Presidential Pardon: Why Maryam Sanda and 85 Convicts Got Lesser Sentences — AGF Explains the Legal, Moral, and Political Calculus

In an unprecedented act of executive clemency that has sparked heated debate across Nigeria’s legal and moral spectrum, President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, acting on the recommendations of the Presidential Advisory Committee on Prerogative of Mercy, approved a partial pardon and sentence reduction for 86 convicts, among them the widely known Maryam Sanda, whose death sentence for the 2017 killing of her husband, Bilyamin Bello, had long symbolized the nation’s toughest face of justice in domestic homicide cases.

The decision, announced by Prince Lateef Fagbemi (SAN), the Attorney-General of the Federation and Minister of Justice, came after what he described as a “final legal and procedural review” of 175 names earlier considered for presidential clemency. The AGF explained that the President ordered a meticulous re-examination to ensure that only those who met the strict statutory and moral criteria benefitted.

But far beyond the legalese of the Attorney-General’s explanation lies a politically sensitive story — one that raises profound questions about the boundaries of mercy, the meaning of justice, and the uneasy intersection of compassion and credibility in Nigeria’s evolving democracy.

When news broke that Maryam Sanda — once condemned to die by hanging — had been granted a sentence reduction to 12 years imprisonment, the reaction was instant and divided. For some, it was an act of humane reconsideration, rooted in compassion and the best interests of her children. For others, it was a miscarriage of justice, a symbol of elite privilege in a country where the poor rarely taste mercy.

The Presidency’s official release, distributed through the Federal Ministry of Justice, included a list of 86 convicts whose sentences had been either reduced or commuted. According to the statement, the review reflected “fairness, justice, and the spirit of the exercise.”

Among the beneficiaries were individuals convicted of offences ranging from manslaughter and armed robbery to fraud, illegal possession of arms, drug trafficking, and unlawful mining. While four death sentences were commuted to life imprisonment, 15 convicts received outright clemency, and several others had their sentences reduced on grounds of good conduct, remorse, and rehabilitation.

However, the inclusion of Maryam Sanda’s name on the list was what lit the fuse of controversy — a reminder that the line between justice served and mercy extended can often blur under the weight of political optics and social emotion.

In his carefully worded statement, AGF Lateef Fagbemi framed the decision as one grounded strictly in law, not emotion. He emphasized that the Prerogative of Mercy is a constitutional power vested in the President under Section 175 of the 1999 Constitution (as amended) — a power that allows for the grant of pardons, reprieves, and sentence commutations to convicted persons who have demonstrated reformation or suffered unduly harsh penalties.

“During this final review, few persons earlier recommended were found not to have met the necessary requirements and were accordingly delisted, while in some other cases, sentences were reviewed and reduced to reflect fairness, justice, and the spirit of the exercise,”
— Prince Lateef Fagbemi (SAN), Attorney-General of the Federation.

Fagbemi’s tone was both defensive and pedagogical — a recognition that in a society as polarized as Nigeria’s, presidential mercy can easily be misconstrued as political favoritism.

He noted that all beneficiaries had undergone rigorous vetting by the Presidential Advisory Committee on Prerogative of Mercy, which comprises legal experts, religious figures, psychologists, and correctional officials. The Committee, he said, evaluated applications using a set of criteria that included:

1. Evidence of remorse and repentance.
2. Demonstrated good behavior in custody.
3. Completion of rehabilitative or vocational programs.
4. Health conditions or age considerations.
5. And in some cases, the best interests of dependents, especially minors.

For Maryam Sanda, Fagbemi explained, all five factors were satisfied. She had served six years and eight months of her sentence, was reportedly a model inmate, and had taken up educational and vocational training while in custody. Most crucially, he said, “the decision was made in the best interest of her children, who had been deprived of maternal presence since infancy.”

Maryam Sanda’s case remains one of Nigeria’s most infamous domestic crime sagas. Convicted in January 2020 by the High Court of the Federal Capital Territory, Abuja, she was found guilty of stabbing her husband, Bilyamin Bello — son of a former PDP chairman, Alhaji Haliru Bello — to death during a domestic altercation in 2017.

Justice Yusuf Halilu, who presided over the case, declared at the time that “every crime must have its punishment,” before delivering the death sentence. Sanda’s tearful pleas in court, and her attempt to flee moments after the judgment, were seared into public memory.

Her subsequent appeals failed at the Court of Appeal and the Supreme Court, solidifying her death sentence. Yet, in the years that followed, a quiet narrative began to shift around her. Reports from Suleja Correctional Facility painted a picture of a remorseful, reformed, and cooperative inmate who had embraced education, religion, and mentorship roles among other female inmates.

According to correctional officers cited by the Ministry of Justice, Sanda was described as “a beacon of transformation” — someone who had “used her experience to counsel others against domestic violence and crime.” These glowing reports, coupled with humanitarian appeals from clerics and rights advocates, paved the path for her eventual inclusion in the Presidential Clemency shortlist.

