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Maryam Sanda and Tinubu’s crisis of clemency, By Farooq Kperogi

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8 months ago

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Maryam Sanda

Maryam Sanda and Tinubu’s crisis of clemency, By Farooq Kperogi

President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, like his predecessors, has the constitutional right to grant clemency. He draws this right from Section 175 of the 1999 Constitution, which grants him the power to pardon convicts and commute sentences. But constitutional rights are not moral shields, and mercy must ennoble justice, not mock it.

Prerogative of mercy, designed to temper justice with compassion, has, in the estimation of several people, been cheapened by the recent pardons Tinubu approved for murderers, drug traffickers and other hardened criminals.

The list of 175 beneficiaries of Tinubu’s pardon includes people convicted of violent crimes and narcotics offenses. Among them is Maryam Sanda, sentenced to death in 2020 for killing her husband, Bilyaminu Bello, in a fit of murderous fury.

The case captured the imagination of the nation because it symbolized both the collapse of domestic civility and the delicate hope that justice could still work in Nigeria. Now, Tinubu’s pardon threatens to turn that hope to scorn and righteous indignation.

Following fierce, furious, sustained public backlash, the federal government hurriedly clarified on Thursday that no inmate has yet been released under the current Presidential Prerogative of Mercy exercise. Attorney-General Lateef Fagbemi said the process “remains at the final administrative stage” and that it is still undergoing verification and review.

That acknowledgement of bureaucratic pause is what has prompted this reflection. If the government is really and truly reviewing the pardons, it still has time to salvage its moral standing. Once the releases occur, it will be too late to reverse the damage.

The most exasperating aspect of the exercise is how it was packaged. When news broke that Maryam Sanda was among those granted clemency, the outrage was instantaneous. To soften the blow, a press conference was convened, and Bilyaminu Bello’s biological father by the name of Ahmed Bello Isa, who had been entirely absent from his son’s life, was suddenly thrust before cameras to claim credit for Sanda’s release.

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Reading from what appeared to be a prepared statement, he said he had sought the pardon because he wanted his grandchildren to have the benefit of growing up with their mother.

Meanwhile the family that had adopted, nurtured, educated and buried Bilyaminu Bello watched in shock and disempowering rage. They said the pardon reopened old wounds and compounded their grief with humiliation.

Forgiveness is virtuous only when it is voluntarily given. It can never be coerced or legislated.  We all know that the spectacle of the biological father’s news conference was designed to sanitize the gross injustice of Maryam Sanda’s unmerited pardon and to launder the privilege of her parents through a choreographed display of mawkish sentimentality.

But it succeeded only in deepening public disgust. No one disputes that mercy has a place in governance. A humane system recognizes remorse and rehabilitation. But presidential pardon must be the culmination of justice, not its subversion. When the powerful can engineer clemency for their own, while the poor rot in overcrowded prisons for petty theft, mercy becomes a weapon of inequality.

If the rationale for the pardons is “good conduct,”  where is the proof of her repentance, the evidence of her rehabilitation, the testimony of those hurt by her actions?

Were the adoptive parents of Bilyaminu Bello even consulted? It’s obvious they were not. The public statement signed by Dr. Bello Haliru Mohammed on behalf of the family calling the pardon “the worst possible injustice any family could be made to go through” is all the proof you need.

“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 any family could be made to go through for a loved one,” the statement said.

The presidency’s statement that many pardoned inmates had learned trades or earned degrees in custody is neither here nor there. Drug barons can run classroom workshops, and murderers can earn degrees, but that does not erase their crimes. It doesn’t give justice to the victims of their transgressions.

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The integrity of justice does not lie in whether convicts can read the Bible, recite the Qur’an or weld steel. It lies in whether the law retains meaning after the verdict.

This is not, of course, the first time Nigerian presidents have abused the power of mercy. Past leaders have freed convicted looters, coup plotters, and cronies under the guise of national reconciliation.

