There are moments when public decisions slice through private life in a way that feels almost personal. That’s how this recent presidential pardon by President Bola Tinubu landed for many people — a public act with private echoes. Actress Kemi Afolabi, known for speaking plainly on matters that sting, didn’t hold back. Her message was short, urgent, and then repeated in different ways: protect your life. Guard it. Don’t let anyone take it.
What happened, quickly: the president granted clemency to 175 convicts. Among them were drug traffickers, illegal miners, and a number of people convicted of murder. The list — released by the presidential media office — included 28 drug offenders, 41 illegal miners, and 22 killers. That raw tally is what set off the debate and, honestly, the outrage. For many, it felt like a move that overlooked the families of victims and the deeper harm those crimes leave behind. People want answers; they want accountability; they want recognition that some losses can’t be undone.
Kemi’s statement was less about politics and more about a kind of survival advice. On her Instagram story she wrote: “Do not allow anyone to take your life, guard it with all your being. Be it in marriage, friendship, courtship or any kind of relationship.” It’s simple. It’s blunt. And it’s the sort of thing you say when you worry that systems are failing to keep people safe — or worse, when systems seem to let people who harmed others back into society without enough explanation.
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Why this matters to people
Many of us respond to a pardon not just as a legal act but as an emotional one. When someone convicted of murder is released, families of victims can feel re-traumatized. They may wonder whether the justice that was served is now being un-served. The case that sharpened the pain in this particular round of pardons was the story of Bilyaminu Ahmed, who was killed in 2017. His wife, Maryam Sandain, had been sentenced to death by hanging in 2020 for his murder. Her pardon — among the others — prompted Bilyaminu’s family to publicly condemn the decision. You can see why: the sentence was severe, the grief lasting, and then came a reprieve that many perceive as erasure.
So Afolabi’s admonition — “guard your life” — reads as an emotional reflex and as practical counsel. It acknowledges fear and anger without offering a policy alternative. That’s understandable; she’s an actress and a public figure, not a lawmaker. But she is reflecting a broader sentiment: people don’t just want legalese and acronyms when it comes to loss. They want recognition that a life ended is a life ended. They want the public conversation to honor that finality.
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A mixed public reaction — noisy and messy
Of course, reactions to a presidential pardon are rarely uniform. Some people will always stress mercy and rehabilitation. Others focus on deterrence and justice. And there’s always a middle ground — though it can be hard to find, especially in the headlines. Here the reactions were varied: politicians calling for reversals, civil groups protesting, families of victims expressing deep hurt. Even among ordinary citizens, opinions split. I find that unsurprising. It’s messy; human feelings rarely line up perfectly with legal categories.
I also noticed a kind of cognitive dissonance in the discourse. On one hand, countries talk about rehabilitation and second chances; on the other, certain crimes, like murder, carry an almost categorical sense of finality for those left behind. So when the state steps in with forgiveness, even if legally permissible, it feels to some like an affront to memory. To others, it’s evidence that the system can change, can be merciful. Neither position is entirely wrong. Neither is entirely right. It’s just complicated — which is, in a small way, comforting because it reminds us that these issues can’t be solved with a single headline.
Human notes — small and messy
I’ll admit a personal reaction: I find myself wanting both things at once. I want systems that can rehabilitate and yet I want them to be painfully conscious of victims’ losses. That’s maybe hypocritical. Maybe inconsistent. But it’s human. I have a friend who lost someone to a violent crime years ago; she still gets anger spikes when pardons like this happen. She said to me, “It’s not just about punishment. It’s about remembering.” And that stuck with me. Memory matters. Ritual matters. The legal machinery sometimes forgets that.
Kemi Afolabi’s message also felt, oddly, like a reminder to individuals to take responsibility for their own safety. That’s a fraught suggestion — because who should bear the burden of protection? The state? Communities? Individuals? Again, no tidy answer. But telling people to be vigilant in relationships — in marriage, friendship, courtship — resonates. People do sometimes ignore red flags. They make choices they later regret. So Afolabi’s line is practical advice as much as it is moral outrage.
What might come next?
I expect more debate. There will be calls for clearer criteria on pardons; there will be demands for transparency about how decisions are made. Families who feel wronged will push for recognition, or at least an explanation. And public figures like Afolabi will keep using platforms to steer the tone of the conversation. That is worth watching. These debates aren’t academic; they reshape how communities heal or fracture after harm.
To wrap this up: the pardon acted like a stone in a pond, and the ripples are still spreading. Kemi’s reaction is a touchstone for many: protect yourself, insist on safety, and don’t assume systems will do the protecting for you. Maybe that sounds alarmist. Maybe it’s simply honest. Either way, it’s a reminder that justice and mercy are tangled in ways that make easy solutions rare.
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