THE story of Ken Saro-Wiwa and the Ogoni Nine is not just a historical footnote. It is a mirror held up to Nigeria’s conscience. When President Bola Tinubu stood before the National Assembly on Democracy Day and announced a posthumous presidential pardon for the nine men hanged in 1995 by the regime of the late General Sani Abacha, it was, on the surface, a moment of reckoning. But beneath the symbolism lies an uncomfortable truth: Nigeria has yet to fully confront the forces that turned these activists into martyrs. The word “pardon” carries a peculiar weight. It suggests forgiveness for a crime committed. But what crime did Ken Saro-Wiwa truly commit? His offense was speaking truth to power, exposing how Shell’s oil operations, backed by military dictators, were turning Ogoniland into a wasteland. His crime was organising protests, writing searing critiques, and demanding that his people must not be sacrificed on the altar of crude oil profits.
The 1995 kangaroo trial that condemned him and his eight compatriots—Saturday Dobee, Nordu Eawo, Daniel Gbooko, Paul Levera, Felix Nuate, Baribor Bera, Barinem Kiobel, and John Kpuine—was a farce. Witnesses later admitted they were bribed or coerced. The tribunal, handpicked by Abacha, delivered a predetermined verdict. Even as the global community howled in protest, the hangman’s noose tightened. Their bodies were dumped in an unmarked grave, soaked in lime to hasten decomposition, a final act of erasure. Now, nearly three decades later, Tinubu offers a pardon. It is, without question, a gesture. But gestures do not rewrite history. A pardon does not declare innocence; it merely says, “We forgive you for what you did.” But what if they did nothing wrong? And as facts have shown, they committed no offence.
For the families of the Ogoni Nine, this pardon is bittersweet. Some have welcomed it as closure. Others, like Ken Henshaw of the advocacy group, “We The People,” have argued that it is insufficient. “A pardon is granted to those who have committed offenses,” he says. “These men were not criminals. They were framed.” The Movement for the Survival of the Ogoni People (MOSOP) has long demanded more: a formal exoneration, an official declaration that the trial was a sham, and that the executions were judicial murders. Without this, the pardon feels like a political maneuver, a way to placate without truly confronting the past.
And then there is the question of timing. Why now? Some speculate that it is no coincidence that this announcement comes as the Nigerian government seeks to resume oil exploration in Ogoniland. Shell may have left, but new players are circling. Is this pardon a prelude to another round of extraction, another cycle of exploitation dressed up as progress?
The deeper tragedy is that the conditions that led Saro-Wiwa to the gallows persist. The Niger Delta remains one of the most polluted places on earth. Oil spills slicken rivers, gas flares poison the air, and pipelines crisscross farmlands like scars. The people who live there still drink poisoned water, breathe toxic air, and watch their children grow up with respiratory diseases. The Petroleum Industry Act (PIA), passed in 2021 after years of debate, was supposed to address some of these injustices. Instead, it offered oil-producing communities a meager 3 percent share of revenues, a pittance compared to the billions siphoned from their land. It was an insult disguised as reform. Saro-Wiwa once said, “The environment is man’s first right.” Yet, three decades after his death, that right is still being denied. If President Tinubu truly wants to honour his memory, he must do more than issue pardons. He must ensure that the cleanup of Ogoniland, long delayed and half-hearted, is completed. He must hold Shell and other oil companies accountable for their ecological crimes. He must revisit the PIA and ensure that the people who bear the brunt of oil extraction receive their fair share.
The hanging of the Ogoni Nine was meant to silence dissent. Instead, it turned Saro-Wiwa into a global symbol of resistance. His last words before the noose tightened were: “Lord, take my soul, but the struggle continues.” That struggle is far from over. Today, activists in the Niger Delta still face harassment, imprisonment, and even death. The government still treats protests against oil companies as threats to national security rather than legitimate cries for justice. The same forces that killed Saro-Wiwa, including corporate greed, state violence, and environmental racism, are still at work. Tinubu’s pardon is a step, but it is not enough. True justice would mean a formal declaration that the Ogoni Nine were innocent, their trial a sham, and their executions state-sanctioned murder. It means a full, transparent cleanup of Ogoniland, funded by Shell and enforced by law. It includes a revision of the PIA to ensure that oil communities receive real benefits, not token percentages. It means an end to the criminalisation of environmental defenders. Again, achieving closure in the Saro-Wiwa case demands a full inquiry into the saga of the Ogoni Four, a case that was apparently staged by the military to get Saro-Wiwa out of the way. Instituting such a full inquest could be one route to a final clean-up.
History has a way of speaking to the present. The ghosts of the Ogoni Nine are not just figures of the past; they are reminders of what happens when power goes unchecked, when profit is valued over people, when justice is delayed until it becomes a mere ceremony. President Tinubu’s pardon is an acknowledgment, but it is not absolution. Nigeria must go further. Until it does, the struggle Saro-Wiwa spoke of will continue in the polluted creeks of the Niger Delta, in the courtrooms where activists still fight for justice, and in the hearts of those who refuse to forget.
The noose may have silenced the Ogoni Nine, but their voices still echo. The question is: Is Nigeria finally ready to listen?
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