The year was 1988, and the place was the venue of a wedding party in Suru-Lere, Lagos, Nigeria. I left the Bachelor Party very late the previous night and didn't wake up on time for the main event of the day - the wedding. The groom, being my cousin and a mentor, I must not only be present, but must be on time and must be actively present. And I was running late. As I jumped out of my Taxi, dashing towards the hall, I sighted this tall gentleman I was about to walk by. I paused and looked back, and I recognized the face instantly - Mr. Odia Ofeimun of the "Poet Lied" fame. And the Editorial Page Editor of the Guardian Newspaper, if I remember correctly.
Being unrepentantly addicted to buying and reading the Guardian Newspaper and the fact that the groom, Mr. Alex Okoh, works at the Guardian Newspaper at the time, it didn't take me too long to fathom the identity of the man standing before me. I was visibly ecstatic at the sight of the colossus poet as if I was standing before Michael Jackson.
Without much ado, I did what an Esan (Ishan) guy would do in the circumstance. I bowed my head and said ara Owanlen. He responded, saying en hen, bodiaye. I replied, Odianose, sir. Out of respect, when he extended his hand for a handshake, I grabbed it with my two hands, bowing my head once again. Without hesitation, and as if it was a planned work, I handed my invitation card to him for his autograph. He reached for his pocket, fetched a ball pen and scribbled his name and well wishes on my card. And the two of us walked into the party together. That was deliberate on my part.
Being a huge fan of all the major writers at the Guardian organization, I made up my mind to relish every moment of the encounter with Mr. Odia Ofeimun and exploit the sounds and sights of walking into the party side by side with him. And I did. Who wouldn't! A fierce public affairs commentator, a shoot at sight poet, editor of the number one newspaper in the country, and a former Private Secretary to my political idol, Chief Papa Awo.
Odia is such an acerbic commentator who doesn't suffer fools gladly. A fierce polemist who, Chief Olusegun Obasanjo, as dovish and manipulative as he is, couldn't hoodwink into siding with him in the celebrated "Not My Will" versus "Not My Wish" saga between the two of them. The retired General tried unsuccessfully to set up Mr. Ofeimun against his former boss, Chief Obafemi Awolowo, by making a distorted reference to the firing of Mr. Ofeimun by Chief Obafemi Awolowo as his Private Secretary. Mr. Ofeimun, to the chagrin of most current affairs watchers, came to the defense of his former master in a powerful rebuttal that made a mockery of Mr. Letter Writer.
Mr. Ofeimun didn't spare anyone who crossed his part, even his colleagues at the Guardian Newspapers were not exempted. Case in point, Mr. Pini Jason, a fellow columnist at the Guardian, whom Odia dubbed "Pini the Jason" in an Op-Ed essay that questioned Mr. Jason's literary skill.
Though not a Yoruba man, Mr. Odia Ofeimun, remains the most authentic Awoist of our time. Why he turns his back against Government and Politics is beyond my understanding. And that's by the way.
My Decades-Old Romance with the Guardian Newspaper and Financial Sacrifices.
After my first autograph with Mr. Odia Ofeimun, I got two more from two other giants at the staple - Dr. Yemi Ogunbiyi and Dr. Stanley Macebuh (now late). At the time I got that of Dr. Stanley Macebuh in 1993, he was no longer with the Guardian and I was a student at the Nigerian Law School. I was totally downcast when I received the news that Dr. Yemi Ogunbiyi and Dr. Stanley Macebuh left the Guardian Newspaper.
A few months later, I had a chance to meet with Dr. Stanley Macebuh at his new office at Ikoyi. My cousin who was the PA to Yemi while they were at the Guardian happened to be Stanley's new PA in their new venture. The moment I arrived at the complex; he took me directly to meet with Stanley. And the dominant thought on my mind was the question: Why did you leave the Guardian. As my cousin was introducing me, Stanley directed me to have a seat opposite him at the other end of the huge shinning mahogany table. I greeted him and sat down. But he didn't take his eyes up from what he was doing. He asked me what I want to drink, and I said Malt.
