Last Tuesday, in my back-page column for Leadership Newspaper, I made an error — I erroneously stated that the case of Maryam Sanda, convicted of killing her husband, was still pending before the Supreme Court. It was not. The apex court had already affirmed her conviction in 2023. I admit that mistake, and I do so gladly; for in this country, confession seems the last luxury of the unconnected.
But that single factual slip has earned me a presidential disciple — or should I say, a presidential defender. Mr. Tunde Rahman, aide on Media and Special Duties, chose to make me his “special duty” for the week, devoting a portion of his piece in the Vanguard to chastise me. According to him, I “lied” about the pending nature of Sanda’s case and “went overboard” in “desperation to nail the government.”
Now, desperation is a strong word. Those who know me know I am too weary of politics to be desperate about it. I do not belong to any political party, nor do I harbour a secret wish to dine with power. My writing springs from conviction, not calculation. If my pen sounds impatient, it is because the country it loves insists on testing endurance.
But to the matter itself — the presidential pardon.
The Constitution, through Section 175, empowers the President to grant mercy. No one contests that. The question, however, is not whether he can, but whether he should — and to whom, and under what moral circumstances. For law without judgment is machinery, not governance.
In my earlier piece, I expressed alarm that individuals convicted of murder, drug trafficking, and arms dealing were granted clemency. Among them, Maryam Sanda’s name stood out — not just because of the crime, but because of what it represented. Her conviction, after years of legal process, was one of the rare moments the Nigerian justice system seemed to work without bending to influence. Her pardon, therefore, struck a deep national nerve.
Mr Rahman’s response was to remind us that presidents elsewhere — Clinton, Trump, Biden — had issued controversial pardons too. A fair point on paper, but poor in philosophy. Citing the errors of others to justify one’s own is the oldest trick in the handbook of excuse. The Athenians once exiled Socrates for corrupting the youth with truth; it did not make his accusers wise, only popular. History does not absolve imitation; it exposes it.
Even Julius Caesar, famed for his clemency, discovered the peril of unguarded mercy. His decision to pardon the senators who plotted against him was celebrated as magnanimous — until those same men stabbed him on the Ides of March. When forgiveness ignores prudence, it breeds its own assassins.
In the same spirit, Emperor Ashoka of India, after years of conquest, sought to rule through compassion. His mercy rebuilt a broken empire because it was anchored on justice, not indulgence. He pardoned the repentant but punished the unrepentant, teaching that mercy divorced from moral proportion is merely sentimental chaos.
Our own history bears witness too. When President Shehu Shagari pardoned Odumegwu Ojukwu after the civil war, it was a pardon framed by peace — an act of reconciliation, not convenience. But when Diepreye Alamieyeseigha was pardoned for corruption, it was indulgence draped as compassion. The lesson is simple: the motive behind mercy determines its morality.
My discomfort, therefore, was never with clemency itself but with its theatre — the grand performance of selective forgiveness presented as statesmanship. A Council of State that includes all former Presidents, Chief Justices, Governors, and the Attorney-General is not a village meeting. Its decisions signal the moral temperature of the Republic. When that body endorses the pardon of convicted murderers and drug traffickers, it is not law being exercised; it is trust being tested.
Mr Rahman says most of those pardoned had “shown remorse” and “learned trades” while in prison. That is commendable, but repentance alone does not erase consequence. Judas, too, repented — but not even heaven annulled his guilt. A nation cannot keep commuting punishment as though morality were a negotiable commodity.
Besides, the argument that some convicts are “reformed” is one every criminal will eventually qualify for. If time served becomes the new standard of innocence, then prisons will soon be universities of political redemption.
In defending this policy, Mr Rahman mirrors a long tradition of aides who mistake proximity to power for participation in wisdom. He writes, I suspect, with sincerity — but sincerity does not absolve poor reasoning. History is littered with loyal scribes who confused defence with duty. The Roman historian Tacitus once wrote that under Emperor Tiberius, even praise became perilous, because courtiers learned to worship misjudgment as leadership.
Governments, like individuals, earn respect not by avoiding mistakes but by admitting them. The Attorney-General, to his credit, subtly hinted that the pardon list was still “under review.” That quiet admission was far more statesmanlike than all the frantic essays written in its defence. For in governance, humility is not weakness; it is the intelligence of power.
I suspect Mr Rahman’s task is unenviable. To defend every decision of government, even the questionable ones, must demand more energy than endurance. One recalls Voltaire’s famous quip: “I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.” Our modern aides might revise it as: “I disapprove of what you do, but I must defend it — because it’s my job.”
Yet the wiser course for every public communicator is to see criticism not as hostility, but as civic oxygen. Nations suffocate when their governments stop listening. The fall of monarchies from Versailles to St. Petersburg began not with rebellion, but with deafness. When truth becomes treason, decline becomes destiny.
The pardon of Maryam Sanda — and others like her — will not collapse the Republic, but it chips at its moral fabric. Each act of casual mercy whispers to citizens that the law has favourites. Each defended blunder tells the powerless that justice is negotiable. And each aide who reframes such blunders as brilliance deepens the illusion that governance is theatre and citizens, mere spectators.
So, I return to where I began: yes, I made an error of fact — but not of concern. The real error would be silence.
Mr Rahman may see critics as adversaries; I see them as mirrors. Power without mirrors becomes monstrous. Every leader, from Caesar to Churchill, needed truth-tellers who dared to whisper restraint when applause was loudest. The greatest disservice any aide can render a leader is to protect him from truth.
So I thank Mr Rahman for reading me. But next time, when he writes, I hope he writes not as a defender of pardon, but as a defender of prudence. For mercy may be divine — but when misplaced, it becomes a lesson in irony.
