If Nigeria were a Netflix series, the latest episode, “Presidential Pardon: Season Tinubu, Episode 3, Mercy for the Mighty”, would sit neatly under dark comedy. Unfortunately, it’s real life, and the scriptwriters live in Aso Rock.

President Bola Ahmed Tinubu recently exercised his “power of mercy” to pardon 175 inmates, grant posthumous forgiveness to the Ogoni Nine, and even toss national honours like confetti to 959 Nigerians and friends of Nigeria. The ceremony was sold as a symbol of compassion, unity, and national healing. But Nigerians know better: every time a president plays saint, someone somewhere cashes in on sin.

The list of beneficiaries reads like a who’s who of moral controversy.
At the centre of public outrage is Maryam Sanda who was convicted in 2020 for stabbing her husband, Bilyaminu Bello (son of a former PDP chairman), to death in a fit of rage. Her death sentence was commuted to life imprisonment, but now, thanks to presidential benevolence, she walks free, six years later.

For many Nigerians, that “mercy” stings like salt in a national wound. Ordinary inmates rot for stealing a goat, but the privileged, armed with good lawyers and good connections are born again with a presidential handshake.

Even more eyebrow-raising is how some politically connected individuals found their way onto the clemency list.

This isn’t the first time Nigeria’s rulers have used the Presidential Prerogative of Mercy as a political mop. From Obasanjo’s pardon of Diepreye Alamieyeseigha to Jonathan’s rehabilitation of old allies, mercy has often been a form of political recycling. Tinubu, it seems, is just keeping tradition alive, ensuring that the powerful never stay punished long enough to become uncomfortable.

Former Vice President Atiku Abubakar called the latest round of pardons “a desecration of justice,” accusing the government of using mercy as a smokescreen for favoritism. He’s not wrong. But Nigerians are used to the hypocrisy: when out of power, our politicians scream rule of law; when in power, they whisper rule of loyalty.

Among those pardoned posthumously were the Ogoni Nine, including environmental activist Ken Saro-Wiwa, executed under Sani Abacha’s brutal regime in 1995. The Ogoni Nine deserved justice long ago, no question. Their inclusion is symbolic, a long-overdue nod to a national wound. Their pardon, thirty years later, might have been a touching gesture if it hadn’t been buried under the same document that freed convicted killers and cronies. It’s the political equivalent of putting a saint and a sinner on the same altar and lighting just one candle for both.

The tragedy is not that presidents grant pardons, it’s that Nigeria’s justice system now relies on divine intervention from politicians. When “mercy” becomes a shortcut for influence, the rule of law collapses into performance art.

Every new government seems to discover mercy just around election season, or when approval ratings begin to wobble. The logic is simple: if you can’t deliver prosperity, deliver pardon.

It’s cheaper, quicker, and comes with excellent photo opportunities. A few well-placed pardons can paint any administration as compassionate, reconciliatory, and statesmanlike even if the true beneficiaries are people who could buy the prison they were meant to be serving time in.

The Presidential Advisory Committee on the Prerogative of Mercy (PACPM) assures us that every case was reviewed “on merit.” Nigerians nodded, of course. Because in our political dictionary, “merit” has a flexible definition, sometimes it means “served their time,” and sometimes it means “served the party.”

We joke about it because crying feels pointless. Somewhere in Abuja, a man who forged pension documents is probably planning his thanksgiving service. Somewhere in Kuje, an inmate who stole ₦2,000 still waits for his day in court. And somewhere in Aso Rock, the line between compassion and complicity is blurred beyond recognition.

If mercy were about reform, transparency, and fairness, Nigerians would applaud. But mercy without justice is mockery. When the state forgives selectively, it teaches citizens that accountability is optional and that all sins are equal, but some are more forgivable than others.

So yes, Nigeria remains a democracy one where forgiveness is infinite, especially for the influential. Perhaps next time, the Presidential Prerogative of Mercy should be renamed what it truly is: The Prerogative of Connections.

Tinubu’s mercy may have been constitutional but morally, it’s a national joke. The real tragedy is not that killers walk free, but that the rest of us have learned to shrug and say, “Na so e be.”