Politics is not a realm of permanent enemies; permanent interests is a cliché that refuses to go away.
In Nigeria’s fragile democratic space, the way power forgives – or refuses to forgive – often reveals more about the State than official speeches ever could. Recent developments under President Bola Ahmed Tinubu reignited this debate, particularly the appointment of Daniel Bwala as Special Adviser on Media and Public Communications in November 2024 and the recent nomination of Reno Omokri – once one of the President’s fiercest critics – to an ambassadorial position. Both men had, at different times, publicly attacked Tinubu in strong and personal terms. Bwala was widely known for relentless media criticisms during the election season, while Omokri had previously accused Tinubu on national television of grave criminal conduct. Today, both are either within or closely aligned to the power structure they once condemned. This raises an unavoidable question: is forgiveness now a political virtue or merely a privilege reserved for the powerful and connected?
In attempting to provide answer to the question, it is necessary to look at the issue as a two-sided coin: Political Reconciliation or Political Convenience. Defenders of these appointments argue that democracy thrives on reconciliation. They point to global precedents where former critics are absorbed into government to foster unity, reduce polarization and harness diverse talents. Against this backdrop, they believe that Tinubu’s actions demonstrate magnanimity and political maturity; a proof that campaigns have ended and governance has begun.
However, critics argue that credibility of forgiveness in politics must be anchored on principle and moral ethics. When reconciliation appears selective, it risks being interpreted not as statesmanship but as expediency.
The Nigerian public is left wondering whether repentance, apology or accountability played any role in these political rehabilitations or whether proximity to power alone was sufficient absolution. More troubling is the implicit message: harsh attacks on a candidate may carry no consequences if the attacker later aligns with the victor, but severe punishment may await those who remain defiant.This tension becomes sharper when viewed alongside the case of Omoyele Sowore. The activist who is also the publisher of Sahara Reporters has faced repeated arrests and is currently standing trial over allegations, including disparaging the President. Sowore’s rhetoric, while often provocative and confrontational, falls within the tradition of radical dissent that democracies are expected to tolerate; especially when it does not translate into violence.
If Bwala and Omokri could be politically forgiven for past verbal assaults – some arguably more personal and damaging – why is Sowore’s continued dissent treated as a criminal matter rather than a democratic nuisance?
The inconsistency fuels the perception that loyalty to power, not the severity of speech, determines who is forgiven and who is prosecuted.
Democracy does not merely protect praise; it protects offense, criticism, and even discomfort. When forgiveness is extended only to those who submit, dissent ceases to be a right. It becomes a liability.
An even more complex dimension is introduced by the reported detention of alleged coup plotters awaiting military court-martial or trial. Unlike verbal critics, coup allegations strike at the heart of state security. No responsible government can trivialize such claims. This explains the limits of mercy. However, the principle of fairness remains essential. Thus, if political forgiveness is now a governing philosophy, the question arises: what are its boundaries? Is forgiveness reserved for media critics who cross over to the ruling camp, or can it extend—after due process—to others accused of threatening the state?
The issue is not whether alleged coup plotters should be automatically forgiven; they should not. The issue is whether the rule of law is applied consistently and transparently, or whether punishment and pardon are politically calibrated tools. Selective mercy weakens deterrence, while selective punishment undermines legitimacy.When a government forgives yesterday’s abusers but criminalizes today’s critics, it creates a moral hazard. Political actors learn that insults are tolerable, even profitable, so long as they eventually defect to power. Meanwhile, principled opposition becomes dangerous. This dynamic corrodes public trust. Citizens begin to see political morality not as a matter of truth or justice, but of timing and allegiance. Forgiveness becomes transactional, not ethical. This is the moral hazard embedded in selective forgiveness.In religious terms – particularly within Islam and Christianity, both influential in Nigeria – forgiveness is tied to repentance, justice and reconciliation. It is neither blind nor is it cynical. Translating forgiveness into governance without these anchors turns it into hypocrisy.
Bearing in mind that the State is above personal grievances, the presidency is an institution, not a personal project. Insults against a candidate during campaigns should not automatically translate into crimes against the State once elections are over. In the same vein, accepting former critics into government should not erase legitimate questions about credibility, consistency and accountability.
If Bwala and Omokri are forgiven, the process should be explicit and principled. If Sowore is prosecuted, the legal basis must be clear, proportionate and insulated from political vendetta. If coup suspects are detained, their rights must be protected and their trials swift and transparent. Anything less creates the impression of a government that forgives friends, punishes “supposed” enemies and confuses loyalty with patriotism.
To this end, forgiveness must be proportional, else it becomes oppression. The truth, however, is that Nigeria stands at a crossroads where democratic endurance depends not on how power rewards loyalty, but on how it treats dissent. Forgiveness, when unevenly applied, ceases to be a virtue. It becomes a weapon.The critical question therefore, is not whether Bwala and Omokri should be forgiven. They could. The question is whether all Nigerians are equally entitled to justice, mercy and due process, regardless of their political usefulness to those in power. So, until forgiveness is guided by principle rather than proximity, Nigeria’s democracy will remain fragile: ruled not by law, but by convenience.
Abdulkarim Abdulmalik, wrote in from Abuja and can be reached on nowmalik@gmail.com