The moment my cousin walked out of the room and closed the door, I asked the troubling question: "Why did you leave the Guardian?" He said what do you mean. Still not looking at me. I said, Sir, I am not asking you to explain to me the reason for your decision. My question is why did you have to go? Why didn't you find reasons to stay? I mentioned his last essay on Chief Obafemi Awolowo, and hearing that, he stopped what he was doing. He looked up at me for the first time and asked about my studies. And we had a fruitful discussion for the ten minutes or so that I spent with him in his office.
There is no doubt that the Guardian Newspaper was the best thing that happened in my life and it made me who I am today. I made a huge financial sacrifice to buy it and read it every day for its first ten years in circulation. As a Law Student at Ekpoma, I had to sacrifice my breakfast most of the time to be able to buy and read the Guardian.
Obtaining the newspaper at the time was a big deal. Most vendors would insist that you pay for an additional newspaper before they would allow you to buy the Guardian. Given that I buy regularly, most vendors did not subject me to that conditional sale. Whether in Benin City, Lagos, or Port Harcourt, I was the only one who could buy the Guardian newspaper unconditionally.
And that explains how I was able to attain the number three position on the priority list with the Campus Vendor at my University campus. Ahead of me on the priority list were the University Main Library and the Office of the Registrar. Meaning, I was ahead of the Vice Counselor and every other fan of the newspaper. For instance, if the Campus Vendor could only boast of three copies of the Guardian newspaper on a day; after the Main Library and the Registrar's Office, the remaining copy was mine. With respect to the TELL Magazine, I was the number one on the priority list in the whole of Ekpoma, not just the University campus.
Buying the Guardian was packed full of a huge financial burden. One example will suffice.
Following the outbreaks of the 1989 SAP Riot, university students were sent home. In my 100L, I retained my rented apartment in Benin City and was commuting from Benin City to Ekpoma for classes most often. So, when the riot came and we were sent home, I didn't border to travel to Lagos or Port Harcourt. I stayed back at my house with my cousin, CY, who was a final year student at Uniben at the time. Now at home, I placed my vendor on the alert that I would be needing the Guardian Newspapers every day until further notice. And as the culture was between us, he would unfailingly reserve a copy for me to pick up any time. After spending about a week in Benin City, my cousin and I decided to shift base to Lagos. And I forgot one thing: I did not remember to appraise my dear vendor of the change of plan.
After spending about two weeks in Lagos, CY and I decided to go back to Benin City. The following morning, and as always, the first thing was the Guardian Newspaper. My rented apartment was around New Benin Market, and this vendor was at the Gas Station between the intersection of New Lagos Road and Mission Road. The moment the Vendor guy sighted me he shouted, "hey my friend, where you go? I dey look for you since. I kept your paper for you." He stopped what he was doing, went to a corner and handed me two weeks old editions of the Guardian Newspaper. And my smile disappeared immediately. I just said, oh, okay, let me pay for this one and go home to bring the money for these old editions. He said ok. And I paid for the instant copy and I handed it over to my cousin.
The moment we walked away from the sight of the vendor, Cy went off, Alex, don't tell me you're going back to pay for two weeks past editions of the Guardian. I said, yes, I am going to pay. Did you not buy the Guardian every day, while you were in Lagos? How can you justify paying for old copies? My cousin bombarded me endlessly with questions. And I just said, it is called a contract of good faith. The guy sells Guardian to me without any condition. It is on that trust and understanding that I have been able to buy every day. So, I must not vacate that trust. I went home, did the calculation and went back and paid for the two weeks past edition.
I was still paying rent for my room, no income coming, and in no time, the two of us were broke. At that moment, it wasn't about how do we continue to feed, but how do we buy the next day copy of the Guardian Newspaper. And I came up with a plan, which I developed when my Mom took the old copies of my saved Guardian Newspaper to the village without informing me a few years ago.
When I found out that Nene took my old newspapers home with her, I took a cab to the village the following morning to save my priceless possession. I knew that If I do not act fast, my beloved Mama would tear them into pieces to sell her dried fish and kpekere or ikpeke (fried corn flour). I got to the village on time, retrieved all the front pages, the feature section (where intellectuals like the late Professor Ojetunji Aboyade of the University of Ife normally write), and the Editorial and Op-Ed pages. I allowed her to have the rest pages and came back to Benin City with my share immediately.