What is new, at least based on my recollection of past presidential pardons, is the raw, remorseless, I-dare-you brazenness of Tinubu’s. The inclusion of notorious drug traffickers and violent offenders, even as ordinary Nigerians struggle daily with the terror of crime and narcotics abuse, communicates the message that crime pays if you have the right connection in high places.

That reality has the capacity to sap the last ounce of moral energy from law enforcement officers who risk their lives to arrest traffickers and murderers. It also tells victims that their pain can be erased by elite connections.

It is particularly obscene that this mass pardon occurred just months after Tinubu’s government rolled out a “war on drugs” campaign and urged young Nigerians to resist the lure of narcotics. How can a government that preaches zero tolerance for drug trafficking now pardon convicted traffickers in the same breath?

Yes, as I pointed out earlier, the President’s prerogative of mercy is legal. But legality is not morality. The framers of the Constitution imagined that the power to pardon would correct miscarriages of justice. It was not intended to become a recycling plant for impunity.

Clemency must not reward crime. A pardon should emerge from a rigorous, transparent process involving victims’ families, prosecutors, correctional officials and mental-health professionals, not from political patronage or backroom lobbying. And it should be rare, not routine.

If Tinubu insists on exercising this right, let him do so for prisoners of conscience, wrongly convicted individuals, and those who have served decades for non-violent offenses. It insults justice if it’s mostly for the wealthy and the well-connected who can summon ministers to plead their cause.

By including Maryam Sanda and other violent offenders, the Tinubu administration has set a perilous precedent. It invites every future convict with political or financial clout to expect similar treatment. It signals to judges that their sentences can be casually undone, and to prosecutors that their diligence is futile.

Most dangerously, it erodes public faith in the rule of law. Once people believe justice is negotiable, they seek it elsewhere, often in violence or vigilantism. Nigeria’s fragile social fabric cannot afford that descent.

The Attorney-General’s statement that the list is still “under review” offers the president a chance to rethink. He can still remove names that discredit the exercise and reinforce public confidence by publishing transparent criteria for eligibility.

He can also seize this moment to reform the clemency process itself. The Presidential Advisory Committee on the Prerogative of Mercy must include civil-society representatives, victim-advocacy groups and credible clergy.

If this government truly values mercy, let it show compassion to the countless awaiting-trial inmates languishing without verdicts, some jailed longer than the sentences for their alleged crimes. Mercy belongs not in freeing the privileged guilty but in rescuing the forgotten innocent.

Every pardon sends a message. The absolution of Maryam Sanda tells Nigerians that if you are the scion of a powerful and wealthy family you can murder and get away with it.

True mercy cannot be scripted, televised or bartered for lineage. Tinubu’s mass clemency, if implemented as announced, will deepen Nigeria’s moral anemia.

The president should pause the process, strike out the names that insult justice, and remember that mercy divorced from morality is corruption. For once, let power bow before principle.

Maryam Sanda and Tinubu’s crisis of clemency, By Farooq Kperogi

Farooq Kperogi is a renowned columnist and United States-based Professor of Journalism.

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Release Sowore and Hausa activist Maisango, By Farooq Kperogi

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3 days ago

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June 27, 2026

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Release Sowore and Hausa activist Maisango, By Farooq Kperogi

Release Sowore and Hausa activist Maisango, By Farooq Kperogi

When I chose to visit Nigeria in 2023 after seven years of staying away, family and friends cautioned that the change of leadership from Muhammadu Buhari to Bola Ahmed Tinubu should not anesthetize me into a false sense of security.

But many people that I know to be close to President Tinubu swore that he had vowed never to hound any critic and that I would never be arrested or detained.

They said Tinubu was a discursive democrat who recognized the right of citizens to vigorously ventilate their angst and anger, however disagreeably they may do so. They pointed me to the fact of his having never sued anyone even when multiple people libeled him daily. I was persuaded.

In fact, a bragging right among Tinubu supporters is that even as a candidate he never sued anyone for libel in spite of the steadily unceasing cornucopia of manifestly defamatory statements against him on social media. Even as president, with complete control over the instruments of coercion, his supporters say, he has been remarkably restrained in the face of withering criticism from commentators and opponents.

