When Mercy Betrays Justice, by Boniface Ihiasota

Presidential pardon is meant to be a sacred act — an instrument of compassion used sparingly to correct excesses of the law or ease human suffering. But in Nigeria, it often mutates into a political favour that undermines justice rather than serving it.

President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s recent exercise of clemency — which reportedly included drug barons and Maryam Sanda, convicted of killing her husband — has provoked deep national outrage. It raises a fundamental question: is the Nigerian presidency using mercy to uphold justice, or to reward privilege?

Under Section 175 of the 1999 Constitution, the President has the power to pardon or commute sentences upon the advice of the Council of State. But constitutional power does not translate to moral righteousness. Mercy must be anchored on fairness, transparency, and moral justification — none of which have been evident in this latest gesture.

The case of Maryam Sanda stands out like a bruise on the conscience of the nation. Convicted in 2020 for the gruesome murder of her husband, Bilyamin Bello, Sanda’s trial was thorough, her conviction upheld through due process. Her sudden pardon, reportedly influenced by family intervention, reeks of class privilege and political influence. It sends a dangerous message — that the wealthy and well-connected can always negotiate their way out of justice.

Even more troubling is the inclusion of convicted drug traffickers. At a time when the National Drug Law Enforcement Agency (NDLEA) is battling to dismantle narcotics syndicates, the Presidency’s pardon of drug offenders undermines years of painstaking enforcement. It emboldens traffickers and discourages officers who risk their lives to keep the country safe.

This is not the first time Nigeria’s leaders have abused the prerogative of mercy. In 2013, President Goodluck Jonathan’s pardon of Diepreye Alamieyeseigha, the ex-Bayelsa governor convicted of corruption, drew global condemnation. It tainted Nigeria’s anti-graft image and emboldened those who see public office as a licence to loot.

The consequences of such indiscriminate pardons are dire. They erode public trust in the judiciary, demoralise judges who labour for years to deliver justice, and delegitimise the rule of law. When presidential pens can nullify judicial rulings overnight, justice becomes negotiable — a commodity for the powerful.

Across the world, the abuse of clemency has produced similar consequences. In South Korea, repeated presidential pardons for convicted ex-presidents Park Geun-hye and Lee Myung-bak sparked nationwide protests, forcing lawmakers to debate curbing the practice. In Brazil, President Jair Bolsonaro’s politically motivated pardon of a far-right ally convicted for attacking the Supreme Court was condemned as an attack on democracy.

In Peru, the 2017 pardon of former dictator Alberto Fujimori, who was serving time for human rights abuses, triggered mass protests and international backlash, forcing courts to overturn the pardon two years later. In South Africa, early releases of politically connected individuals in the name of “national healing” have often deepened public cynicism and distrust in government institutions.

Even in the United States, where presidential pardons are common, the process attracts intense scrutiny. Barack Obama’s clemency programme focused on non-violent drug offenders serving disproportionate sentences. Each pardon was documented publicly to ensure fairness. By contrast, Donald Trump’s pardons of political allies and campaign donors drew sharp criticism, raising concerns of corruption and cronyism.

Nigeria, however, lags behind global accountability standards. The Presidential Advisory Committee on Prerogative of Mercy operates in secrecy. The public is rarely informed of the criteria or rationale for pardons. Were the convicts reformed? Were they victims of judicial error? Or were they simply politically connected? Without transparency, clemency becomes a mockery of justice.

Yet, clemency itself is not the problem. When properly used, it can heal wounds, decongest overcrowded prisons, and give reformed offenders a second chance. In Canada, for instance, pardons (called record suspensions) are carefully reviewed, excluding violent crimes and ensuring public safety. In Germany, presidential pardons are extremely rare and only considered under compelling humanitarian grounds.

Nigeria can learn from these systems. Clemency should prioritise prisoners of conscience, the terminally ill, and those unjustly convicted — not murderers and drug traffickers. The National Assembly should urgently review the constitutional process to introduce transparency, public disclosure, and limits on eligible offences.

Crimes like murder, terrorism, drug trafficking, and grand corruption should not qualify for presidential mercy except under extraordinary humanitarian grounds. A pardon should not erase accountability; it should reflect reform and remorse. Anything less erodes the moral fibre of justice.

Beyond legality, the ethical question looms large: what happens when mercy becomes selective? Thousands of ordinary Nigerians languish in prisons for petty offences, many without trial for years. They are the forgotten souls who deserve presidential mercy — not those whose connections can bend the system.