So, remembering that episode, I decided to sell old copies of my cherish library to the Esan lady who sells Akara in the evening in the same New Benin Market at the intersection of Second East Circular Road and Upper Mission Road. My cousin and I, after buying Akara (beans cake) and Agidi (cornmeal) one evening, pitched the idea of marketing my old copies of newspapers to her. To my amazement, she was excited about my proposal. We went back to my room and descended on my huge pile of old newspapers, dating back years. We painstakingly removed all the editorial pages and the feature stories, and then the front-page section. The rest, I sold to the Akara lady. And with the proceeds, I was able to continue paying for new copies of my favorite newspaper every day until the SAP Riot came to an end.
As a student, whenever I was in Lagos for the holidays, the Rutam House (Gaudian Complex) was a tourist destination for me. Even, when my cousin, Mr. Okoh, was no longer there, I would still go to the complex and play around. There is a huge common room inside the complex, where you could buy snacks or soda, sat down, eat, and mind your business, watching the workers doing their thing. It was with the Guardian Newspaper that I was able to fathom the meaning of addiction, and the reason I do sympathize with people who are addicted to drugs or alcohol. It is a feeling you can't explain or resist.
Most of my friends, classmates, co-workers, and family members knew that I was addicted to the Guardian newspaper. While some of them provided me with innumerable financial support to perpetuate my addiction, somewhere not that enthusiastic about the unrestrained romantic tie to the newspaper. A co-worker once said, “I stopped buying the Guardian Newspaper because, whenever I do, Alex would read every line of it and I do not have his kind of energy to devote so much time and concentration on newspaper.” Though he said it jokingly, it turned out to be the truth, because he, as a matter of fact, stopped buying the newspaper.
For the first time, my elder brother paid me a surprise visit on campus at Ekpoma when I was in my final year; and the moment he entered my room, his attention was on the huge pile of the Guardian Newspaper beside my bed. I saw his focus, and I knew that something isn’t right. As I expected, he couldn’t resist the urge to voice his displeasure. That displeasure culminated in the reduction of the pocket money he gave me by thirty percent.
To continue buying the Guardian and TELL Magazine that just came out, I resorted to cooking my own food and stopped patronizing the cafeteria. On a lighter note, one of my classmates called me Mr. Guardian on campus and he still does today. At the Nigerian Law School in Lagos, I was made the Executory Secretary of the Edo State Bar Student Association on the recommendation of another student who said, “he reads the Guardian Newspaper every day and he knows about politics and how to deal with politicians.”
I want to round up this section on a lighter note. It was at a family-friendly party in Plymouth, Massachusetts, and I became entangled in a protracted debate with about eight other Nigerians, centered as always on the political situation back home. When it became explosive, one gentleman, I later understood to be a trained Pharmacist educated at the University of Ibadan, Nigeria, and Boston University, Boston, Massachusetts, invited me to join him at a separate room to continue the debate.
We remained in that room for about thirty minutes, until my cousin opened the door to ensure that we are not throwing punches. But before we check out of the room, the gentleman looked at me and declared, “you must be reading the Guardian Newspaper when you were in Nigeria.” I said you bet. Adding, I was addicted to it, not just reading it.
When the party was about to end, he came over and asked me if I came with my car? I told him I came with my cousin. He insisted I drive back to Boston with him in his car. Which I did. And the mutual respect developed that evening did not dilute one bit until he relocated to Atlanta, Georgia.
Most often, when I talk or behave, some guys tend to belief “he is a fake or seeking attention.” How could a guy who look so gentle and respectful, be so aggressive, intellectually snobbish and always pushing strong political views and expressing views that are out of the ordinary? Blame the contradiction on the Guardian effect.
