The Nation Newspaper

Category: Olukorede Yishau

  • Who is a journalist?

    Who is a journalist?

    It didn’t begin today, this age-old debate about who a journalist is, or who a journalist ought to be. And it won’t end today either.

    When I began my journey in journalism some two and a half decades ago, the prevailing assumption was clear: a journalist ought to hold a degree or diploma in journalism or mass communication. Such qualifications were believed to provide the essential toolkit such as news writing, media ethics, media law, interviewing techniques, and the foundations of investigative reporting. I studied these very subjects, first as a student of journalism and later of mass communication. But, over the years, one question has lingered, quietly pressing against the walls of that assumption: Can’t these skills also be learnt on the job, in the crucible of real-world reporting, or through rigorous in-house training?

    Like the tide, this debate rises and recedes with each generation of thinkers, truth-seekers and even morons. When the argument is raised, it often leans on the scaffolding of other professions: the physician cannot prescribe without a degree in medicine; the lawyer cannot plead a case without having first walked the disciplined halls of a law school.

    Indeed, these comparisons seem persuasive on the surface. The law and medicine are disciplines anchored in codified knowledge, often with life-and-death consequences. In such domains, formal training is non-negotiable, a matter of public trust and safety.

    But even these professions were not always so rigorously defined. In early America, physicians were as likely to be barbers or apothecaries as they were to be university graduates. It wasn’t until ambitious young men sailed to Europe, to study under the great anatomical minds of Vienna or Paris, that the American understanding of what it meant to be a “doctor” began to evolve.

    Likewise, the legal profession in its infancy was shaped more by apprenticeship and practice than parchment. And let us not forget that in 19th-century America, Coca-Cola was once marketed as a medicinal tonic, a reminder that even the definitions of science and legitimacy are subject to time’s revision.

    Journalism, however, is a different beast, wild, untamed, and resistant to enclosure. Nowhere in the world has the effort to constrain the profession strictly within the bounds of formal academic training fully succeeded. No country has managed to decree, with any lasting enforcement, that only those bearing a degree in journalism or mass communication may bear the title “journalist.” And why? Because journalism, at its heart, is not a profession carved neatly into syllabi and lecture halls. It is a calling, one that demands courage, integrity and storytelling as its most important hallmarks.

    Journalism was born in curiosity, sharpened by experience, and baptised in war zones and whistleblower meetings, in courtroom steps and dusty village councils, in the hunger to know and the courage to tell. The tools of journalism are a keen eye, a listening ear, a questioning mind, and an unwavering moral compass, and these are not the sole preserve of the formally trained. They are nurtured in newsrooms and notebooks, in lived experience and long nights of writing and rewriting.

    In a world awash with misinformation and opinion masquerading as fact, the role of the journalist becomes ever more vital and ever more contested. But the answer to who a journalist is cannot rest solely on a diploma. It must rest on the deeper question: Does this person tell the truth? Does this person amplify the unheard? Does this person ask the hard questions, not just to provoke, but to illuminate?

    Some of the greatest journalists the world has known entered the craft from other doorways. They came not with credentials but with conviction. They proved that journalism, unlike medicine or law, is not only about what you know, but how you seek, how you speak, and whom you serve.

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    Outstanding journalists with no formal training in journalism are plenty. My senior colleagues like Shola Oshunkeye, who won the CNN African Journalist of the Year many years ago, Declan Okpalaeke, who also won the same award, and Sam Omatseye, have no degree in journalism or Mass Communications; yet they have shown courage and integrity in the pursuit of truth, which are the heart and the soul of journalism. They are fantastic writers whose prose makes truth read so well that believing them becomes easy.

    Anderson Cooper, one of CNN’s most recognisable anchors, did not study journalism. He graduated from Yale University with a degree in political science. His entry into journalism was unconventional. He began as a freelance war reporter, selling footage to Channel One. His commitment to reporting and powerful storytelling earned him acclaim, proving that passion and persistence can outweigh credentials.

    We also have Hunter S. Thompson, the father of “Gonzo journalism,” Thompson never studied journalism. He wrote with a distinctive, immersive style that blurred the lines between reporter and participant. His work for Rolling Stone and his book Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas has redefined narrative journalism and inspired generations of writers.

