Behind the iron bars of our nation’s prisons, where hope often fades like a candle in the wind, thousands of souls sit and wait—some guilty, some innocent, all human. Their eyes, weary from years of regret or injustice, scan the horizon for a glimmer of mercy, a sign that the system has not entirely forgotten them. In the grand theater of justice, punishment plays its part, but where is the act of redemption? The prison walls were built to confine the body, not to erase the soul. If we say that a man cannot change, then we mock the very essence of grace. Even the worst of us can be transformed when given a second chance. As Scripture reminds us, “Let the wicked forsake his way and the unrighteous man his thoughts; and let him return unto the Lord, and He will have mercy upon him” (Isaiah 55:7).
The United States has long embraced the principle of presidential pardon, recognizing that justice is not just about the rigidity of the law but also the flexibility of compassion. American presidents, like shepherds scanning the flock for the one lost sheep, periodically grant clemency to those who have shown remorse, served their time, or suffered unjust convictions. Why should Nigeria be different? Our governors and the president hold a similar key—the power to unlock doors of despair and turn prisoners into productive citizens. A society that forgets the power of forgiveness is like a tree that refuses to grow new leaves in the harmattan, clinging only to the past. A justice system without mercy is a hammer that knows only how to break, never how to mend.
In our prisons today, you will find fathers who made mistakes, mothers who were misled, youths who stumbled, and even the innocent who fell through the cracks of a flawed system. Some have repented, some have reformed, and some were never guilty in the first place. What then shall we say? That a man who stole out of hunger should perish in a cell while the glutton who loots public funds walks free? That a woman who made a wrong choice in the blindness of her youth should never again feel the warmth of family? Are we to ignore the words of Jesus when He stood between the adulterous woman and her accusers, saying, “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone” (John 8:7)? Are we also to forget the hadith of the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), who said, “The most beloved people to Allah are those who are most beneficial to others”? If the law is to serve the people, then let it serve not just with punishment, but also with wisdom. Let the hearts of those in power soften to the cries of those who have changed.
History has shown that the greatest of men were not those who never fell, but those who rose after falling. Nelson Mandela, once branded a criminal, later led a nation to healing. Malcolm X, once lost in the darkness of crime, found light and became a voice for justice. Saint Paul, once a persecutor of Christians, became a pillar of the faith. Who then are we to say that the man behind bars today cannot be the leader, the preacher, the reformer of tomorrow? Dostoevsky once said, “The degree of civilization in a society can be judged by entering its prisons.” If we peer into ours, what do we see? A place of correction or a graveyard for the living? The answer lies in what we do next.
Governors have the power to grant pardons, but their pens gather dust while thousands remain locked away. The Nigerian president, like his American counterpart, can extend clemency, but the list of beneficiaries remains thin. What are we waiting for? Must we always wait for elections before our leaders remember to act mercifully? Must a prisoner die in chains before the law remembers that it also has a heart? When King David showed kindness to Mephibosheth, the forgotten son of Jonathan, he restored not just a man, but a family’s dignity. Can our leaders not do the same? Can they not hear the silent cries echoing from prison cells, the voices of men and women who long for one more chance?
Our leaders should please use this period of Ramadan to remember those in prisons. This is a time of mercy, a time to cleanse the heart of grudges and extend kindness to those in need. Fasting is not just about abstaining from food and drink but about softening the heart toward the suffering of others. If a man can forgive his neighbor in this sacred month, can a governor not forgive a prisoner? If a president can grant amnesty to political allies, can he not grant it to those who have truly repented? Just as Allah’s mercy is vast and ever-flowing, so should the mercy of those in authority be. For as the Qur’an reminds us, “Indeed, Allah commands justice, good conduct, and giving to relatives, and forbids immorality, bad conduct, and oppression” (Qur’an 16:90).
To those in power, remember that your strength is not in how many you punish, but in how many you redeem. The governors, the president—these are not just titles; they are positions of stewardship. The law was made for man, not man for the law. If our justice system cannot make room for mercy, then we have lost sight of justice itself. To the prisoners reading this, know that hope is not dead. The night may be long, but dawn always comes. Though your hands may be bound, your spirit is still free. Even from the pit, Joseph rose to rule. Even in chains, Paul wrote letters that still change lives today. Keep your faith alive, for a door of mercy may yet open.
Let the gates of justice swing on the hinges of mercy. Let the burden of punishment not outweigh the possibility of redemption. Nigeria is a nation that prays, that fasts, that calls on God for favor. But how can we ask for divine mercy when we are unwilling to extend it to our own? If our governors and president truly seek to lead justly, let them follow the path of the Good Shepherd—seeking the lost, lifting the fallen, and restoring the broken. For in the end, history will not remember how many were jailed, but how many were saved.
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah, Igalamela/Odolu
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