When the Prerogative of Mercy Inflicts Inexorable Pain

In the wake of President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s recent exercise of the Prerogative of Mercy, granting clemency to 175 convicted persons across Nigeria — from drug traffickers to murderers — it appears that Nigeria has become a land where crime not only pays but also receives state-sponsored forgiveness.

Among those granted state pardon, one particular name has reignited deep emotions and public debate — Maryam Sanda. The woman convicted for the murder of her husband, Bilyaminu Ahmed Bello, in 2017.

Sanda’s inclusion among those pardoned has stirred profound grief and outrage within the late Bilyaminu’s family, who view the decision as a painful reversal of the justice painstakingly secured through Nigeria’s highest courts. The family’s official statement, issued on Monday, 13th October 2025, and signed by the octogenarian Dr. Bello Haliru Mohammed (OFR), Dangaladiman Gwandu, encapsulates their anguish and moral objection to the presidential gesture, which they describe as “the worst possible injustice any family could be made to go through for a loved one.”

The case, which gripped national attention eight years ago, involved the tragic killing of Bilyaminu Ahmed Bello, a young father and son of a prominent family, allegedly stabbed to death by his wife, Maryam Sanda, on the night of Sunday, 19th November 2017. The Federal Capital Territory High Court, after extensive trial proceedings, found Sanda guilty of premeditated murder and sentenced her to death on 27th January 2020. Her conviction was subsequently upheld by both the Court of Appeal in 2020 and the Supreme Court in October 2023, thereby exhausting all judicial avenues for reversal.

For the deceased’s family, these judgments symbolised closure — a sense of justice served and the culmination of their long emotional ordeal. However, the presidential pardon, coming barely two years after the Supreme Court’s affirmation, has reopened old wounds. “To have Maryam Sanda walk the face of the earth again, free from any blemish for her heinous crime, as if she had merely squashed an ant, is the worst possible injustice,” the family lamented.

The Prerogative of Mercy, enshrined in Section 175 of the Nigerian Constitution, empowers the President to grant pardon or clemency to convicted persons. It is often invoked on humanitarian grounds — age, ill health, or appeals for compassion. Yet, as this case demonstrates, the application of mercy can sometimes deepen rather than heal the emotional scars of those left behind.

In Islamic jurisprudence, Maryam Sanda’s case falls under Qisas crimes — crimes against an individual. Crimes related to physical injuries such as murder are considered the private right of the victim or their heirs. In such cases, a president or ruler does not have the authority to pardon a murderer. The right to retribution or pardon belongs solely to the victim’s family, not the head of state.

Under Islamic law, intentional murder offers the victim’s family three options: to demand that the state carry out the death penalty on the murderer, to accept financial compensation (diya) from the offender or their family, or to grant a full pardon freely. In any of these, only the victim’s family has the right to decide. Thus, in Maryam Sanda’s case, the presidential pardon encroaches upon the private rights of her victim’s family.

The Bello family insists that their silence since 2017 had been guided by respect for due process and consideration for the couple’s two young children. “We placed our trust and abiding confidence in the nation’s judicial process to run its full course and deliver justice,” the statement reads. Their frustration stems from what they perceive as an act of appeasement that disregards the suffering of the victim’s relatives while rewarding a “convicted murderer who has shown no remorse.”

At the heart of this development lies a profound ethical question: Can mercy be just when it negates accountability for a grievous wrong? Legal experts note that while the President’s power of clemency is constitutionally incontestable, its moral weight depends on context, transparency, and sensitivity to victims. The lack of clarity surrounding the criteria for Sanda’s pardon — reportedly influenced by appeals from her family — has fuelled speculation about privilege and selective compassion in Nigeria’s justice system.

For the Bello family, the pardon undermines public confidence in justice. “This action appears primarily driven by the motivation to appease Maryam’s family,” the statement alleges, “while overlooking the inexorable pain now inflicted on the victim’s grieving relatives, friends, and associates.”

Despite their anguish, the family draws spiritual comfort from faith, expressing belief that ultimate justice rests with God. “The ultimate comprehensive justice resides purely with the Supreme Judge and our Creator,” they declare, “who will dispense this matter on the Day of Recompense where no one can intercede on behalf of anyone else.” They conclude their message with prayers for the repose of Bilyaminu’s soul and divine protection for his children — invoking Allah to “be there at every turn of their needs and raise them to be good, obedient Muslims and patriotic Nigerians.”

The Maryam Sanda pardon has reignited national discourse on the moral limits of presidential mercy and its implications for victims’ rights. While the Constitution grants the President discretionary power to temper justice with compassion, the pain expressed by the Bello family underscores the human dimension of clemency decisions — that behind every act of mercy may lie another’s enduring grief.

In societies striving for justice and moral integrity, mercy must never become the mask of privilege. True compassion uplifts the innocent as much as it redeems the guilty. When justice becomes negotiable, and accountability is traded for sentiment or influence, the moral centre of governance begins to erode — and the pain of the righteous becomes the price of political benevolence.

In this instance, the Prerogative of Mercy has indeed inflicted inexorable pain, leaving many Nigerians to ponder whether justice, once served, can justly be undone.