Lukman Solahudeen Ayyubi
I was just a little boy when Dele Giwa was killed by a letter bomb. I remember the shock, the fear, and the confusion that filled the air in Lagos. Back then, I didn’t truly understand the weight of his death. I only knew that a man had been violently silenced and that something precious had been lost. Later, I came to understand who he really was.
Dele Giwa, together with Ray Ekpu, Dan Agbese, and Yakubu Mohammed, gave birth to Newswatch Magazine, a bold voice that stood tall when fear ruled, and truth was dangerous. For nearly three decades, they fought oppression with words, risking everything to defend truth.
But how fragile life and legacy can be. I later read with a heavy heart how Newswatch, the very symbol of resilience they built, began its slow decline after what seemed like a hopeful agreement in 2011.
Jimoh Ibrahim came with a handshake, an agreement to purchase a majority stake in the company. On paper, it was ₦510 million. A promise. A deal sealed in trust. But that promise was never fulfilled.
Days turned into months, and months into years, yet the payment never came. Instead, what followed was a painful erosion of everything the founders had laboured for. The magazine that once challenged military authority began to fade, not because it lacked strength, but because it was taken from within.
In the end, the men who had stood firm against tyranny, who had risked their lives for truth, were pushed out of the very platform they built with sweat, courage, and sacrifice.
One by one, they departed this world, each passing leaving behind questions, pain, and a lingering sense of injustice. Only Ray Ekpu remains, carrying the memories of a generation that dared to speak.
The magazine that once shook power to its core was stripped from its creators. The man at the center of this painful story moved on, rising in influence, now sitting in the Senate and even representing Nigeria on the global stage.
It is a bitter reminder of how power can shift hands, and how truth can sometimes be overshadowed by silence and influence.
But stories like this do not fade.
They live on in memory, in pain, and in the quiet voices of those who remember.
Because somewhere, in the hearts of those who witnessed it, the question still lingers. How does a legacy built on courage end in such sorrow?
And so, the past still lives on.
Not just as history… but as a wound that has not healed.