The late Justice Chukwudifu Oputa once said, “Justice must not only be done but must be seen to be done.” Today, justice in Nigeria is neither seen nor done when presidential mercy is dispensed like patronage.

History shows that unchecked clemency corrodes institutions. If Nigeria continues down this path, we risk normalising injustice and undermining the credibility of our judiciary. The rule of law must remain the ultimate arbiter, not the whims of political benevolence.

Presidential mercy should be a balm for the broken — not a shield for the powerful. To forgive without fairness is to betray the very soul of justice. And when justice becomes negotiable, a nation’s conscience is no longer intact.

ASUU Strikes: The Endless Loop Nigeria Must Break 

By Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman

If there is any rhythm that has refused to change in Nigeria’s academic calendar, it is the drumbeat of strikes by the Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASUU). Each cycle begins with a warning, swells into protests, and collapses into months of classroom paralysis. It makes students stranded, parents helpless, and the nation’s tertiary education trapped in recurring stagnation.

For decades, ASUU strikes have become a permanent punctuation in Nigeria’s educational story, making occurrences a tragedy that has outlived governments, policy directions, and even generations of undergraduates. The irony is that every new strike looks like the last: same demands, same government responses, same media debates, and the same outcome — suspension, not resolution.

How did Nigeria get here? And why does this crisis appear so cyclical, almost generational?

The Academic Staff Union of Universities was founded in 1978, emerging from the ashes of the Nigerian Association of University Teachers (NAUT). From inception, ASUU was not just a trade union; it was a conscience of the academia, a body that saw itself as guardian of intellectual autonomy, national development, and academic integrity.

But its relationship with the government has always been uneasy. The first major showdown came in 1988 during General Ibrahim Babangida’s regime, when ASUU embarked on a strike to demand fair wages, university autonomy, and funding. The government’s response was swift and draconian. ASUU was banned, its leaders detained, and salaries withheld. Yet, the union’s resilience prevailed, and by 1990, it was reinstated.

Since then, ASUU has gone on strike over twenty times, spanning military and democratic dispensations alike. The issues have remained stubbornly familiar: poor funding, unpaid allowances, inadequate infrastructure, decaying research capacity, and government’s failure to honour previous agreements.

The landmark agreement of 2009 between ASUU and the Federal Government was supposed to be a turning point. It captured key demands that included better welfare for lecturers, revitalisation of infrastructure, and university autonomy. But, as with many government pacts in Nigeria, the implementation was half-hearted and short-lived. The Memorandum of Understanding (MoU) in 2013, 2017, and 2020 merely recycled promises, each one becoming a prelude to the next crisis.

Every ASUU strike has two layers — the visible and the political. On the surface, it’s about funding and welfare. Beneath that lies distrust, ego, and inconsistent leadership.

Government negotiators often approach agreements as temporary pacifications rather than binding contracts. Ministries change, priorities shift, and promises fade. ASUU, on its part, wields strikes as its strongest bargaining tool. Sometimes effective but increasingly self-defeating.

Both sides share blame for the cyclical failure. Government often defaults, while ASUU, in its moral fervour, sometimes resists pragmatic reform, especially in accountability and diversification of funding. The result is a predictable dance: delay, protest, strike, negotiation, suspension and then repeat.

The consequences are devastating. Millions of students lose valuable academic time, universities fall behind global peers, and research collapses. Parents endure emotional and financial stress; employers distrust local degrees; and private universities quietly benefit from public dysfunction.

During the eight-month strike in 2022, Nigeria lost an estimated ₦1.5 trillion in productivity. Many lecturers relocated abroad, deepening brain drain. The crisis is no longer a union-government quarrel but a national emergency that undermines development.

Nigeria isn’t alone in facing academic labour disputes but other countries learned, adapted, and reformed.

In India, repeated strikes in the 1990s led to creation of the University Grants Commission Reforms, which institutionalised regular wage reviews and infrastructure funding insulated from political manipulation.

In South Africa, the “Fees Must Fall” crisis of 2015 forced government and universities to form oversight committees of academics and students to monitor education spending. Transparency replaced tension, restoring confidence.

Kenya went further. It enacted a Collective Bargaining Framework that legally binds both government and unions for four-year terms. No administration can unilaterally breach it without parliamentary approval. Predictability replaced confrontation.

Nigeria can learn from these examples. The problem is not absence of ideas but absence of political will and institutional discipline.

The heart of the problem is philosophical: Nigeria treats education as expenditure and not investment. That mindset must change.

