Two years ago, there was this fellow by whom I used to sit close at my office in Lagos. The seating arrangement was not something fixed by our organisation. It just happened that way. That was the newsroom culture we all found at The Guardian.
Two years ago, there was this fellow by whom I used to sit close at my office in Lagos. The seating arrangement was not something fixed by our organisation. It just happened that way. That was the newsroom culture we all found at The Guardian.
For several weeks we didn’t get to talk much, because he was somewhat introverted, and I am reserved. So our exchanges were never longer than ‘hello, how are you?’. Moreso, any time he came into the office, he always wanted to get his stories together as fast as he could in order to beat the deadlines. That’s what we all tried to do anyway.
Journalism is about meeting deadlines. But being at political desk made his job more demanding than mine. He had to keep calling sources for additional information as he wrote, scanning previous editions for background information, checking facts with colleagues for accuracy; all in attempts to get the story right.
And getting your story right is something you must do at The Guardian, otherwise you might get some severe sanction that could make you frustrated for life.
Besides, the political desk he was writing for is the most interesting desk and the most dangerous too. Journalists on the beat are like solders treading on landmines – with no protection. Therefore, your only armour is producing a balanced story, and hoping that you are correctly interpreted.
Anyway, after some months Bayo Ohu and I began to share more sentences in greetings. Then I could ask about his family and his smokey blue Mercedes. I even made an adaptation for his name, Mr. B. His music flavour was traditional. I am not sure I ever liked it. But I found it interesting all the same when he played those tunes as he churned out sentence after sentence on his Apple computer. Such music doesn’t feed my muse.
Many more months later, we could discuss the terrible Lagos traffic, the shenanigans of Nigerian politicians and sundry issues of the day. He had once worked so close with the late President, Yar ‘adua when the latter was the governor of Katsina State. So he had sources in the presidency and in several other federal agencies.
He was always a journalist with ears close to the ground. In fact, he knew too much for an average journalist. But he could communicate less in conversation than in writing. You only need to read his stories to realise the volume of information stored up in his head.
One morning in September 2009, five men dressed in white robes paid Mr. B a visit. It was a Sallah day on Sunday. His wife, who naturally received the visitors at the door, was already away at church. The children went to the next compound to fetch water an so the visitors came in without encountering anyone in the yard.
As they entered they were met by Bayo who was already stepping out to determine who the strangers were. Then …gboa!…gboa!…gboa! In his pool of blood, Bayo fell dead. Till today, nobody knows why he was killed. Not even the police have a clue; at least their investigation has not identified anyone yet. But everyone knows that if Bayo were not a journalist he probably would still be living.
Quite a number of journalists in Nigeria have been killed in the same gruesome manner after that. Yet, there are many more journalists on the field reporting the good, the bad and the ugly in politics. It appears that defying those in power who suppress the truth is the only way that journalism can help establish a society where justice reigns.
This is our duty towards society and accepting that responsibility is therefore a true test of our professionalism.
Ajibola Amzat is a Rhodes student from Nigeria
