By G.U CHUKWU

The Ogoni people in the Niger Delta have endured years of injustice at the hands of oil companies and the government. The legacy of the Ogoni Four and Ogoni Nine serves as a reminder of the sacrifices made for justice and shows the Ogoni people?s strength in the face of hardship. Their fight for fairness has sparked international attention and brought hope for a better future.

The Ogoni Four, consisting of Albert Badey, Edward Kobani, Samuel Orage, and Theophilus Orage, were elders who dared to speak out against the unjust practices of oil companies in Ogoniland. Their voices echoed the frustrations of their community, criticizing the environmental degradation and economic exploitation caused by the oil industry. However, their brave stance led to their unjust execution, not by the authorities but by their people who saw them as ?vultures,? sparking international outrage and shedding light on the plight of the Ogoni people.

There was the Ogoni Nine, led by the renowned activist Ken Saro-Wiwa, alongside eight other leaders. They faced a similar fate, but in the hands of government authorities. Their outspoken advocacy for the rights of the Ogoni people and their opposition to the detrimental actions of oil companies resulted in their imprisonment and eventual execution. The international community protested these unjust sentences, but the government?s determination to silence dissent prevailed, leading to the hanging of the Ogoni Nine.

Despite the global condemnation of these atrocities, the Ogoni people continued to face systemic marginalization and environmental devastation. The soil, once fertile for farming, became barren due to oil contamination. The rivers, once a source of sustenance, turned into toxic wastelands, and the air was tainted with the stench of oil. The Ogoni people?s traditional way of life was threatened, leaving them struggling to survive.

In response to mounting pressure, the United Nations Environmental Programme (UNEP) conducted a comprehensive study on the environmental degradation in Ogoniland. The report, released in 2011, provided irrefutable evidence of the severe damage caused by decades of oil exploitation and proposed actionable solutions for restoration and sustainable development.

This pivotal moment reignited the Ogoni people?s determination to seek justice. They demanded that the government and oil companies address the UNEP report?s findings and actively involve the Ogoni community in decision-making processes. The resilience and unity of the Ogoni people, alongside the unwavering support of global allies, propelled the fight for justice forward.

In 2016, the government initiated the Ogoni Clean-Up and Restoration Project, signaling a potential turning point in the quest for justice. The project aimed to remediate the polluted areas, provide alternative livelihood opportunities, and promote sustainable growth in Ogoniland. It was a step towards rectifying the injustices of the past and fostering a brighter future for the Ogoni people.

However, the road to justice was fraught with obstacles. The Ogoni Clean-Up and Restoration Project encountered delays, funding shortages, and bureaucratic challenges, testing the patience and resolve of the Ogoni people. Despite the initial strides, the promises of fair compensation for environmental degradation and greater community involvement in resource management remained unfulfilled.

The fight for justice in Ogoniland persisted, buoyed by the enduring legacy of the Ogoni Four and Ogoni Nine. Their sacrifices became a rallying cry for the Ogoni people and their supporters, inspiring a collective determination to secure a better future for the Niger Delta. The ongoing struggle for fairness and accountability from the government and oil companies echoed the resilience and perseverance of the Ogoni people.

As the battle for justice continued, incremental victories were achieved. The Ogoni Clean-Up and Restoration Project, despite its challenges, made newspaper-progress in addressing environmental pollution and empowering local communities. The Ogoni people also gained a stronger voice in shaping the decisions that impacted their land and resources.

The pressure from both domestic and international fronts compelled the government and oil companies to acknowledge the grievances of the Ogoni people. Commitments were made to uphold responsibility in their dealings with the Ogoni community and ensure equitable distribution of the benefits derived from oil operations.

The question of whether the government and oil companies in Ogoniland will ever treat the Ogoni people and the larger Niger Delta fairly remains unanswered. The uncertainty of the future looms large, and the challenges ahead demand courage, persistence, and unity. The legacy of the Ogoni Four and Ogoni Nine lives on as a testament to the enduring spirit of the Ogoni people and their relentless pursuit of justice.

Ogoni Four honoured after Ogoni Nine

It is very late now, past midnight on a Saturday morning in Port Harcourt. The usual noisy hum of the city has softened to a low whisper. Rain from earlier in the week has left the streets slick and shiny under the orange glow of the streetlights, and the air is still thick with the smell of damp earth and diesel. He should be sleeping, but his mind is not quiet. It keeps going back to Wednesday. A day that felt like thirty years in the making.

He wouldn't like his name printed, and on that Wednesday, he put on his best clothes, a heavy traditional robe that felt both proud and unfamiliar on his shoulders. For most of his life, his name?the name of a man he addresses as ?my father,? Chief Edward Kobani?has felt heavy in a different way. Although, not his biological father. It was a name tied to a deep and painful argument, a name that many people whispered with suspicion, a name connected to a time of terrible fracture and death in his homeland, Ogoniland.

