reputation. But it also recognized something equally important: there is a world of difference between reporting a suspected crime to the police and standing in the marketplace shouting, “Uyu ni Kabwalala!”

One seeks an investigation.

The other seeks an audience.

The Court therefore held that the law should not punish citizens for using the proper channels to report conduct they honestly suspect may be criminal. If people could be successfully sued merely for reporting suspected offences, the result would be absurd. Honest citizens would become reluctant to report crime, and the people sleeping most peacefully at night would be the criminals.

That does not mean the law gives a free pass to liars. Far from it. A person who knowingly fabricates allegations, acts maliciously, or weaponizes the police process to settle personal scores may still find himself on the wrong side of the law.

But where a citizen genuinely believes an offence has occurred and reports the matter through lawful channels, the courts should be slow to treat that conduct as actionable defamation.

The Moral of the story?

The law protects reputations, but it must also protect responsibility. A country where people are afraid to report suspected crime is a country where criminals have very little to fear.

Disclaimer:

My commentary on this decision is no more a legal critique than a campfire tale is a treatise on thermodynamics. It is, rather, a dramatized retelling, a lively reenactment if you will, of the judicial clash, unburdened by the solemn drudgery of analysis and delivered with the unapologetic zest of a storyteller who knows a good duel when he sees one.