By Franklin Benjamin Onoben

If ever there were twins who didn’t share the same mother, father, or even village, it had to be 96 and 97. One, a Yoruba elder from the Southwest; the other, an Ijaw titan from the South-South. But, let’s be honest, if Nigeria had a school for stubborn elders who refused to keep quiet in the face of injustice, these two would have been the head boys—one leading Afenifere, the other commanding PANDEF.

Now, what do you call two men who had been fighting for Nigeria even before Nigeria knew what it was fighting for? 96 and 97 were already wrestling colonial masters before many of us learned to spell “independence.” They lived through the military era, watched democracy crawl like a baby learning to walk, and still had enough energy in their 80s and 90s to remind political leaders that they weren’t doing enough.

96 was the Yoruba oracle, forever reminding Nigeria about true federalism, restructuring, and why democracy shouldn’t just be a word in the dictionary. Meanwhile, 97 was the voice of the Niger Delta, constantly beating the drums for equity, resource control, and the rights of his people. If the government thought it could rest, these two made sure it never found sleep.

But alas, time has done what no government could do—silence them. Not with arrests, threats, or blackmail, but with the gentle, unavoidable hand of nature. 96 and 97 have now left the battlefield; their voices now echo in history. They have gone to rest, leaving the microphone, the placards, and the open letters for the rest of us to pick up.

So, what next? Nigeria still needs fixing, and the struggle must continue. 96 and 97 have played their part, and if they could send a message from the great beyond, they’d probably be saying: “You people should not slack! We didn’t shout all these years for nothing!”

Rest well, legends. Even in death, your voices will never be forgotten.

| Onoben is a public affairs commentator