I was almost convinced that Tinubu was genuinely persuaded by what theorists Chantal Mouffe and Ernesto Laclau have called agonistic pluralism, which is the idea that vigorous and intense disagreements are fundamental to a healthy democracy and that society should channel passionate political disputes into productive debate rather than strive for forced and false consensus.

But the last few weeks have shown that Tinubu, or people in his close circles, are trying to borrow a leaf from the book of past presidencies by showing intolerance for deliberative pluralism.

The ongoing detention of Omoyele Sowore and Ibrahim Aliyu Maisango, the Hausa activist known on social media as Bichiia Maisango, is a troubling signal that the Tinubu administration is either losing its democratic nerve or is allowing people acting in its name to drag it into the familiar cesspit of state intimidation.

Sowore is, of course, no stranger to state harassment. He has built a public life around provocation, resistance and confrontation with power. He can be intentionally abrasive, sometimes rhetorically excessive and almost always allergic to political conformity. But none of these is a crime. Democracies do not imprison citizens because their words offend the fragile ears of power. They do not turn presidential displeasure into a criminal justice project.

The charge against Sowore, stripped of its procedural clutter, is that he called President Tinubu a “criminal” on social media. The DSS reportedly demanded that he delete the post. He refused. The state then activated the Cybercrimes Act against him, like Buhari did a few years ago.

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Now he is in Kuje Correctional Centre after the court revoked his self-recognition bail and issued a bench warrant for his absence on June 16, even though he had appeared in court on June 15, when the court did not sit, informed court officials that he would be traveling to Lagos and requested a later date, only for the matter to be rescheduled for the very next day in what looked like an effort to ensnare him.

People can argue about Sowore’s tone. But the proper answer to harsh speech is more speech, not handcuffs. A president with Tinubu’s long history in opposition politics should know this more than most people. He benefitted from the moral economy of dissent. He used the oxygen of protest, media criticism and oppositional defiance to rise to national prominence. It would be a historic irony if, as president, he now helps to suffocate the very liberties that made his political career possible.

The case of Ibrahim Aliyu Maisango is even more disturbing because it is shrouded in the familiar opacity of Nigeria’s security state. His wife, Hauwa Mundi, says he was invited to DSS headquarters in Abuja on June 2, 2026, and detained after honoring the invitation. For two weeks, the family reportedly had no access to him. She was later allowed to see him but expressed concern about his health.

Maisango is not a bandit. He is not a terrorist. He is not known to lead an armed cell. He is only a Hausa activist whose social media advocacy centers on Hausa ethnic consciousness, the distinction between Hausa and Fulani identity, insecurity, northern leadership, banditry and what he considers the political marginalization of ordinary Hausa people in the North.

I have followed, studied and written about these questions for years. Although I have issues with Maisango’s idea of Hausa ethnic purism, which is sociologically and historically impossible, I have often said that the lazy, ahistorical “Hausa-Fulani” label is a political shorthand invented by the Southern press to simplify the complexity of Hausaphone northern Muslim identity. Read, among many articles I wrote on this, my January 9, 2016, column titled “Is There Such a Thing as ‘Hausa-Fulani’?”

Hausa and Fulani are distinct peoples with distinct histories, even though centuries of contact, Islam, intermarriage, commerce and state formation have created deep cultural entanglements between them. To insist on that distinction is not incitement. It is not treason. It is not a threat to national security. It is, at worst, a contestable claim in the marketplace of ideas. At best, it is a necessary correction of a historically sloppy elite vocabulary.

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If Maisango has called for violence, charge him publicly and let the evidence speak. If he has threatened anyone, put the threat before a judge. If he has broken a law, arraign him in open court. But detaining him in the shadows while unnamed officials mutter darkly about “dividing the country” is pure, unacceptable intimidation by insinuation.

Nigeria’s security agencies have perfected the art of treating thought as contraband. They arrest first, search for justification later and outsource explanation to anonymous whispers. When citizens ask why someone is being held, the response is often a fog of national security language designed to scare people away from scrutiny. That is how illegitimate and insecure states behave.