Presidential clemency in Nigeria has long walked the fine line between justice and compassion. The Prerogative of Mercy Committee, established under successive administrations, functions as a quasi-judicial advisory body — reviewing the cases of convicts deemed worthy of leniency based on moral, legal, or humanitarian grounds.

From the days of President Olusegun Obasanjo, who famously pardoned former Bayelsa Governor Diepreye Alamieyeseigha, to Goodluck Jonathan’s pardon of his former boss, the exercise has always been both legal and political.

In the Tinubu era, however, this year’s round of clemency carries additional symbolism. It arrives amid a national mood of economic hardship, public distrust in institutions, and rising skepticism about elite accountability. In that context, any sign of leniency toward privileged offenders risks being interpreted as selective justice — an accusation already echoing loudly across Nigeria’s social media spaces.

According to the Federal Ministry of Justice, the final list approved by President Tinubu reflected a careful balance between compassion and national security.

Out of 175 convicts initially recommended, 86 had their sentences reduced, while four death-row inmates were spared execution and commuted to life imprisonment. Fifteen individuals received outright clemency, and another 15 historical figures, including the late Ken Saro-Wiwa and Herbert Macaulay, were formally recognized through posthumous pardons — an act the AGF described as “a symbolic healing gesture for national reconciliation.”

Among the notable living beneficiaries were:

• Maryam Sanda – Death sentence commuted to 12 years imprisonment.
• Chukwukelu Sunday Calistus – Life imprisonment for drug-related offences reduced to 20 years after serving 11.
• Yusuf Owolabi – Life imprisonment for manslaughter reduced to 15 years after 10 served.
• Ifeanyi Eze – Life sentence reduced to 15 years, having served four.
• Mallam Ibrahim Sulaiman – Life imprisonment for armed robbery reduced to 15 years.
• Samson Ajayi – 15-year sentence reduced to 10 years.
• Alhaji Abubakar Tanko – 30-year sentence reduced to 20 years, after seven served.
• Nnamdi Anene – Life imprisonment for illegal arms dealing commuted to 20 years.

Other convicts were imprisoned for fraud, forgery, unlawful mining, and breach of trust — offences viewed as serious but not irredeemable under the principles of rehabilitation.

The Tinubu administration’s justice philosophy appears to align with a reformist and rehabilitative model rather than a purely punitive one. Officials close to the Presidency describe the decision as part of a broader Correctional Justice Reform, which seeks to decongest prisons, humanize penal policy, and promote restorative justice.

Under this paradigm, clemency is not a betrayal of justice but an extension of it — a recognition that the ultimate aim of punishment is reformation, not revenge.

Justice reform advocates, such as the Centre for Legal and Penal Reform (CLPR), have long argued that the Nigerian correctional system has become a warehouse for despair rather than a factory for redemption. Many inmates, they point out, serve long terms for non-violent offences, often under degrading conditions, and emerge more hardened than reformed.

By granting selective mercy to reformed prisoners, the Presidency signals a belief that society benefits more from transformed citizens than from perpetual incarceration.

Still, this argument finds little comfort among Nigerians who see the clemency list as a portrait of selective compassion. The most common criticism, repeated across social media and editorial pages, is that “no poor man was pardoned.”

One online comment summed it up:

“A useless government! Who on the list is an ordinary poor man or woman with no connection?”

The outrage stems from a deep-seated perception that justice in Nigeria is two-tiered — merciless for the poor, merciful for the privileged. Maryam Sanda, a woman of elite background, became the lightning rod for that anger. To her critics, her reduced sentence reaffirms the cynical belief that the powerful never truly face the consequences of their crimes.

Others, however, see hypocrisy in that anger. They argue that the same society that clamours for prison reform and humane justice cannot then denounce clemency when it is applied — even to the unpopular. To them, mercy cannot be selective; it must remain blind to social class if it is to mean anything.

Politically, President Tinubu’s decision represents a delicate balancing act. On one hand, he must project the image of a compassionate reformer committed to justice and human rights. On the other, he must guard against accusations of weakness or favoritism — especially at a time when his administration is under scrutiny for its handling of corruption cases, economic hardship, and political patronage.

Presidential insiders frame the clemency as part of Tinubu’s “compassionate justice agenda,” aimed at humanizing governance and aligning with global human rights standards. Yet, opponents in the opposition Labour Party (LP) and People’s Democratic Party (PDP) have seized upon the announcement as evidence of double standards.

A senior PDP spokesman remarked:

“How can the same government that executes petty thieves now commute the sentence of a convicted murderer because she is politically connected? This is not justice. This is privilege repackaged as mercy.”

Political analysts, however, caution that such interpretations may oversimplify the complex interplay of legal recommendation and executive discretion. The President, they argue, acted within constitutional limits and in consultation with an independent committee.

Clemency exercises are rarely devoid of political undertones. Around the world, presidents and governors use pardons to signal ideological commitments — whether to human rights, reconciliation, or reform. In Nigeria, such acts often coincide with national holidays or political transitions, offering leaders a chance to shape their moral narrative.