For years, he has spoken about ?my father? and the three other leaders who were killed with him. People called them the ?Ogoni Four.? He never asked for revenge. Hr only asked for the truth to be seen. He asked for the nation to remember them not as villains or footnotes in someone else?s story, but as the good men they were?fathers, husbands, and leaders who loved their people.

On Wednesday, September 24, 2025, in a large, cool room filled with important people, that request was finally answered. The President of Nigeria, Bola Ahmed Tinubu, gave ?my father? and the other three men?Chief Albert Badey, Chief Samuel Orage, and Chief Theophilus Orage?one of the country?s highest honours. He made them Commanders of the Order of the Niger.

This was more than just a medal and a handshake. It was a signal to the whole country. It was the government finally saying, ?We see the whole story now. We see all the pain.? It was a step toward healing a wound that has been open for his entire adult life, a wound that split families, turned friends into enemies, and left a deep scar on the heart of the Ogoni people. This is the story of that wound, and how, on a humid Wednesday in Port Harcourt, the slow work of stitching it closed finally began.

To understand the pain:

To understand the pain, you must first understand the place. Ogoniland was once a land of breathtaking green, a place of countless rivers and creeks that spread out like veins, carrying life to the rich soil. His grandfather told him stories of a time when the water was so clear you could see the fish darting between the mangrove roots. The farms were rich with yam, cassava, and plantain. The air was clean, and the future felt as bright and open as the wide sky.

Then, in the 1950s, the oil men came. They came with huge, loud machines that tore through the quiet forests. They built tall metal structures that reached for the sky. They laid long pipes, like giant black snakes, across the farmland. At first, they brought promises. They promised jobs, money, and a better life for everyone. Some people were excited. It felt like the modern world was arriving.

But the better life never came for the Ogoni people. The money from the oil?billions and billions of dollars?went far away, to big cities like Lagos and Abuja, and to the foreign countries where the oil companies came from. For Ogoniland, the oil brought something else. It brought a slow and terrible poison.

The pipes grew old and rusty, and they would often break. Thick, black, sticky oil would pour out, covering the farms and turning the rich soil into useless black mud. Nothing would grow there anymore. The oil spilled into the creeks and rivers, killing the fish. The water, once clear, became a dark, greasy soup. Fishermen would pull up their nets and find them empty, or full of dead things.

And then there were the flares. Day and night, without ever stopping, the oil companies would burn off the extra gas from the ground. These giant flames shot into the sky, roaring like a monster that never slept. The smoke turned the air sour and left a black dust on everything?the roofs of houses, the leaves on the trees, and the lungs of the children. The light from the flares was so bright that there was no real night in Ogoniland anymore, only a constant, angry orange glow. This wasn?t progress; it was a war against the land itself.

A Painful Divide:

By the early 1990s, the Ogoni people were desperate. Their home was being destroyed, and their voices were being ignored. It was then that a great man named Ken Saro-Wiwa stepped forward. He was a famous writer and a TV producer, a man whose words could make the whole country laugh. But he saw the suffering of his people, and he decided to use his powerful voice for them.

He helped start a group called the Movement for the Survival of the Ogoni People, or MOSOP. It was a peaceful group. Their goal was simple: to tell the world what was happening and to demand fairness. They wrote a document called the ?Ogoni Bill of Rights.? It didn?t ask for war. It asked for a clean environment. It asked for a fair share of the oil money. It asked for the right to control their own land and future.

Ken Saro-Wiwa was a brilliant speaker, and he gave people hope. On one amazing day in 1993, about 300,000 Ogoni people marched together peacefully. They carried green leaves to symbolize the dying land they wanted to save. It was a powerful message. The world started to pay attention.

But Nigeria was ruled by a harsh military government led by General Sani Abacha. The government and the oil companies did not like this new, loud voice. And inside Ogoniland itself, a disagreement began to grow.

?My father,? Chief Edward Kobani, and other respected leaders like Chief Badey were older men. They were wise and had led the communities for many years. At first, they supported MOSOP. They, too, wanted a better life for the Ogoni people. But they started to worry about Ken Saro-Wiwa?s approach. He was very direct and confrontational. The older leaders feared that poking the military government so hard would bring soldiers and violence to their home. They had seen what the army could do. They wanted to solve the problem through slow, careful talks and negotiation. They believed this was a safer path.

The younger, more passionate members of MOSOP saw this caution as weakness. They saw it as betrayal. They thought the chiefs were siding with the government. The argument grew hotter and more bitter. It was like a family argument that gets out of control. Both sides wanted the same thing?a healthy and prosperous Ogoniland?but they disagreed fiercely on how to get there. This disagreement split the community down the middle, turning neighbours and friends against one another.

A Day of Blood, A Trial of Lies

The terrible breaking point came on May 21, 1994. ?My father? and the three other chiefs were at a meeting in the town of Giokoo. An angry mob of young men, who believed the chiefs were enemies of the Ogoni struggle, attacked them. The four men were murdered in a truly horrible way. It was a day of pure darkness. The violence that ?my father? had feared had come, but it had come from within his own community.