The DSS reportedly says it does not detain people without detention orders. That is not reassuring. A detention order is not a moral blank cheque. It is not a substitute for transparency. It does not answer the question about what exactly Maisango did. If his offense is serious enough to justify detention, it should be clear enough to state. If it is too embarrassing to state, then it is probably too flimsy to sustain.
There is a deeper danger here. The North is a graveyard of unasked questions. Entire communities are being emptied by bandits. Farmers pay taxes to terrorists. Villagers negotiate with kidnappers because the state has abandoned them. Traditional institutions have lost moral legitimacy in many places. Young people are angry, suspicious and politically restless. In such a climate, suppressing speech about Hausa identity, Fulani power, banditry and northern elite failure will only produce more resentment, drive debate underground, cause mutual suspicions to fester and convert grievances into conspiracies.

Tinubu should understand this. He was once on the receiving end of state repression. His political mythology is built around NADECO, exile, resistance and pro-democracy activism. His supporters still invoke June 12 as evidence of his democratic credentials. But June 12 and its symbolism mean nothing if the state can detain activists for speech, criminalize insult and hide behind security agencies when citizens demand accountability.

This is why Sowore and Maisango should be released. In Sowore’s case, the government should end this needless prosecution. A president who is daily called worse things by angry citizens should not be seen to be hiding behind the Cybercrimes Act to hound an activist. If Tinubu truly has the thick skin his admirers attribute to him, he should prove it by refusing to dignify insult with prosecution. Let Sowore speak. Let people judge him. That is how democracy works.

In Maisango’s case, the DSS should either charge him immediately in open court with a recognizable offense or release him without further delay. His health and access to family should not depend on the benevolence of security officials. He is a citizen, not a captive of imperial power.

The presidency also needs to send a clear message to security agencies that criticism of the president, ethnic self-definition, historical argument and social media advocacy are not crimes. Nigeria is already too fragile for the state to manufacture new enemies from citizens with strong opinions.

Tinubu still has a chance to show that the people who assured me in 2023 that he would not hound critics were not merely laundering wishful thinking as insider knowledge. He can show that his democratic credentials are not museum artifacts from the 1990s.

Release Sowore. Release Ibrahim Aliyu Maisango, known to his followers as Bichiia Maisango. Let the country breathe. Let citizens speak. Let arguments be defeated by better arguments, not by detention orders.

Kperogi is a renowned columnist and United States-based Professor of Journalism

 

Release Sowore and Hausa activist Maisango, By Farooq Kperogi

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Opinion

Mob Justice and the Death of Malama Ummulkhair: A Test for Nigeria’s Rule of Law

Published

6 days ago

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June 24, 2026

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MURIC Denounces Joint Statement With Fulani Group, Clarifies Identity Confusion With AMURIC

Mob Justice and the Death of Malama Ummulkhair: A Test for Nigeria’s Rule of Law

By Mallam Ibrahim Agunbiade

The brutal killing of Malama Ummulkhair, a respected Islamic teacher and mother of four in Maraban Jos, Kaduna State, is more than a tragic incident; it is a disturbing reminder of the grave dangers posed by mob justice, misinformation, and the erosion of the rule of law.

Reports indicate that Malama Ummulkhair was accused of attempting to steal children—an allegation that had not been verified before an enraged mob descended on her. Although security operatives reportedly rescued her and took her into police custody, the situation took a horrifying turn when the crowd allegedly overpowered security personnel, dragged her from custody, and killed her.

What makes this tragedy even more heartbreaking is the story behind the victim. A woman who left her home to attend an Islamic programme after exchanging farewell words with her husband never returned. A devoted mother and teacher who spent her life educating and nurturing children became a victim of the very society she served.

This incident raises profound questions that Nigerians must confront. How can an unverified accusation become a death sentence? Who granted ordinary citizens the authority to act as judge, jury, and executioner? Most importantly, how could an individual already under police protection become vulnerable to mob violence?

