Those Who Sin Big, Laugh Best: A Nation’s Story of Mercy And Mischief

By Babs Daramola

Mercy, in its pure form, is one of humanity’s noblest virtues. But in Nigeria, mercy has taken a new career path: political, profitable, and proudly selective. The gates of our prisons have opened once again, and out have walked some of the nation’s most accomplished offenders: drug barons, kidnappers, fraudsters, illegal miners, and yes, even that beautiful wife who so savagely sliced her husband’s blossom. Her crime was passionate, her punishment heavy, but five years of some theatrics and intrigues, she too has found salvation.The kind that comes with a presidential signature.

We are told this is compassion…an exercise in humanity. We are told it is meant to decongest our correctional centres, as though the cure for a broken roof is to burn down the house. Yes, our prisons are overcrowded, but that is because our justice system is slow, our police corrupt, and our facilities a disgrace. True reform begins with structure and sincerity; not with grand gestures that let the most dangerous walk free while the poor rot behind bars.

The defenders of this mercy mission insist that many of the freed have changed. They have shown remorse, embraced morality, and in some cases, even enrolled in university programmes. It’s inspiring, really. So perhaps this is the new gospel: repent theatrically and study strategically. If you’re serving time, the new get-out-of-jail-free card is simple: write JAMB, attend church or mosque, quote scripture, and look remorseful on visitation days. A little performance and a little paperwork might earn you a handshake from heaven, or at least from the presidency.

But in truth, this flood of forgiveness may not be entirely spiritual. Many believe it is political, a careful prelude to 2027. A strategic rehearsal of compassion designed to warm hearts, build networks, and purchase goodwill long before the next election season. And to make it look credible, a few genuinely deserving names are sprinkled among the unholy, like sugar on a bitter meal. Never in the history of this country’s exercise of the presidential prerogative of mercy have so many drug barons, fraudsters, murderers and violent offenders been shown such lavish compassion. It is mercy on an industrial scale. Generous, convenient, and suspiciously well-timed.

It all fits neatly, of course, into the Renewed Hope Agenda. That shining slogan of our times. Perhaps this is what renewal truly means: renewed freedom for the guilty, renewed despair for the innocent, renewed hope for every criminal who still believes in second chances; not from God, but from government. If this is the face of hope, then despair must be taking notes.

Of course, not all inmates are so fortunate. The poor man who stole food, the woman imprisoned for a petty debt, the teenager wrongfully accused. They will remain where they are. They have no sponsors, no connections, no access to the corridors of mercy. In this land, forgiveness has a hierarchy. The deeper your crime, the higher your chances of redemption; provided you know someone who knows someone.

And yet, we are urged to clap. We are told that this is justice. Maybe justice redefined. But how do you convince a grieving family that the woman who butchered their son has been “forgiven”? How do you explain to the international community that convicted drug barons are now enjoying presidential compassion, even as the country claims to be fighting a war on drugs? What message does that send to our youth: that crime is just ambition with bad timing?

With such highly controversial presidential pardon and clemency, Nigeria’s reputation has just bled a little more. We make ourselves look unserious before the world. We have just upped our reputation as a nation that punishes honesty but forgives criminal brilliance. The same government that preaches anti-corruption and moral revival has just declared open season on accountability. It’s as though the war on drugs, kidnapping, and fraud were mere slogans, conveniently forgotten when the culprits are close enough to power.

This is not mercy. It is mockery dressed in compassion. It is the reckless abuse of one of the most solemn powers granted to leadership: the prerogative of mercy. That power was meant to right wrongs, to ease the pain of those unfairly convicted, or to help the truly reformed rejoin society. It was never meant to excuse hardened offenders or to reward notoriety.

But here, we have turned mercy into policy, and policy into parody. The state now plays God, handing out forgiveness like party souvenirs. Our prisons are not being decongested; our conscience is. We are emptying cells but filling the streets with lessons in impunity.

So, to all remaining inmates, take heart. There is still hope. Dust off your notebooks, register for JAMB, join the prison choir, and master the fine art of public repentance. With enough effort and the right blessings, your own miracle of mercy might soon arrive.

And to the rest of us, the lesson is clear: if you must offend, offend boldly. Small crimes waste time; big crimes get attention. If you must sin, sin memorably: the kind of sin that deserves a headline and a pardon. For in today’s Nigeria, virtue may earn you respect, but vice might just earn you release.

Mercy, they say, is divine. But in our own creed, is pardon now reserved only for the powerful and the connected — while those truly deserving rot behind the bars? Perhaps only the politically ungrateful would fail to appreciate this fresh gospel of renewed hope, where crime meets compassion, and both walk free.

Babs Daramola is a Lagos-based broadcast journalist