There are times when public decisions slice through private life in a way that seems almost personal. This is how the recent presidential pardon granted by President Bola Tinubu landed for many: a public act that has private echoes. Actress Kemi Afolabi, known for speaking out clearly on stinging topics, did not hold back. His message was short, urgent, then repeated in different ways: protect your life. Keep it. Don’t let anyone take it.
What happened quickly: the president granted pardon to 175 convicts. Among them were drug traffickers, illegal miners and a number of people convicted of murder. The list – released by the presidential press office – included 28 drug offenders, 41 illegal minors and 22 killers. This raw count is what sparked the debate and, honestly, the outrage. To many, it felt like a decision that neglected the victims’ families and the deeper damage these crimes leave behind. People want answers; they want accountability; they want recognition that some losses are irreversible.
Kemi’s statement was less about politics and more about a kind of survival advice. On her Instagram story, she wrote, “Don’t allow anyone to kill you, protect her with all your being. Be it in marriage, friendship, courtship or any other type of relationship.” It’s simple. It’s brutal. And that’s the kind of thing you say when you worry that systems are failing to keep people safe — or worse, when systems seem to be letting people who have harmed others reenter society without sufficient explanation.
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Why it matters to people
Many of us respond to a pardon not only as a legal act but also as an emotional one. When a person convicted of murder is released, victims’ families may feel retraumatized. They may wonder if the justice that was done is no longer done today. The case that further aggravated the pain in this series of pardons is that of Bilyaminu Ahmed, killed in 2017. His wife, Maryam Sandain, was sentenced to death by hanging in 2020 for his murder. His pardon – among others – prompted Bilyaminu’s family to publicly condemn the decision. You can understand why: the punishment was severe, the grief lasted, and then came a reprieve that many perceive as an erasure.
Thus, Afolabi’s warning – “guard your life” – reads as an emotional reflex and as practical advice. It recognizes fear and anger without offering a political alternative. This is understandable; she is an actress and public figure, not a legislator. But it reflects 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 debate to honor this purpose.
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A mixed public reaction – loud and messy
Of course, reactions to a presidential pardon are rarely uniform. Some people will always emphasize mercy and rehabilitation. Others focus on deterrence and justice. And there’s always a happy medium, although it can be difficult to find, especially in headlines. Here, the reactions were varied: politicians calling for a change of heart, civil groups protesting, families of victims expressing their deep suffering. Even among ordinary citizens, opinions are divided. I find this unsurprising. It’s complicated; human feelings rarely align perfectly with legal categories.
I also noticed a sort of cognitive dissonance in the speech. On the one hand, countries talk about rehabilitation and second chances; on the other, certain crimes, such as murder, imbue those who remain with an almost categorical sense of finality. So when the state intervenes by granting pardons, even if the law allows it, it seems to some like an affront to memory. For others, it is proof that the system can change and be merciful. Neither position is completely wrong. Neither is entirely true. It’s just complicated – which is, to some extent, comforting because it reminds us that these problems can’t be solved with a single title.
Human notes – small and messy
I admit to 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 aware of the victims’ losses. Maybe that’s hypocritical. Maybe inconsistent. But it’s human. I have a friend who lost someone to violent crime years ago; she still feels spikes of anger when pardons like this happen. She told me, “It’s not just about punishment. It’s about remembering.” And that stuck with me. Memory matters. Ritual matters. The judicial system sometimes forgets this.
Kemi Afolabi’s message also, oddly enough, seemed like a reminder to individuals to take responsibility for their own safety. This is a serious suggestion, because who should bear the burden of protection? The State? Communities? Individuals? Again, no clear answer. But telling people to be vigilant in their relationships — in marriage, friendship, courtship — resonates. People sometimes ignore warning signs. They make choices they will later regret. Afolabi’s line is therefore as much practical advice as moral outrage.
What could happen next?
I expect more debate. There will be calls for clearer criteria for pardons; there will be transparency requirements on how decisions are made. Families who feel wronged will press for recognition, or at least an explanation. And public figures like Afolabi will continue to use platforms to set the tone of the conversation. It’s worth watching. These debates are not academic; they reshape how communities heal or fracture after harm.
To conclude: forgiveness has acted like a stone in a pond, and the waves continue to spread. Kemi’s reaction is a touchstone for many: protect yourself, insist on safety, and don’t assume that systems will protect you for you. This perhaps sounds alarmist. Maybe it’s just honest. Regardless, it reminds us that justice and mercy are intertwined in such a way that easy solutions are rare.