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Those responsible for this heinous act must face the full weight of the law. Every individual found to have participated in the attack should be identified, arrested, and prosecuted. Equally important, any security personnel whose negligence, compromise, or failure of duty contributed to the breach of custody must be thoroughly investigated and held accountable.

The protection of individuals in custody is a fundamental obligation of law enforcement agencies. If citizens can be forcibly removed from police custody and killed by a mob, it signals a dangerous breakdown in public security and threatens the very foundations of justice.

Beyond accountability, there is a compelling humanitarian responsibility. The government should consider providing comprehensive support for the children left behind by Malama Ummulkhair. Educational scholarships, welfare assistance, and opportunities that secure their future would not erase their loss, but they would demonstrate society’s commitment to standing with victims of injustice.

There is also a need to preserve her memory. Malama Ummulkhair should not become another forgotten name in a long list of victims of mob violence. Appropriate measures should be taken to honour her legacy and ensure that her story serves as a lasting reminder of the consequences of lawlessness and the importance of justice.

Sadly, this is not an isolated case. Nigeria has witnessed several instances where rumours, suspicion, and collective anger have led to the deaths of innocent people. The killing of Deborah Samuel, who was lynched following allegations linked to religious sentiments, remains one of the most painful examples of how mob action can destroy lives and undermine justice.

These incidents underscore a sobering reality: a society where accusations replace evidence is a society where no one is truly safe. Today, the victim may be someone falsely accused of a crime; tomorrow, it could be any innocent citizen caught in the tide of public outrage.

The fight against jungle justice requires a collective response. Government institutions, security agencies, religious leaders, traditional rulers, community elders, civil society organisations, and ordinary citizens must continue to condemn and resist mob violence in all its forms. Neither faith, culture, nor tradition justifies the taking of human life without due process.

Justice is a cornerstone of every civilised society. No allegation, regardless of its severity, gives anyone the right to kill. The law exists to investigate accusations, establish facts, and determine guilt or innocence.

Malama Ummulkhair’s death must not become another forgotten tragedy. Instead, it should serve as a turning point—a moment that compels Nigeria to choose law over lawlessness, justice over vengeance, and humanity over mob brutality.

May her soul rest in peace, and may her family find strength, comfort, and the justice they deserve.

Mob Justice and the Death of Malama Ummulkhair: A Test for Nigeria’s Rule of Law

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Oluwo, Elebuibon and Terror war

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1 week ago

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June 22, 2026

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Oluwo, Elebuibon and Terror war

Oluwo, Elebuibon and Terror war

Lasisi Olagunju

The Oluwo of Iwo, Oba Abdulrasheed Adewale Akanbi, recently threw a challenge at Yoruba spiritual leaders. His target was the forest where terrorists are holding schoolchildren and teachers abducted from Oriire Local Government Area of Oyo State.

“All the Babalawo, Araba and Alfas who are always boasting of one charm or another, the time has come to use your powers to rescue the abducted children of Oriire. If money is the problem, I will provide it. Or are your charms effective only when it is time to afflict innocent people? Isé ti dé. War is here. The children are still in the bush.”

The oba did not stop there. He mentioned Chief Yemi Elebuibon and a few other prominent custodians of Yoruba spirituality by name. It was the sort of challenge that would earn applause in the marketplace. Many heard it and nodded in agreement; some clapped for the Oba. After all, if spiritual powers are as potent as their possessors claim, why should they not be deployed against kidnappers and terrorists?

But there was a problem. The challenge may have sounded attractive; it was not one that an Oba should throw.

Chief Elebuibon, like every able elder of Yorubaland, did not leave his vocal cords at the launderette. He responded with characteristic wit and lyrical force.

“What Oluwo said was not properly said,” he declared. “He should have called on pastors, mallams and babalawo alike to help. We know how things are done in Yorubaland. We do not invite farmers to deliberate on warfare, nor do we summon traders to teach farming. No one fights a war with a babalawo’s staff, just as no one uses an ìrùkèrè to sack a town.

