The recent presidential pardon granted to 175 Nigerians—including those convicted of armed robbery, drug trafficking, murder, corruption, and kidnapping—has stirred deep unease across the nation. Many Nigerians see it not as an act of mercy but as a reckless exercise of power that weakens justice and undermines public safety. Reports indicate that nearly twothirds of the beneficiaries are individuals with dubious backgrounds—convicted drug traffickers and financial offenders among them.
This raises troubling questions: How is it that those fueling Nigeria’s drug scourge wield such powerful influence over the presidency that they could secure a third of the total pardon? Why, too, are these categories of offenders the state’s priority? This is a troubling déjà vu. Nigerians remember all too well the misguided reintegration of “repentant” Boko Haram fighters and bandits under the Buhari administration—a policy that compromised security, demoralised troops, and eroded public trust. Now, under a new banner of “clemency,” history risks repeating itself.
Even more worrisome is that this amnesty comes at a time when innocent citizens, including #EndSARS protesters, remain behind bars without due process. What message does this send about fairness and accountability? How can a government that cannot secure justice for victims now choose to free those who violated the public peace? Transparency questions persist. How were these 175 individuals selected? What criteria were applied, and how transparent was the process? Was the Council of State duly consulted, as required by the Constitution?
Were inputs sought from security agencies and other relevant bodies? Nigerians deserve a public list of beneficiaries, detailing each offence and the extent of clemency—whether full pardon, commutation, or sentence reduction. Without such disclosure, this gesture reeks of favouritism and secrecy. It raises the question of whether the Advisory Committee on the Prerogative of Mercy acted on objective merit—or under political influence. Of course, there will be moral and symbolic fallout. What message does it send when the state extends mercy to those convicted of murder, kidnapping, corruption, and drug trafficking? Does it not cheapen justice and undermine the credibility of the courts?
What incentive remains for law enforcement officers who risk their lives in pursuit of offenders, only to see them released at the stroke of a pen? If impunity is rewarded with state mercy, why should ordinary citizens obey the law? This pardon risks weakening Nigeria’s ongoing campaigns against drugs, corruption, and violent crime. Agencies like the NDLEA and ICPC may find their painstaking work undermined by a system that seems to offer criminals a political shortcut to freedom. For victims and their families, this pardon feels like a second betrayal. How does a mother who lost her child to kidnappers or drug dealers feel when the culprits are suddenly set free “in the spirit of mercy?”
The emotional cost is unbearable, and public faith in the justice system suffers yet another blow. Mercy without justice is injustice! True, Section 175 of the Nigerian Constitution grants the President the prerogative of mercy. But this power must serve justice, not subvert it. Mercy should never become a tool for political convenience. Shouldn’t there be clear exclusions for offences like terrorism, murder, drug crime and corruption? Increasingly, legal experts are calling for reforms to set moral and legal boundaries to prevent abuse.
Inevitably, suspicions arise. Is this pardon politically motivated? Were certain individuals favoured for their connections or electoral usefulness? What safeguards exist to prevent the misuse of clemency as political patronage? These questions go to the heart of Nigeria’s governance credibility and moral standing. When clemency begins to look like a reward for impunity, the nation’s moral fabric frays further.
Reform for credibility has become more essential. Mercy is noble—but mercy without justice is perilous. Forgiveness without accountability is not compassion; it is complicity. President Bola Tinubu must ensure that mercy serves the cause of rehabilitation, not the comfort of the powerful. Going forward, government should:
• Publish clear criteria for selecting pardon recipients and subject them to public or parliamentary scrutiny;
• Exclude violent and economic crimes from presidential clemency;
• Monitor pardoned individuals to ensure true reintegration; and
• Balance mercy with justice to safeguard the integrity of the state.
Until such reforms are enacted, this latest round of presidential pardons will remain a dark stain on the nation’s justice system—a grim reminder that when power is unchecked, compassion can easily degenerate into carelessness.