I remember several times, on a Sunday, while spending holidays in the village at Ewohimi. I would walk for about an hour from Okaigben to the main garage at Eguare within Ewohimi township, and from there take a taxi either to Uromi or Agbor to buy the Sunday Edition of the newspaper. That was my addiction. And I thank God it wasn't drugs or alcohol.
Basically, most of the opinions I share or write on this blog and on my Facebook Wall or Timeline are not from research, but from memory, based on my reading of the Guardian Newspaper of old.
I am arguably the only Nigerian, who paid for the very first edition of the Guardian Newspaper - the Complimentary giant edition that they used for the initial commercial. It came with the group photograph of Alex Ibru, Dele Cole, Stanley Macebul, Lade Bonuola, and Sonala Olumhense. That particular first edition didn't come with a price tag, because it was for friends, stakeholders, influential business leaders, family members, workers, and celebrities. How did that I know that? Simple.
After seeing the commercial of the new newspaper on BTV, I made up mind to be a fan, given the fact that I was already following Mr. Sonala Olumhense on his weekly column at Punch Newspaper on Tuesday - called "These Time." So, being a fan of a fellow Esan guy, I studiously followed Mr. Olumhense to his new gig. I was fresh out of Grammar School at the time and I was lucky to get a job with a firm of Auditors and Chartered Accountants. So, I had lots of money to spend on clothes, shoes, newspapers, and magazines. I wasn't paying rent or paying for my food. So, paying for the new newspaper won't be a problem.
The following Monday, I went to the newsstand close to my office at Akpakpava Road and Dawson Street and asked for the new Guardian newspaper. The vendor handed me the newspaper, but it was different from the one they used for the introductory advertisement. And I refused to accept it or pay for it. I asked for the very copy that I saw in the commercial with a picture of the five gentlemen at the front page. "This one wey you give me no bi the one wey I see for TV." He said, "that one na for their friends and big men." Hearing that "I said, ok, how I go fit get that one, abi them no dey sellam?" He said no, dey no sellam. But I will bring it for you tomorrow. I thank him and went back to my office with the first commercial copy. Luckily for me, one of my mentors in the office, Mr. Matt Odilli, an Ubiaja guy who just came back from England paid for this first copy, but graciously allowed me to go home with it.
The next day, the moment I signed the daily register in my office, I went straight to the newsstand for my latest acquisition. The guy saw me and handed the giant copy to
me. Seeing the cover-picture I was excited. But that excitement didn't last long; the vendor demanded two times the price I paid for the one I bought yesterday. And I wasn't taking it. "How much did I pay you yesterday, now you wan double the money, no way, e no go happen." Hearing that, the guy stood up from his chair, grabbed the newspaper from me, and declared vehemently: "look, I am tire of you and your wahala. Go back to your Oga or whoever send you and tell them say na the price be that." He dumped the paper on the ground and sat down to attend to other customers.
Now, confused, sweating profusely, and publicly humiliated by the news Vendor, I saw my pride and joy slipping away from my grip. I thought the dude was taking advantage of my youthful look and trying to swindle me. Planning of what to do next, another gentleman who was also buying newspaper came over to me and said, bodiaye, are you not Spaco's junior brother, I replied, yes. He, the vendor is not trying to cheat you; in the newspapers' business, old editions cost more than the current edition. Because he would have to go to the warehouse to search for it. And two, it is of great value to you; otherwise, you wouldn't be making a demand for it. Just pay him and take your paper. Now, relaxed, I told him, thank you so much, Owanlen. I went to the guy, I apologized, paid the stated price and grabbed the very first copy of the Guardian Newspaper ever printed.
The vendor and I became buddies, selling Guardian to me without any string attached. We remained friends until I left for Ekpoma for my university education about five years later. In addition, I was buying Saturday Punch, Sunday Tribune, Time Magazine, and Newsweek regularly.
It is that old-time affinity to the Guardian Newspaper that defines the love and admiration that I have for two of my Facebook friends today - Mr. Uzor Maxim Uzoatu and Mr. Sam Omatseye. Anyway, this is Odia's moment, and I want to join hands with his friends, Maxi, Sam, and thousands of others in wishing the fearless poet of The Poet Lied, a happy 70th birthday.
