By Tayo Ogunbiyi
Some deaths are mourned, buried and gradually surrendered to the custody of history. Others refuse to lie still. They return with the stubbornness of unfinished business, knocking at the conscience of a nation, disturbing its sleep and asking questions for which time has provided no answers. The death of Dele Giwa belongs to the latter category.
On October 19, 1986, a parcel bomb delivered to his home in Ikeja, Lagos, exploded, fatally injuring the celebrated journalist. He was 39. Four decades later, the man is gone, the calendar has moved relentlessly forward, generations have been born and grown, governments have come and gone, but the central question remains unanswered: who killed Dele Giwa, and why has justice proved so elusive? His assassination remains unresolved.
For me, Dele Giwa is not merely a name in the annals of Nigerian journalism, nor is he simply the subject of an anniversary tribute. He was my mentor. His death was a personal wound, and the pain has not entirely departed.
As a young avid reader, I remember the grief that overwhelmed me when news of his killing broke. It was difficult to comprehend that a man whose words possessed such life, colour and vitality could be so brutally removed from the world he illuminated with them.
I still find myself returning to a painful thought: but for his death, what more might he have given Nigeria? That question is both a lament and an accusation against the wastefulness of violent death.
Dele Giwa possessed a gift that cannot be manufactured in a newsroom or acquired merely by accumulating years of professional experience. He understood the magic of language. He could make words dance, ideas sparkle, and ordinary events reveal extraordinary meanings. His writing had personality. It could charm without surrendering its intelligence, amuse without sacrificing its seriousness and provoke without losing its elegance.
He was a journalist, but he was also a craftsman of the written word. Through his work at the Daily Times, Sunday Concord and, especially, Newswatch, which he co-founded with Ray Ekpu, Dan Agbese and Yakubu Mohammed, Giwa helped reshape the possibilities of Nigerian journalism. Newswatch, established in 1985, became an important platform for investigative reporting and robust coverage of public affairs.
He belonged to a tradition of journalism that understood that the press must do more than announce what powerful people have done. It must ask why they did it, whom their decisions served, what consequences followed, and what they would prefer the public not to know.
Such journalism is indispensable to nation-building.
A nation is not built by roads and bridges alone. It is also built by the quality of its conversations, the integrity of its institutions, the courage of its citizens and the willingness of those who exercise power to submit themselves to scrutiny. Where public information is concealed, accountability becomes difficult. Where questions are discouraged, abuses can flourish in the shadows.
Journalism provides a lamp in those shadows. It does not always provide comfortable illumination, but a society that prefers darkness to the discomfort of truth eventually pays a terrible price.
Giwa understood this calling. His writing demonstrated that serious journalism need not be dull, that courage need not be crude and that intellectual rigour can coexist with literary grace.
And he was only 39 when death interrupted his journey.
One cannot contemplate that age without wondering about the unwritten chapters. What would he have made of the restoration of civilian rule in 1999? What would his celebrated pen have said about the promises and disappointments of our Fourth Republic, the corruption controversies that have shaken public confidence, the struggles over electoral credibility and the changing relationship between government and citizens?
How would he have examined the emergence of digital journalism, the tyranny of misinformation and the curious age in which everyone can publish but not everyone is prepared to verify?
These questions cannot be answered. The future he might have inhabited belongs to the realm of possibility, and possibility is among the cruelest casualties of an untimely death.
We can celebrate the work he left behind. We cannot recover the work he never had the opportunity to do.
The most distressing feature of this tragedy is not simply that a brilliant journalist was murdered. It is that the murder remains unresolved after so much time.
The years have passed, but the central demand remains: investigate the murder thoroughly, establish the facts and hold those legally responsible accountable.
The passage of time cannot be allowed to become a convenient substitute for the pursuit of justice.
The assassination of Dele Giwa deprived Nigerian journalism of an experienced editor, an original thinker and a mentor whose influence could have extended across generations.
It is impossible to calculate precisely what his continued presence might have contributed to the profession. But we can recognise the value of what was lost: his experience, his judgement, his distinctive literary sensibility and his capacity to challenge prevailing assumptions.
There is also the wider cost of impunity.
When attacks against journalists go unresolved, the message received by the profession can be deeply corrosive. It suggests that those who threaten the public’s right to know may escape the consequences of their actions. It can encourage self-censorship, weaken investigative ambition, and make journalists more cautious about pursuing stories involving powerful interests.
The consequences do not stop at the newsroom door.
Citizens need reliable information to evaluate public policies, understand their rights and hold institutions accountable. Communities need journalism that investigates abuses, examines public expenditure and gives voice to those who might otherwise remain unheard. Democracy needs a press that can ask difficult questions without fear of violent reprisal.
When journalists are silenced through violence, society loses more than individual lives. It loses questions that might have been asked, facts that might have been uncovered, and conversations that might have strengthened public understanding.
This is why Giwa’s murder must remain part of our national discourse. Not because we should live forever in grief, but because the circumstances of his death carry lessons that remain relevant to the protection of journalism and the health of our democracy.
We cannot know precisely what Nigeria lost in the life that was taken. We can, however, refuse to compound that loss by allowing the circumstances of his death to disappear into forgetfulness.
As the 40th anniversary approaches, tributes and commemorative events provide opportunities to celebrate Giwa’s work. Newswatch is marking the anniversary with Dele Giwa’s Granite Journalism, a collection of his writings and tributes, bringing his published work back into public view. Such efforts are valuable because remembrance must include the preservation and study of the work itself.
But immortalisation must be more than the annual ritual of invoking a famous name.
We must read Giwa again. We must study his reporting, examine his methods, appreciate his language and introduce his work to young journalists who may know the legend without having encountered the full force of his writing.
Journalism schools should preserve his legacy as part of the history of Nigerian media. Editors should encourage young writers to study the relationship between style and substance, between elegant expression and rigorous reporting. Professional associations should continue to insist that the safety of journalists is a public responsibility, not a private occupational hazard.
Forty years have passed, but the questions remain. The pain remains. The possibilities remain suspended in that terrible space between what was and what might have been. But death, what more might he have written? How many more minds might he have awakened? How many younger journalists might have benefited from his wisdom? How many public questions might his incisive pen have forced the nation to confront?
• Ogunbiyi is Director, Public Enlightenment & Community Relations, Ministry of Information & Strategy, Alausa, Ikeja
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