“If you see a babalawo at the war front, he is there to prepare the ground for victory, not to fight the battle himself. Warriors fight wars; babalawo perform the duties assigned to them by tradition.”

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A professor friend listened to Oluwo. She listened to Chief Elebuibon. Then she exclaimed: “What stops the Oluwo himself from leading the war as the kings of old did?”

“That is true,” I replied.

Oduduwa came to Ile-Ife not as a social commentator but as a conqueror. His descendants inherited crowns and swords together. In old Oyo, Alaafin Ajaka lost his throne because he could neither confront nor defeat the enemies threatening his kingdom. Only after the death of his warlike brother, Sango, did he return to power and redeem his reputation on the battlefield.

If, therefore, the Oluwo believes the forests of Yorubaland are overrun by terrorists, perhaps the challenge should begin closer to home. Let the king do as his forefathers did. Let him enter the forest and emerge with victory. Ogun dé! The war drums are sounding.

Yet, that is precisely why an Oba should be careful with challenges such as the one the Oluwo threw at priests, pastors and mallams.

An Oba may possess the mystery of Ọbatálá, who “sits on the skin of an ant.” Yet he is not permitted to drag a priest about like a bag of beans. They should work together.

The Yoruba say that the crown is not merely worn on the head; it is carried in the mouth. Once a king speaks, his words cease to be ordinary words. They acquire the weight of the throne. That is why our fathers insisted that certain utterances belong to the marketplace and must never escape from the palace gates.

The palace and the street are not the same institution. The marketplace thrives on noise; the palace survives on measured dignity. An Oba may be criticised, but he must never sound like a critic. He may be angry, but he must never appear quarrelsome. The throne is diminished when it descends into the arena of everyday disputation.

As the Yoruba wisely observe, ọba kì í jà; aṣojú rẹ̀ ńii jà fún un (the king does not fight; his emissaries fight on his behalf). They also say: ọba kì í péjọ; ìjọ ni ń péjọ fun ọba (the king does not go seeking gatherings; gatherings come seeking the king).

The late economics historian, Professor Wale Oyemakinde, captured this ideal brilliantly in his ‘The impact of nineteenth century warfare on Yoruba traditional chieftaincy.’ He wrote that the Yoruba Oba was “distinct and distinguished.” He was Kabiyesi—one whose authority could not be casually challenged; Alaiyeluwa—the earthly representative of divine order. He was expected to be the eyes and ears of the people, the bridge between the living and their ancestors, the custodian of peace and, when necessary, the inspirer of war.

For that reason, the Oba’s conduct was governed by restraints as much as by privileges. Oyemakinde reminds us that while all roads led to the king’s palace, the king hardly travelled. While subjects visited him, he did not go about visiting subjects. While others paid homage, he paid homage to no one. Distance preserved dignity; restraint protected majesty.

William Shakespeare understood this burden of kingship. In Henry IV, Part II, as the king broods over the burdens and anxieties of office, he contrasts his own restless nights with the tranquil sleep of his lowliest subjects and concludes: “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.” The crown is heavy not because it grants power but because it demands discipline and sacrifice. A king must often resist saying what every other person is free to say.

That is why Oluwo’s challenge, though entertaining, sounded misplaced. There are words that may come from a warrior, a politician, a priest or a columnist. There are words that should not come from the throne.

The Yoruba compare the king to the eagle perched atop the iroko tree. From that lofty height, the eagle sees farther than every other bird. Yet it does not, like the restless ẹyẹ ẹ̀ga (weaver bird) or the ever-chattering ibaka (canary), flutter noisily from branch to branch advertising its presence. The eagle’s authority lies in its stillness; its majesty in its composure.

The throne is diminished when it competes with the marketplace or the cyberspace. Whenever a king abandons the elevated language of the palace for the rough-and-tumble of public controversy, he risks exchanging majesty for momentary. But applause is like the crackle of dry leaves in harmattan—briefly loud, then gone with the first dews of dawn.

 

Oluwo, Elebuibon and Terror war

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