    What about the amazing Christiane Amanpour? She is CNN’s Chief International Anchor. She studied journalism-related courses but did not pursue a specialised journalism degree. Her career has been built on fearless reporting from conflict zones, including the Gulf War and the Bosnian War, earning her international respect.

    I must also tell you about Malcolm Gladwell of The New Yorker who is also a bestselling author. Like Omatseye, Gladwell studied history. His career in journalism was built on curiosity and critical thinking rather than formal journalism education. His success demonstrates that insight, clarity, and storytelling can be just as vital as formal training.

    And we have Sanjay Gupta, an American neurosurgeon, medical reporter, and writer. He is the chief medical correspondent for CNN.

    Let me also mention Ida B. Wells, a pioneer of investigative journalism and a civil rights icon. Wells had no degree in journalism. In her time, few such opportunities existed for African-American women. Her fearless reporting on lynching in the American South set the gold standard for investigative reporting and advocacy journalism.

    Pioneers of the profession in Nigeria such as Obafemi Awolowo, Lateef Jakande, Babatunde Jose, Alade Odunewu, Ernest Sesei Ikoli, Peter Enahoro and others had no formal journalism credentials.

    My final take: What unites all great journalists is not a certificate but a commitment to the truth, a relentless curiosity, critical thinking, strong communication skills, and the ability to build trust with sources and readers alike. Ethical conduct, fairness, accuracy, and accountability are the true hallmarks of journalism.

    The truth also is that diverse educational and professional backgrounds are assets to journalism. In The Guardian in its early days, this was used to advantage as professionals from different backgrounds were made to man desks such as science, banking, property and so on. Truth is: A science journalist with a degree in Biology or a political correspondent with a Law background often brings deeper insights into their beats than a generalist might. Journalism thrives on interdisciplinary knowledge and lived experience.

    Lastly, the practice of journalism is at the intersection of fact and humanity. And that is not a place built by degrees alone.

  • Love alone doesn’t conquer depression

    Love alone doesn’t conquer depression

    We are raised to believe that love conquers all. Fairy tales, songs, and countless movies teach us that if you care enough, if you fight hard enough, everything, even the darkest moments, can be overcome. But for those who have lived with depression, or loved someone who does, the painful truth becomes clear: love, no matter how deep, is not enough.

    Depression is a disease, not a deficiency of affection. It doesn’t respond to grand gestures, thoughtful notes, or whispered reassurances in the night. It can swallow moments of connection whole, leaving behind a devastating emptiness that love alone can’t fill. When someone you love is hurting, it feels natural to try harder, to love louder, to be the light in their darkness. But depression often makes it impossible for that light to be seen.

    This misunderstanding, that love should be enough, burdens both the person suffering and their partner. The one who is struggling feels guilty for not getting better “for” the person they love. The one offering support feels powerless, wondering why their presence isn’t enough to lift the fog. Both end up isolated, frustrated, and heartbroken in ways they never anticipated.

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    Loving someone through depression requires more than affection. It demands education, patience, and often, professional help. It asks us to accept that we cannot fix someone else’s illness, no matter how much we want to. It forces us to recognise that real healing may come from therapy, medication, and painful, slow work, not just from shared memories or whispered promises.

    None of this makes love meaningless. In fact, when approached with honesty and humility, love can be one of the most important forces in a person’s recovery. But it must be a love that is informed, that knows its own limits, and that does not confuse loyalty with martyrdom. It must be strong enough to say, “I am here with you,” without adding, “And I will save you.”

    We do a disservice to ourselves and to those we love when we romanticise mental illness as something that can be healed by devotion alone. Depression is not a villain to be defeated by the power of love; it is an illness that requires care, support, and often, professional intervention.

    Sometimes the most powerful thing we can do is to love someone enough to walk with them to the help they need, not to believe that we alone are enough.

    Because when we let go of the myth that love is all it takes, we open the door to something even more powerful: love that is real, resilient, and rooted in truth.

