When Alhaji Ahmed Bello Isa suddenly surfaced in Abuja—decades after disappearing from his son’s life—to defend the presidential pardon granted to Maryam Sanda, the woman convicted of murdering that same son, the public reaction was swift and scathing. Many saw his appearance as nothing short of betrayal. After all, how could a father forgive, let alone defend, the woman who killed his own child in cold blood?
Yet, behind this emotionally charged spectacle lies a complex web of human weakness, cultural expectations, and perhaps, misunderstood faith. The real question may not be why he did it, but what might have driven him to act that way after 44 years of silence.
By all accounts, Ahmed Isa had been absent from Bilyaminu’s life almost from birth. His wife—Bilyaminu’s mother—died soon after childbirth, and he reportedly never returned to the maternal family after condoling them. The boy grew up in the care of his maternal relatives and was eventually raised by his influential uncle, Dr. Bello Haliru Mohammed.
To live with the knowledge that one’s only child was raised, educated, and prospered entirely without one’s presence can create a lifetime of buried guilt and shame. When such a man reappears decades later, he is often a man searching for redemption, not recognition. His public forgiveness of Maryam might therefore not stem from genuine spiritual compassion alone, but from a desperate attempt to reclaim moral relevance in a story he had long abandoned.
In this sense, his act may have been less about Maryam and more about himself—a way of saying, “I still matter in my son’s story.”
The description of Ahmed Isa as “gaunt and poverty-stricken” sitting beside the wealthy and powerful Sanda family during the press conference cannot be ignored. The imbalance in social status was glaring.
Maryam’s parents are influential figures in Abuja’s elite circle, while Ahmed Isa, a retired storekeeper from the old Sokoto State, has lived far from that world. His sudden involvement raises legitimate questions: Was he sought out, persuaded, or even compensated to make a public statement of forgiveness?
In a society where wealth easily bends narratives, it’s possible that his voice was used strategically to give moral and emotional legitimacy to the controversial pardon. By producing a “forgiving father,” the Sanda family could project a façade of reconciliation—an image that could help erase lingering outrage over a murder that many Nigerians still view as a miscarriage of justice.
From an Islamic standpoint, forgiveness is one of the highest virtues. The Qur’an encourages believers to forgive even grave wrongs, promising immense reward from Allah for those who pardon. However, Islam also emphasizes justice (‘adl) as the foundation of peace and social order.
The family of a murder victim holds the right of qisas—the right to seek retribution—but they may also choose to forgive (‘afw) or accept blood money (diyyah). Yet, such forgiveness must come from the rightful heirs of the victim and should ideally stem from spiritual conviction, not external manipulation.
If Ahmed Isa truly forgave Maryam out of faith, his act aligns with Islamic mercy. But if his forgiveness was a tool for political convenience or social pressure, then it strays from the sincerity that Islam demands. The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) once said: “The most beloved of deeds to Allah is that you forgive when you have the power to punish.” But forgiveness born of weakness, coercion, or guilt is spiritually hollow.
While the father’s public declaration of forgiveness drew the most attention, Islamic jurisprudence does not vest the exclusive right of pardon in the father. In a case of intentional killing (qatl al-‘amd), the right to demand justice, accept blood money, or forgive the killer belongs jointly to all legitimate heirs (warathah) of the deceased — those who would legally inherit from him.
In Bilyaminu’s case, his mother was long deceased, leaving behind his father and his children as his principal heirs. By this rule, the right to forgive Maryam does not rest with the father alone, but also with the children, who represent their father’s continuing lineage.
If the heirs are minors, Islamic law forbids any guardian from waiving their right to justice without demonstrable benefit to them. The wali (guardian) may act only in the child’s best interest. Forgiveness that appears to protect the killer rather than the victim’s legacy would therefore be religiously suspect.
Yet, in this tragic case, the situation is even more delicate. Bilyaminu’s children are being raised by their mother’s family — the same family whose daughter was convicted of killing their father. That means their guardians are the very people who stand to gain most from a narrative of pardon and closure. It is therefore not difficult to foresee that, whether now or when the children grow up, they are more likely to align emotionally and morally with their mother’s side. Their current guardians, too, can be expected to “forgive” on their behalf — a formality that neatly serves the Sanda family’s ongoing effort to normalize what many Nigerians still see as an unhealed injustice.
From a purely Islamic legal standpoint, such forgiveness might carry procedural legitimacy; from a moral standpoint, it remains deeply problematic. For forgiveness to have true weight before Allah, it must flow from sincerity and free choice, not social pressure, manipulation, or misplaced loyalty.
It is also possible that Ahmed Isa’s decades of detachment left him emotionally disconnected from his son’s memory. To the maternal family, who nurtured and buried Bilyaminu, the wound remains raw. To a father who never shared in that journey, the pain may feel distant—abstract, almost unreal.
In that emotional vacuum, it becomes easier to speak of forgiveness. Without the intimacy of grief, one may grant pardon not out of peace, but out of detachment.
At its core, this controversy is about more than one man’s forgiveness. It reflects the deep moral fractures in Nigerian society—where power can bend truth, and justice can be diluted by influence.
Between the aggrieved maternal relatives seeking justice and the long-lost father now preaching mercy, the public is left asking: Who truly loved Bilyaminu? The one who raised him, or the one who reappeared to absolve his killer?
Perhaps both love and forgiveness have been misused here. Perhaps, too, Ahmed Isa is as much a victim of his past decisions as Bilyaminu was of Maryam’s fatal rage.
If we judge him harshly, we risk overlooking the frailty of the human spirit. If we excuse him too easily, we risk erasing the sanctity of justice.
Islam teaches balance—‘adl and rahma, justice and mercy. For Bilyaminu’s father, his sudden appearance might be less an act of divine forgiveness and more a reflection of the human struggle to find peace with one’s own past mistakes.
Until the full story of his silence and sudden reemergence is told, Ahmed Isa will remain a haunting symbol of a father’s lost time, a society’s moral confusion, and a faith’s delicate balance between forgiveness and justice.
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