The Morning the News Broke
For several moments, I sat frozen, staring at the screen, hoping it was fake news — another cruel rumour in our age of digital misinformation. But as more credible reports came in, the numbness gave way to disbelief, then rage, and finally to that old, familiar ache in my chest — the kind of pain that has no language.
The Night Everything Changed
It has been eight long years since that awful night in November 2017, when our lives were shattered. The call came late — trembling voices, fragments of sentences, the name “Bilyaminu” breaking through sobs. In those first few hours, we didn’t understand the full story. We prayed it was an accident, a mistake, anything but what it turned out to be.
The days that followed were a blur of pain and confusion. We could barely eat, barely sleep. Reporters swarmed. Strangers speculated. People wrote things about him that made us cry and burn at the same time. Yet we stayed silent. We refused to trade dignity for drama.
And justice did speak — clearly, consistently, and courageously.
The Long Road to Justice
When the FCT High Court found her guilty and sentenced her to death, it wasn’t a moment of joy — it was a moment of sober relief. Justice had not been denied. The system had worked.
After that final ruling, we finally began to breathe again. The law had spoken. We would never see Bilyaminu again, but at least Nigeria had said — clearly — that his life mattered.
We could now grieve in peace. Or so we thought.
When Mercy Wounds the Innocent
Yes, we understand the law. Section 175 of the Constitution grants the President the right to pardon or commute sentences. But the question is not whether he can — it is whether he should.
This pardon, to us, is an injustice masquerading as mercy.
It spits in the face of every law-abiding Nigerian who still believes in due process. It tells us that justice is conditional — that it bends for those with influence, connections, or sympathy, while the rest of us must endure the harshness of the law in full.
It is also a personal affront to one of our own — Bilyaminu’s brother, who continues to serve Nigeria faithfully as a member of the House of Representatives. Through his public service, he has upheld his commitment to this nation, believing in the promise of fairness and the rule of law. For the same government he loyally serves, to now pardon the woman convicted of murdering his brother is a deep and painful betrayal. It sends a chilling message: that loyalty, integrity, and faith in the system may count for nothing when political mercy trumps moral responsibility.
No Remorse, No Redemption
And now, the state has rewarded that absence of remorse with freedom.
The Meaning of Mercy
Mercy is a sacred virtue — but like all virtues, it must be balanced by wisdom. Mercy without justice is not mercy at all; it is injustice wearing perfume.
When those who wield power use “mercy” to console the guilty while ignoring the cries of the bereaved, they pervert its meaning. The result is a nation where compassion becomes selective, justice becomes ornamental, and truth becomes negotiable.
We are Muslims; we understand mercy. We believe in forgiveness. But even Allah, in His infinite compassion, does not forgive those who persist in wrongdoing without repentance. Forgiveness in Islam does not erase accountability — it follows it.
If Maryam Sanda had sought forgiveness with sincerity, if she had reached out to acknowledge the life she took, perhaps we could understand. But what we see here is not mercy — it is privilege dressed up as piety.
The Children: Innocence Entangled in Tragedy
In the middle of all this — the court cases, the judgments, the pardon — are two innocent children. They are the silent witnesses to this entire tragedy, and the ones who will carry its scars the longest. They have grown up without their father’s love — deprived of his laughter, his guidance, and his protection.
Now, the same system that convicted their mother for taking that father away has turned around to free her, without even considering what message that sends to those children. What are they to believe about justice, about truth, about accountability?
A Message to the Nation
This pardon sends a message far beyond our family’s tragedy. It tells Nigerians that the justice system can be undone with a pen stroke — that verdicts, even those of the Supreme Court, are no longer final.
What does this mean for the thousands of families who still wait for justice? For women who have lost their sons to violence, for children whose parents were murdered, for victims of corruption, abuse, and brutality?
What hope do they have when a killer can walk free under the banner of mercy?
It also tells the law enforcement officers who risk their lives to investigate crimes that their work can be nullified by politics. It tells judges that their judgments can be reversed not by legal reasoning, but by political reasoning.
If justice itself becomes a negotiable commodity, then the nation loses its moral foundation.
The Invisible Victim
He has been reduced to a case file, a statistic, a footnote in a story that now celebrates “mercy.”
But to us, he was — and remains — so much more.
He was warm, generous, deeply intelligent, and full of dreams. He was a devoted father, a loyal friend, a loving son. He worked hard, loved deeply, and carried himself with humility. He deserved better — from life, and from the country he called home.
When the courts gave their verdict, we believed Nigeria had honoured him. Now, this pardon feels like his memory is being erased by the very hands that once delivered justice.
The Constitutional Power vs. the Moral Obligation
No one denies the President’s constitutional power to grant clemency. But constitutional rights must serve moral ends. Otherwise, they become tools of injustice.
The Prerogative of Mercy was designed to correct miscarriages of justice, not to override justice itself. It was meant for those wrongly accused, unjustly sentenced, or reformed beyond doubt.
It was never intended for those who murdered in cold blood and showed no contrition.
If this is how we wield constitutional powers, then we are no longer governed by principle — we are ruled by preference.
What We Ask
Our Faith, Our Pain, Our Hope
We take comfort in knowing that ultimate justice belongs to Allah, the Supreme Judge who neither forgets nor fails. He will judge between us in truth, and on that Day, no pardon will stand, no influence will speak, no appeal will be heard.
Until then, we will carry our grief with dignity. We will remember Bilyaminu not as a victim, but as a light that continues to shine — a reminder that truth may be wounded, but it never dies.
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In the End
It diminishes faith in our institutions, trivialises the pain of victims, and cheapens the very idea of accountability.
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