For President Tinubu, the 2025 Presidential Pardon List may serve multiple symbolic purposes:

1. Rebranding Governance: Amid criticisms of harsh economic policies, the clemency signals a “human face” to his administration.
2. Correctional Reform Agenda: It demonstrates alignment with ongoing decongestion initiatives across correctional facilities.
3. Moral Messaging: It frames the government as capable of both justice and mercy — an image politically useful in times of social tension.
4. Political Healing: The posthumous pardons for historical figures like Saro-Wiwa and Macaulay act as gestures of national unity and symbolic reconciliation.

But the Maryam Sanda inclusion complicates that messaging. Instead of soft power optics, it has reignited public skepticism about who qualifies as “redeemable” in a system often blind to everyday suffering.

Legal scholars are split on whether the clemency constitutes an abuse of presidential discretion.

Professor Akin Oyebode, constitutional law expert, insists that the President’s prerogative of mercy is absolute but not arbitrary:

“It is a constitutional power designed to temper justice with mercy. But it must never be seen as undermining the authority of the courts.”

He argues that the danger lies not in the act itself, but in public perception. When mercy is extended to a high-profile convict while thousands of lesser-known prisoners languish, “it undermines the moral equity of the justice system.”

Conversely, Dr. Hauwa Ibrahim, human rights lawyer and former UN adviser, welcomes the decision as “a victory for restorative justice.” She points out that the Constitution empowers the President to exercise mercy “for good reason or public interest,” and that Sanda’s demonstrated remorse and rehabilitative progress fall within those parameters.

“A society that cannot forgive cannot heal. The purpose of prison is correction, not eternal condemnation,” Ibrahim said.

At Suleja Correctional Facility, where Sanda has spent nearly seven years, news of her commutation reportedly sparked mixed emotions among inmates. Some expressed joy, citing her as “a model of transformation.” Others, particularly those serving long sentences for lesser crimes, reportedly reacted with quiet resentment, seeing her case as a symbol of inequality.

A correctional officer who requested anonymity told The Guardian Nigeria:

“She is disciplined and respectful, yes. But you can’t blame others for feeling forgotten. There are women here who’ve been detained without trial for eight years.”

The clemency, therefore, highlights a deeper institutional crisis: the uneven application of justice in Nigeria’s correctional system — where influence, legal access, and public visibility can often determine one’s fate more than the facts of the case.

Internationally, the exercise of executive clemency is recognized as a humanitarian tool and a constitutional safety valve. The United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC) encourages such acts, particularly for reformed prisoners and vulnerable categories like women, minors, and the aged.

Nigeria’s own Correctional Service Act (2019) aligns with this global trend, emphasizing rehabilitation over retribution. By reducing the sentences of convicts who show demonstrable reform, the Tinubu government arguably brings Nigeria closer to UN Standard Minimum Rules for the Treatment of Prisoners (Nelson Mandela Rules).

However, as international analysts note, transparency and fairness remain essential. Mercy loses legitimacy when it appears to favor a few while overlooking the systemic injustices that keep thousands languishing in pre-trial detention.

The moral debate around the clemency is not just about Maryam Sanda; it is about what Nigerians believe justice should look like.

Should mercy be blind to the moral outrage a case evokes? Should the President have the power to override judicial finality? Should compassion be extended to all — or should it remain a privilege earned through visible contrition and transformation?

These questions cut to the core of Nigeria’s moral psychology, where religion, emotion, and politics often collide. The Sanda case, for all its controversy, reopens an uncomfortable national conversation about forgiveness, punishment, and redemption.

The Human Rights Writers Association (HURIWA) condemned the decision, describing it as “a troubling precedent that could weaken faith in deterrent justice.” The group argued that granting mercy to convicted killers sends “the wrong message to domestic violence victims nationwide.”

Conversely, the Prisoners Rehabilitation and Welfare Action (PRAWA) praised the move, calling it “a triumph of humanity over vengeance.” The group urged government to extend similar mercy to “poor, voiceless inmates serving excessive sentences.”

The Nigeria Bar Association (NBA), while refraining from overt criticism, called for a “transparent and standardized clemency process” that ensures equitable representation across social and economic lines.

This is not the first time a presidential pardon has triggered national debate. In 2013, then-President Goodluck Jonathan’s pardon of Alamieyeseigha, the former Bayelsa governor convicted of corruption, was condemned as “a moral travesty.” Similarly, former President Buhari’s 2022 pardon of ex-governors Joshua Dariye and Jolly Nyame, both serving jail terms for corruption, sparked outrage over perceived elite impunity.

The Tinubu-era clemency, though couched in humanitarian rhetoric, now joins that lineage — raising the enduring question:
Is mercy possible in a system distrusted by the people?

As the dust settles on the 2025 Presidential Pardon list, Nigeria finds itself at a familiar crossroads. The President’s action reaffirms the constitutional truth that justice without mercy is tyranny, yet it also reminds us that mercy without credibility is chaos.

Maryam Sanda’s reduced sentence may one day stand as a testament to the power of rehabilitation — or as a warning of privilege cloaked in compassion. Either way, the decision has reopened Nigeria’s oldest moral debate: how to forgive without forgetting, and how to heal without undermining justice.

For the Tinubu administration, the task now is to prove