Only in Nigeria can a government attempt the impossible—to “un-finalise” what it has already finalised and to “un-pardon” those it has already pardoned. It would be amusing if it weren’t a tragic reflection of how casually institutions now treat the constitutional process.
“Nigeria’s current drama exposes an institutional discomfort with that word: accountability. Instead of admitting an error in judgement, officials are now trying to invent a phantom “finalisation” stage to retroactively sanitise poor decisions.”
At the centre of this farce is the Attorney-General of the Federation (AGF), who chaired the Committee on the Prerogative of Mercy that recommended presidential pardons: a list that, astonishingly, included convicted murderers, kidnappers, and even a military officer who sold 7,000 weapons to enemies of the state. The President received, considered, and approved the recommendations. The Council of State endorsed them. The Federal Government issued an official statement defending its decision. In every legal and procedural sense, the process was complete. The list was finalised.
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Then came public outrage and with it, an inexplicable reversal. The same Attorney-General who supervised the process suddenly declared that “the list hasn’t been finalised.” That phrase might sound harmless, but it tears at the very fabric of institutional logic. What exactly remains to be “finalised” after a committee chaired by the AGF has vetted, the President has approved, and the Council of State has endorsed? Has Nigeria quietly inserted a new, secret layer into its Constitution, a “post-finalisation” stage that exists only when public backlash demands political retreat?
Section 175 of the 1999 Constitution is unambiguous. The President exercises the prerogative of mercy on the advice of the Committee on the Prerogative of Mercy (chaired by the AGF), subject to the endorsement of the Council of State. Once those steps are complete, implementation follows. There is no constitutional purgatory called “final review”. Any such language, surfacing only after public anger, looks less like legal prudence and more like political damage control.
Across mature democracies, the clemency process is serious business. In the United States, a presidential pardon, once signed and sealed, cannot be withdrawn without legal consequence. In South Africa, the Justice Minister’s advisory committee performs a similar role to Nigeria’s, but no official would dare claim, after gazette publication, that a pardon “isn’t final.” Once an executive act is consummated, the only legitimate remedy for error is accountability, not creative reinterpretation.
Nigeria’s current drama exposes an institutional discomfort with that word: accountability. Instead of admitting an error in judgement, officials are now trying to invent a phantom “finalisation” stage to retroactively sanitise poor decisions. But you cannot rewrite a constitutional conclusion because it offends public opinion. Governance by retraction is not governance at all; it is administrative theatre.
The absurdity deepens when symbolism meets history. Including Herbert Macaulay, the father of Nigerian nationalism, on the same list as convicted criminals was already a moral misstep. As Bode George aptly said, “Herbert Macaulay’s name must stand alone, not among those who broke the law, but among those who built the nation.” That the government then tried to “un-finalise” the pardon only after public uproar reveals both the lack of judgement in decision-making and the absence of institutional discipline in correction.
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The Committee on the Prerogative of Mercy has one clear function: to advise, screen, and recommend. It is not empowered to retract or reinterpret once the process has been completed. The Attorney-General, as chair, bears ultimate responsibility for ensuring procedural integrity. To now claim ambiguity where the law provides clarity undermines both the office and public trust.
If there was an error in judgement, the remedy is not bureaucratic reinvention but moral clarity. Admit the error. Explain what went wrong. Correct it transparently. Governance is not about saving face; it is about saving credibility. The strength of a government is not measured by its ability to improvise under pressure but by its willingness to stand by principle, even in discomfort.
When a government begins to rewrite its own conclusion, it signals not correction but confusion. In governance, sequencing is everything and when you break your own sequence, you break public trust.