The military government saw its chance. Even though Ken Saro-Wiwa was not there and had called for non-violence, the government arrested him and other MOSOP leaders. They blamed them for the murders.

The trial that followed was a joke. It was a lie from start to finish. The government had already decided what it wanted to do. On November 10, 1995, the government hanged Ken Saro-Wiwa and eight other men. The world came to know them as the ?Ogoni Nine.?

There was a huge cry of anger from countries all over the world. Nigeria was punished and isolated. The Ogoni Nine became heroes, remembered as brave men who died fighting for the environment and for the rights of their people. And they were.

But in the noise of this global story, the first four men who died? ?my father? and his friends?were forgotten. Or worse, they were remembered as the reason Ken Saro-Wiwa was killed. Their own story, their own sacrifice, was erased. Their families lived in a kind of shadow. They carried not only the grief of losing their fathers, but also the pain of being misunderstood. For almost thirty years, they waited for the full truth to be told.

The Slow Walk Towards Peace

Years passed. Governments changed. The wound in Ogoniland did not heal. The oil spills continued. The poverty remained. The argument about who was right and who was wrong in the 1990s was like a ghost that haunted every conversation about the future.

Then, a new government under President Tinubu decided to try something different. It set up a special group of people called the Presidential Committee on Ogoni Consultations. Their job was not to give orders, but to listen.

These people, led by a professor named Don Baridam, did something very important. They came to Ogoniland. They didn?t just stay in fancy hotels in the city. They went into the villages. They sat under the mango trees with the old chiefs. They listened to the angry young men. They sat with the mothers and grandmothers who had lost so much.

They sat with his family. And they sat with the families of the Ogoni Nine. For the first time, people from both sides of this painful story were brought into the same room to talk. The conversations were hard. There was shouting. There were tears. Thirty years of pain came pouring out. But because they kept talking, something amazing began to happen. People began to truly listen to each other. The families of the Nine heard about the pain and stigma their families had faced. And they heard again about their fight for justice and the terrible loss they had endured. They began to see that everyone was a victim of a terrible time and a brutal government.

A Wednesday of Healing

All of that slow, patient work led to the ceremony on Wednesday. As he sat in that formal hall, he looked around. He saw people from all parts of Ogoniland. He saw government officials. He saw the children of the Ogoni Nine. A few years ago, being in the same room would have been tense and uncomfortable. But on Wednesday, the feeling was different. It was quiet, serious, and respectful.

When the President spoke, he didn?t just talk about ?my father? and the other chiefs. He spoke of the ?persistent plight of the Ogoni people.? He said, ?Hope is restored.? It was the government finally admitting that a great wrong had been done to the entire community for a very long time.

The most important part of this was that in June, just a few months earlier, the government had given the very same honour to Ken Saro-Wiwa and the Ogoni Nine. By honouring both groups, the President was sending a clear message: This is not about picking sides anymore. This is about honouring all the sons of Ogoniland who lost their lives. This is about admitting that the story is complex and that everyone?s pain is real.

Later, after the speeches, he saw one of the victims? sons across the room. For decades, their names had been on opposite sides of this story. They looked at each other, and they gave a small, simple nod. It wasn?t a big, dramatic moment. But in that quiet look, a whole history of division felt like it was beginning to melt away. They were not enemies. They were both sons of Ogoniland who had lost their fathers in a time of darkness.

The Work That Is Still to Be Done

That medal, that honour, has lifted a great weight from his heart. ?My father? and his friends have finally been remembered as the honourable men they were. But the ceremony is not the end of the story. It is the start of a new, more difficult chapter.

The land is still sick. The cleanup of the oil spills, which was promised years ago, is moving very slowly. Ogoni people are still poor. The schools and hospitals are still not good enough.

The true test of this new beginning will be what happens next. Will the government keep its promises? Will the oil companies finally act fairly? Will the money from the oil that is still under Ogoni land be used to build a better future for our children?

The great question still hangs in the humid air of the Niger Delta. After honouring the dead, will Nigeria finally do right for the living?

As the Ogoni honour their dead, they also call for justice for the living. They demand a swift and comprehensive cleanup of their land, compensation for the damage caused, and meaningful engagement in the decision-making processes that affect their community.

The struggle of the Ogoni people is not just a local issue. It is a global call for environmental justice, human rights, and corporate accountability. It is a reminder that the true cost of the energy consumption is borne by communities like the Ogoni, and that they must all take responsibility for the impact of their actions.

The great question still hangs in the humid air of the Ogoni. It is a question that demands an answer ? an answer that upholds the rights and dignity of the Ogoni people, and sets a precedent for justice and accountability in the face of environmental and social injustice.

He does not know the answer. But he does know this: on Wednesday, something changed. The deep and bitter argument that divided Ogoni people for thirty years has finally been put to rest. They are no longer a community fighting with itself. The ghosts of 1994 have been shown respect, and now they can be at peace. Now, the Ogoni people can face the future with one voice. The fight for a clean land and a fair life is not over. But from now on, we will fight it together.

?CHUKWU writes from Port Harcourt, Rivers State.

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