While Ghana invests about 6.5% of GDP in education, Nigeria spends less than 2%. South Korea channels more into research than oil. Their progress is no mystery. They fund their future.

Every strike pushes Nigeria’s future further behind. Education is not just another sector; it is the soil on which every other grows. Without it, national development becomes guesswork.

Although ASUU’s struggle is noble but must evolve. Activism must give way to innovation. The union should complement resistance with reform, proposing alternative funding models, driving research-commercial partnerships, and mentoring new lecturers for modern academic challenges.

The government, on the other hand, must understand that signing agreements without intention to implement is governance without honour. Each broken promise erodes trust and provokes another strike.

A serious government should measure progress not by the number of schools built but by the quality of minds produced. When airports function better than universities, the country builds departures, not destinies.

If Nigeria truly wishes to end the ASUU strikes, both sides must shift from rhetoric to reform.

Every ASUU–Federal Government agreement should be backed by legislation. Once domesticated by the National Assembly, any breach becomes actionable, not negotiable. Education cannot thrive on verbal promises.

Beyond TETFund, Nigeria needs an Education Stabilisation Fund co-managed by government, ASUU, private sector, and alumni networks. Funding can come from education levies, grants, and endowments. This would provide consistent support regardless of annual budget politics.

ASUU must demonstrate stewardship. Universities should publish audited reports on how revitalisation or research funds are spent. Accountability strengthens credibility.

Set a four-year salary review cycle tied to inflation, GDP, and minimum wage benchmarks. Once automatic, it removes salary from recurring contention.

A permanent University Industrial Mediation Council (UIMC), composed of respected scholars, jurists, and labour experts, can serve as an early-warning system — intervening before crises escalate.

A public online dashboard showing government disbursements and ASUU obligations would foster accountability. When citizens can see the truth, both sides act more responsibly.

The future lies in structure, not sentiment. A binding framework, transparent governance, and joint accountability can end the strike culture permanently.

ASUU must rise beyond protest politics, and the government must govern with integrity. Both must see education as a shared project and not a battlefield.

If Nigeria’s leaders can build political peace accords and implement oil-sharing formulas, they can certainly fund and protect the education sector.

Until then, the next strike will not surprise anyone. It will simply mark another sequel in a story that should have ended years ago.

Passport Politics and the Cost of Reputation 

By Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman

The Nigerian Senate’s proposal to impose a 10-year passport ban on citizens convicted and deported from foreign countries has opened a serious national debate on justice, image, and identity. The bill, sponsored by Senator Bello Sani Abubakar (APC, Niger North), seeks to amend the Passport (Miscellaneous Provisions) Act, Cap P343, Laws of the Federation of Nigeria, 2004. It aims to deter criminal acts abroad and restore confidence in the Nigerian passport — a symbol of national identity that has, over the years, been battered by global perception.

At first glance, the intent appears patriotic. It was argued that too many Nigerians engage in criminal or unethical activities abroad, damaging the reputation of the country and, by extension, every law-abiding citizen who carries the green passport. Indeed, data from various international agencies suggest that the concern is not unfounded. Between 2019 and 2024, the United States deported about 902 Nigerians, while India deported 1,470 in its 2023–24 fiscal year, citing immigration violations and minor crimes. Similar deportations have been recorded in the UAE, Malaysia, and parts of Europe. Lawmakers contend that these repeated incidents have eroded global trust in Nigerian travellers, resulting in tighter visa scrutiny, denial rates, and the humiliation many experience at airports worldwide.

The proposal, therefore, is designed as a deterrent. A signal that the Nigerian state will not tolerate misconduct abroad and is ready to take decisive measures to protect its image. The logic seems straightforward: if citizens know that crime abroad could cost them their passport for a decade, they might think twice before engaging in it. The move could also assure the global community that Nigeria is policing its own, taking responsibility for the behaviour of its nationals beyond its borders. In a world where perception often shapes policy, such assertiveness could, in theory, help rebrand Nigeria as a nation of accountability.

However, beneath this logic lies a complex moral and legal dilemma. While the desire to defend Nigeria’s image is legitimate, the method proposed risks becoming excessive, even counterproductive. Deportation is not always the outcome of criminality. In many cases, it stems from administrative or civil issues such as expired visas, job loss, or immigration policy changes. To punish deportees with a sweeping 10-year travel ban would mean treating minor infractions and serious crimes as equals, an approach that undermines justice rather than upholds it.

