In a democracy, the power of pardon, mercy or clemency is one of the most delicate instruments at the disposal of the executive. It is meant to be deployed with care: to correct injustice, to temper harsh sentences, to rehabilitate the repentant, or to heal historic wounds. But when misused, it can erode the rule of law, demoralise law-enforcement, and foster a culture of impunity.
President Bola Tinubu’s recent decision to grant presidential pardons and clemency to 175 convicts – ranging from posthumous colonial-era convictions, to life-sentence drug traffickers, to persons whose sentences were barely half served – is a bold gesture that has already stirred intense public debate.
On its face, there are elements to commend. There are the recognitions of historical injustice: the pardoning of colonial-era figures like Sir Herbert Macaulay, and the Ogoni Nine, including Ken Saro-Wiwa, whose 1995 executions under the Abacha regime continue to cast long shadows over Nigerian jurisprudence and human rights.
There are also practical gestures: commuting death sentences, recognizing remorse, awarding clemency for good conduct, rehabilitation, age or health, or for those convicted long ago who have shown reform. In a country where prison overcrowding, delays, and occasional miscarriages of justice persist, these are non-trivial concerns.
But the praise must be tempered. The extent and breadth of the pardon raise serious questions. Of particular concern is the inclusion of persons convicted for serious offences – drug trafficking, murder, kidnapping, corruption – some of whom had served only a fraction of their sentence, or whose judgments remain contested. Critics – including political opponents, human-rights advocates, and even voices within Tinubu’s own administration – argue this dilutes the deterrent effect of the law, undermines victims’ right to justice, and sends mixed signals at a time when the country is demanding stronger law enforcement and greater accountability.
A further issue is transparency. While the Presidency has published a list, and described the criteria used (old age, ill-health, remorse, vocational training, length of incarceration) under the recommendation of the Presidential Advisory Committee on Prerogative of Mercy, critics ask: were the criteria applied consistently? Were some high-profile names included as symbolic gestures rather than as part of a principled policy? Was the public sufficiently consulted or informed about why some cases were selected and others not? Lack of transparency breeds suspicion that clemency is being used for political expedience or patronage.
Then there is timing. Nigeria is grappling with serious security challenges, a rising scourge of narcotics among youth, demands from international partners to clamp down on trafficking and money laundering, and widespread frustrations about lethargic justice systems. In such a mood, pardoning drug-offenders or others convicted for grave crimes – even if they show remorse – can appear tone-deaf or contradictory to broader national goals. Indeed, the opposition has accused the government of weakening its standing domestically and abroad, potentially emboldening criminal networks that prey on weak signals of deterrence.
So what should President Tinubu have done differently – or what should he still do to shore up confidence in this exercise?
First, greater transparency. The criteria for pardons must be clear, public, and consistently applied. Deferred satisfaction, such as proof of sustained reform over time, should count. Where clemency is conditional, those conditions should be spelled out, enforced, and monitored.
Second, more engagement with victims. The criminal justice system is not just about offenders; victims’ rights to justice, to closure, to seeing that wrongdoing has consequences are equally critical. Pardoning someone after only a short term, for instance, without adequate compensation or acknowledgment to victims, may be seen as injustice rather than mercy.
Third, reinforcement of the justice system’s capacity. Pardons should be matched with investments in legal, prison, rehabilitation, and policing systems – so that sentences are served, appeals are fair, prisons do not become crucibles of further crime, and released convicts truly integrate into society with reduced risk of reoffending.
Lastly, careful calibration in the application. Statutory clemency powers are rightly part of the constitutional order—but powers are not unfettered morality. The state must balance mercy and justice, not tilt so far toward the former that the latter is imperilled.
President Tinubu’s exercise of clemency is neither inherently wrong nor wholly admirable. It is a complex act. There is much to admire in recognizing past wrongs and giving second chances. But the scale, the inclusion of serious criminals, the timing, and concerns over transparency raise the possibility that rather than enhancing public faith in government, this pardon parade risks weakening it.
In a nation yearning for justice, the prerogative of mercy must uplift, not undercut, the rule of law. The citizenry must demand that pardons be administered not as theatre, but as a rare, carefully measured tool – reserved only for the demonstrably deserving, the truly reformed, and those wronged by injustice. Only then can mercy become a badge of honour, not a source of controversy.
