Somewhere in Nigeria today, a mother still lights a candle for a son who will never return home. His killer, once convicted, now walks free — released by the stroke of a presidential pen. It is called clemency. The Constitution permits it. But for those who still mourn, it feels like a second death — a betrayal wrapped in the robe of legality.
Sections 175 and 212 of the Nigerian Constitution empower the President and State Governors to exercise the prerogative of mercy. It is, in theory, an instrument of compassion — a humane outlet for justice to bend toward forgiveness. But when mercy is granted without memory, without restitution, and without regard for those left behind, it becomes something darker: state-sanctioned amnesia.
The law may be satisfied, but the conscience of the nation is not. For every offender set free, there is a family condemned to relive their pain. Widows are left to raise children alone. Parents bury their dreams. Communities bear the scars. The state forgives the offender — yet forgets the offended. Mercy for the guilty has somehow come to mean neglect for the innocent.
Nigeria’s justice system, in its current form, offers no structured path for victim compensation when pardons are granted. The entire machinery of mercy is built around the rehabilitation of convicts, not the restoration of victims. As Chief Mike Ozekhome, SAN, rightly observed, “Crime is not just a wrong against the state; it is an injury to individuals.” If that is true, then justice must balance both punishment and restitution — not tilt one way in the name of compassion.
The power of pardon was never intended to be political currency. It must be exercised with fairness, transparency, and due process. A pardon can reduce or erase punishment, but it cannot — and should not — erase guilt. Courts have long debated whether pardons can take effect while appeals are pending or only after conviction is final. Yet in every argument, one question remains unanswered: Where is the victim in all of this?
Consider the Tinubu clemency of April 2024. The State House announced that 175 inmates had been granted pardons or commutations. Some death sentences were reduced to life imprisonment; others were released entirely. The reasons given were “remorse,” “good conduct,” “advanced age,” and “vocational skill acquisition.” Among the beneficiaries were convicted murderers, drug traffickers, and illegal miners.
What was missing — painfully and conspicuously — was any mention of the victims. No talk of restitution. No plan for compensating the families destroyed by these crimes. No national dialogue on balancing mercy with accountability. The scales of justice, once again, tipped toward the side of those who took, not those who lost.
If the state has the power to forgive those who take lives, it must also bear the moral and constitutional duty to heal those whose lives were shattered. Forgiveness without restitution is moral laziness; it turns compassion into cruelty. True justice must serve both the offender and the offended — anything less is hypocrisy.
Nigeria must reform its pardon laws. Victim-compensation frameworks should be written into our statutes. Victims’ rights must be a standing item in every clemency review. And judicial oversight must ensure that mercy is not traded for political loyalty.
Justice and mercy were never meant to be enemies — they are twin pillars of moral civilization. But when a nation extends mercy only to the wrongdoer and forgets the wronged, it ceases to be merciful. It becomes complicit.
If Nigeria must pardon killers, then it must also comfort their victims. Not as charity. Not as sympathy. But as justice — in its truest, purest form.
