Tinubu and the Burden of Moral Casualness

Expression By Femi Akintunde-Johnson

Twice in recent months, President Bola Ahmed Tinubu has treated Nigerians to what might generously be called civic theatre and, less generously, an unsettling exhibition of power exercised without sufficient moral self-consciousness. Two lists emerged from the presidency: one invoking the solemn prerogative of mercy, the other announcing long-awaited ambassadorial nominees after an uncharacteristically protracted vacuum in Nigeria’s foreign missions. Both lists landed with a thud. And in both cases, the thud was not merely the sound of surprise, but of collective disbelief.

The prerogative of mercy is, by its very nature, a delicate instrument. It is meant to soften justice without subverting it; to temper law with compassion, not to ridicule the moral intelligence of a nation. When names on that list triggered outrage across social and professional divides, it was not because Nigerians have suddenly become enemies of forgiveness. Rather, it was because forgiveness, when dispensed without transparency or moral coherence, begins to look less like grace and more like indulgence. Nigerians scanned the roll-call and asked, quietly at first and then loudly: on what ethical scale were these beneficiaries weighed?

Before the dust could settle, the second list arrived: ambassadorial nominees, delayed for so long that many missions had been running on bureaucratic fumes. One might have expected a redemptive moment, a chance to reassure citizens that the hiatus had been used to sift, scrutinise and select Nigerians of competence, credibility and character. Instead, what followed were revelations that unsettled even those long inured to the surprises of Nigerian governance. Allegations, past controversies, questions of fitness and propriety surfaced with predictable speed. The government shuffled, reviews were hinted at, but the overall response was muted, almost weary, as though moral controversies were an occupational hazard rather than a red flag.

In both episodes, a common thread emerged: a disturbing casualness about standards. The presidency appeared either too insulated to appreciate the optics, or too confident to care. Worse still was the impression that access, not merit, may have played a starring role; that proximity to power remains a more reliable credential than probity or public trust. For a government that rode to office on the back of promises of renewal, this was an awkward tableau.

Yet, if the presidency supplied the lists, the Senate supplied the rubber stamp. Constitutionally empowered to screen, assess and, where necessary, reject nominees, the upper chamber instead perfected the art of procedural complacency. Screening sessions came and went, punctuated by banter, deferential nods and the familiar Nigerian legislative alchemy by which serious questions dissolve into friendly jokes. Less-than-sterling characters glided through with barely a scratch, their pasts treated as inconveniences rather than cautionary tales.

This abdication matters. The Senate is not a ceremonial audience; it is meant to be an institutional conscience. When it chooses convenience over scrutiny, it sends a signal far beyond the chamber: that accountability is optional, that standards are negotiable, and that public outrage is a passing storm to be waited out. One could almost hear the unspoken legislative mantra: “Let sleeping scandals lie.”

Public reaction, however, told a different story. Civil society groups, professional bodies, former diplomats and ordinary citizens took to columns, studios and social media to express condemnation. Some asked why, in a country bursting with accomplished professionals at home and abroad, the talent pool always seems to dry up around the corridors of power. Others wondered aloud whether the very idea of “impeccable character” has become an unrealistic aspiration in public appointments, a quaint phrase better suited to civics textbooks than to Aso Rock memos.

The presidency, for its part, oscillated between defensiveness and studied silence. There were official dismissals of “misunderstandings”, hints of internal reviews, and the usual reassurance that due process had been followed. Due process, alas, has become one of the most elastic phrases in Nigerian public life, capable of stretching to accommodate almost any outcome. Rarely does it illuminate the values, philosophies or criteria that guide decisions. It functions more as a bureaucratic incantation: say it often enough and hope the controversy loses interest.

What, then, underpins these choices? Ideologically, the Tinubu administration presents itself as pragmatic, deal-making, politically seasoned. In such a worldview, loyalty is currency, experience is defined by proximity to power, and politics is an arena of transactions rather than transformations. Mercy becomes political settlement; appointments become rewards or strategic placations. The moral dimension is not absent, but it is subordinate, something to be managed rather than foregrounded.

The ramifications are not abstract. When questionable figures are pardoned without clear justification, it weakens the deterrent power of the law. When envoys with baggage represent Nigeria abroad, it complicates diplomacy, undermines credibility and hands foreign interlocutors an unearned advantage. At home, it deepens cynicism. Citizens begin to conclude that integrity is a handicap, that the straight path is scenic but ultimately unrewarding. This is how nations slowly tutor their best minds in the art of disengagement.

There is, too, a psychological imprint. Leadership behaviour sets tone. When the apex of power appears comfortable with moral ambiguity, that comfort trickles down. Ministries, agencies and parastatals take their cue. Standards blur. Lines wobble. Soon, mediocrity and misconduct are no longer shocking; they are merely “one of those things”. Nigerians, famously resilient, respond with humour, memes and sarcasm, but beneath the laughter is a fatigue that should worry any serious government.

None of this is irreversible. Lists can be revisited, criteria clarified, mistakes acknowledged. The Senate can rediscover its spine. The presidency can choose to surprise Nigerians pleasantly by insisting, even belatedly, on higher thresholds. Power, after all, is not diminished by restraint; it is legitimised by it.

But time is not an infinite ally. Each infamous list leaves a residue. Each shrug from authority erodes a little more trust. In a country already struggling with economic pain and social strain, moral carelessness is an unaffordable luxury. Leadership is not merely about winning battles or assembling loyalists; it is about modelling the seriousness a nation needs to take itself seriously.

For now, Nigerians watch, annotate, remember. Lists may fade from headlines, but they linger in the public ledger. And history, unlike Senate screenings, has a habit of asking harder questions.