More troubling is the difficulty of verifying the circumstances of conviction abroad. Legal systems differ widely, and not all convictions reflect fair trials. Nigerians living abroad often face racial bias, poor legal representation, and systemic discrimination. To automatically penalise them at home based on foreign judgments could amount to endorsing injustice committed elsewhere. A Nigerian unjustly convicted in an unfair jurisdiction should not return to face additional punishment in his own country. That would be double jeopardy — a violation of Nigeria’s constitutional guarantees of fair hearing and human dignity.

The Senate must also weigh the potential economic and diplomatic fallout. Nigeria’s diaspora community is one of its greatest national assets. According to the World Bank, diaspora remittances totalled $21.9 billion in 2023, a figure that in some quarters surpassed oil earnings. These funds support families, fuel local economies, and stabilise the naira. A policy that stigmatizes deported Nigerians could alienate this vast network of contributors and discourage their engagement with the country. It could also project Nigeria as a state quick to disown its citizens rather than rehabilitate them.

Furthermore, the proposed law raises questions of practicality. How will enforcement work? Will the Nigeria Immigration Service maintain a central database of affected individuals? What oversight will exist to ensure that wrongful inclusion is avoided? In the absence of clear administrative safeguards, the policy could be vulnerable to abuse, selective enforcement, or political manipulation. Nigeria’s bureaucracy has a long history of inconsistent record-keeping and arbitrary decision-making; giving it such sweeping power over citizens’ mobility could easily lead to miscarriages of justice.

On the international stage, the proposed ban sends mixed messages. While some foreign governments may view it as Nigeria taking responsibility for its citizens’ actions, human rights observers might see it as excessive and punitive. Image rehabilitation cannot be achieved merely through punishment. A nation’s reputation improves when it demonstrates fairness, transparency, and a commitment to justice and not when it adopts harsh measures to appear firm. A ten-year passport ban may create the illusion of strength but, in practice, could deepen Nigeria’s reputation for bureaucratic overreach and human rights insensitivity.

The real solution lies not in exclusion but in reform. To reclaim the dignity of its passport, Nigeria must address the root causes driving misconduct and illegal migration. Many Nigerians who fall into legal trouble abroad do so out of desperation. Many are victims of poverty, unemployment, and systemic failure at home. The unemployment rate, which stood at 5% in 2024 (by redefined metrics), still hides a massive informal sector and underemployment crisis. Every year, tens of thousands of young Nigerians risk dangerous migration routes, not because they seek crime, but because they seek opportunity. Criminalising them after deportation without addressing the structural pressures that pushed them out would be a misdiagnosis of the problem.

Examples abound of better approaches. The Philippines once faced similar embarrassment when many of its nationals were jailed or deported from Gulf countries. Rather than punish them, the government introduced reintegration programmes offering skills training, counselling, and financial support. Within a decade, deportation numbers declined, and the country’s global image improved. Nigeria could learn from such models — building systems that reform and reintegrate, rather than alienate, citizens who stumble abroad.

That said, the bill’s underlying message that Nigeria must take its global image seriously is valid. The Nigerian passport ranks 88th globally in the July 2025 Henley Passport Index, with visa-free access to a few countries. This is not just a function of global politics. It reflects how other nations perceive our systems, integrity, and international conduct. Rebuilding trust will require a multi-pronged strategy that includes modernising passport security to meet global standards, curbing domestic corruption, strengthening the justice system, and intensifying diplomatic engagement. These measures, not blanket bans, will persuade the world that Nigeria respects global norms and values.

If properly refined, the bill could still play a constructive role. Rather than imposing a flat ten-year ban, a graded system could be introduced, linking the length of travel restrictions to the severity of the offence. Individuals convicted of serious crimes such as drug trafficking, human trafficking, or cybercrime could face longer restrictions, while those deported for minor infractions might undergo rehabilitation programmes before reinstatement. The law could also include a right of appeal, ensuring that justice remains corrective rather than vindictive.

Ultimately, Nigeria’s challenge is not about passports alone but also about identity and credibility in a rapidly changing world. The green passport has long symbolised both the promise and the paradox of the Nigerian state, proud in potential, yet burdened by perception. Restoring its dignity requires more than punitive laws. It demands moral leadership, institutional reform, and an unwavering commitment to fairness. The Senate’s concern is valid, but the method must be smarter, fairer, and rooted in human rights.

The danger of reactionary legislation is that it mistakes appearances for substance. The true strength of a nation lies not in how harshly it disciplines its citizens but in how justly it governs them. Nigeria will command global respect not when it bans more passports, but when it builds a society where fewer citizens feel compelled to tarnish the nation’s name abroad.