Does Mercy Undermine Justice? : Unpacking the Maryam Sanda Pardon

Over the past week, Nigeria’s social media space has been filled with a mix of disbelief and outrage. President Bola Tinubu, acting on the recommendation of the Presidential Advisory Committee on the Prerogative of Mercy, approved clemency for over 170 inmates.

Looking at the names, it was a mix of persons who were put behind bars for a variety of reasons ranging from drug-related offenses to kidnapping and even murder.

Speaking about murder, the name that caught most of the nation’s attention was one that many remember from a tragic and controversial case, Maryam Sanda, who was convicted for the killing of her husband, Bilyaminu Bello, in 2020.

For many Nigerians, especially those who were invested in the case when the news broke initially, her inclusion in the list felt like an open wound being touched again.

Questions quickly arose: How does someone sentenced to death for culpable homicide get granted clemency barely six years after conviction? What is the legal basis for such mercy? And what message does this send about justice in Nigeria?

All this and more will be discussed in this article.

What the law says about clemency

Under Section 175 of the Constitution of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, 1999 (as amended), the President has the power to grant any person concerned with or convicted of an offense a pardon, reprieve, respite, or remission of punishment.

This is what is known as the prerogative of mercy. It is a constitutional power, exercised on the advice of the Council of State and the Presidential Advisory Committee on the Prerogative of Mercy (PACPM).

Contrary to what certain sections of the populace may think, the idea itself is not uniquely Nigerian. Like a lot of our jurisprudence and political systems, it is a legacy of the English common law tradition, where the “royal prerogative of mercy” allowed the monarch to temper the rigidity of the law by intervening to pardon, commute, or mitigate punishment.

The concept travelled through British colonial administration into the legal systems of many Commonwealth countries, including Nigeria. Over time, our own constitutional framework adopted and localized it, transferring that ancient royal power to the office of the President and the Governors of the States.

The rationale behind this provision is that justice, in its purest sense, must sometimes be tempered with compassion. It allows the State to correct excesses of punishment, to show mercy to those who have demonstrated genuine reform, or to acknowledge mitigating circumstances that the courts could not fully consider at trial.

Yet, it also places a great responsibility on the president to act judiciously, with transparency and fairness.

Are there criteria for mercy?

While the Constitution provides for the existence of this power, it does not spell out the criteria. The PACPM typically relies on factors such as age, health, length of time served, conduct in prison, remorse, and humanitarian grounds. However, the absence of publicly available guidelines often leads to suspicion whenever high-profile cases are involved.

As it often is when systems are perceived as non-transparent, this opacity is what fuels public distrust.

Nigerians are left to wonder whether mercy is guided by genuine rehabilitation or by influence, connection, and privilege. In a country where ordinary citizens languish for years in correctional centers awaiting trial, the selective use of mercy can easily appear like injustice disguised as compassion, or in cases like this, one might be left to wonder if there is some ulterior motive for the exercise of this power, perhaps as a tool to curry political favors or gain popularity with certain sections of the citizenry.

The case of Maryam Sanda

Maryam Sanda’s case is one that once gripped the nation. She was found guilty of killing her husband, Bilyaminu Bello, after a domestic dispute. The court described the act as premeditated and sentenced her to death by hanging. Her conviction was upheld on appeal, and for many, it became a tragic symbol of how violence within the home can end in ruin for everyone involved.

The news of her clemency struck a deep nerve. Some argued that she had shown remorse and had been of good behavior in custody and that her young children should not be made to suffer her absence. Others, however, saw the decision as an insult to justice, especially to victims of gender-based and domestic violence.

Many pointed out that mercy of this nature, if not transparently justified, risks sending the wrong signal, specifically that those with resources or public sympathy can eventually escape the full weight of justice.

It is also worth noting that the family of the deceased, particularly his father, publicly expressed forgiveness and supported the plea for mercy. As much as that gesture carries weight, forgiveness, however, does not erase the rule of law.

The courts exist not only to punish wrongdoing but also to preserve public confidence in justice itself, which is partly why criminal offences by law are not between the victim of the crime and the accused but rather between the state and the defendant.

Designing mercy without weakening justice

Clemency, when properly applied, is not an enemy of justice. But for it to retain legitimacy, it must be transparent, principled, and inclusive of victims’ voices. Nigeria needs a clearer structure for how mercy is granted, especially in serious offenses. Here are a few recommendations.

1. Publish clear criteria and reasons

When a convict is considered for pardon, the public should be informed of the specific grounds, whether rehabilitation, health, age, or humanitarian appeal. Without this, every exercise of mercy risks being viewed as political.

2. Include victims or their families in the process.

Justice must consider the people left behind. Victims’ families should be consulted before decisions are made, particularly in cases of serious crime. Their perspectives should form part of the recommendation process to the President.

3. Introduce conditional clemency.

Rather than full pardons, clemency can be conditional, requiring some form of supervision, community service, or counseling. This ensures that mercy does not translate to total exemption from accountability.

4. Separate humanitarian mercy from political clemency.

There should be a distinction between pardons based on humanitarian grounds and those motivated by political considerations or historical reconciliation. Each requires a different process and level of transparency.

5. Annual reports from the PACPM.

The Presidential Advisory Committee should release annual summaries of its decisions and criteria applied. This would help institutionalize accountability and make mercy a more credible aspect of our justice system.

A final reflection

Justice without mercy can be cruel. Mercy without justice can be lawless. The challenge for every society is to find a balance between both.

Maryam Sanda’s pardon has reopened a difficult conversation, one that touches on how we view repentance, punishment, and forgiveness. If handled properly, it could push Nigeria toward a more thoughtful and transparent justice system.

But if ignored, it may further entrench the idea that justice bends toward the powerful.

I firmly believe that mercy should never erase guilt; it should transform it into responsibility. Only then can it carry out the dual responsibility of serving both the law and the conscience of a nation.