  • Of King Wasiu Ayinde Marshal

    Of King Wasiu Ayinde Marshal

    It’s an undeniable fact: there are living Fuji musicians who began their professional journeys long before King Wasiu Ayinde Marshal, popularly known as K1 De Ultimate. Veterans like Love Azeez and General Kollington Ayinla stand tall among that pioneering generation. However, none, absolutely none, carries the distinct charisma, enduring relevance, and magnetic presence that K1 embodies. He carries a grace that he has acknowledged, a grace he knows has nothing to do with being better than other Fuji musicians. Uncommon grace. Grace only a few are bestowed with.

    From the electrifying days of Talazo ‘84 to his current reign as the genre’s most celebrated ambassador, K1 has grown in popularity, in artistry, influence, and cultural impact. He didn’t merely ride the wave of Fuji music; he reshaped it, refined it, and raised its profile beyond the confines of its origins.

    For fans like me, his music is more than sound; it’s a daily ritual, a mood-setter, a compass for navigating everything from joy to introspection. His voice, steeped in Yoruba idioms and laced with philosophical depth, carries a kind of nostalgia that refuses to age.

    No other living Fuji musician performs as frequently or commands such diverse audiences across generations. From opulent owambes in Lagos to elite gatherings in London, New York, Toronto and elsewhere, K1 remains the genre’s most booked and most talked-about figure. Whether he’s performing for royalty or rallying the streets, he delivers each set with the conviction of a maestro and the finesse of a legend.

    K1 is not just a participant in the Fuji space; he is the conversation in and even outside of it. He is Oluomo of Lagos, Maiyegun of Yorubaland and the Olori Omo Oba of Ijebuland. It is safe to call him both the tradition and the innovation. And perhaps that’s why his name is never far from headlines and debates. Controversies seem to find him or, perhaps, he dances through them with the same confidence he brings to the stage.

    In October 2020, K1 found himself at the centre of controversy when he was accused of assaulting broadcaster Wole Sorunke, better known as MC Murphy. The alleged incident occurred during the 60th birthday celebration of Oba Abdulfatai Akorede Akamo, the Olu of Itori. According to Sorunke, K1 and his aides physically attacked him after he introduced a guest for the musician to praise, an act the singer reportedly found disrespectful. K1, however, vehemently denied the allegation, describing it as a calculated attempt to smear his name and undermine his legacy.

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    That same year, K1’s acceptance of the traditional Yoruba chieftaincy title of the Mayegun of Yorubaland from the former Alaafin of Oyo, the late Oba Lamidi Adeyemi III, stirred a different kind of debate, this time within religious circles. Some Islamic clerics publicly criticised his participation in the traditional rites associated with the title, arguing that such involvement contradicted the principles of his Islamic faith. K1 responded with characteristic firmness, defending his decision as a proud expression of his commitment to Yoruba heritage. He asserted that cultural preservation and religious devotion could coexist, and that he saw no contradiction in honoring the traditions of his people while remaining true to his faith.

    The year 2020 also saw rumors swirl around an alleged affair between K1 and Olori Badirat Ajoke, one of the wives of the Alaafin of Oyo, the man who made him the Maiyegun of Yorubaland. Both parties swiftly and publicly denied the allegations. In a dramatic rebuttal, Olori Ajoke invoked curses on those propagating the story, insisting on her innocence and denouncing the damage caused by such malicious gossip.

    Tensions with some members of the Islamic community deepened further during the Fidau held in honour of his late mother. The ‘ganusi’ remark he made was perceived by some clerics as inappropriate or offensive, prompting further backlash.

    But perhaps the heaviest blow to K1’s public image came from within his own camp. Ayankunle Ayanlowo, his former lead drummer, accused him of long-standing exploitation. Ayanlowo alleged that during international tours, K1 would confiscate the passports of his band members, effectively limiting their freedom of movement and making them dependent on him. The accusation painted a disturbing picture of control and manipulation behind the scenes of K1’s glittering career.

    In a revealing interview with Dele Adeyanju of Agbaletu TV, K1 addressed these allegations head-on. His tone was uncharacteristically vulnerable, measured, reflective, yet still defiantly proud. It was a moment that peeled back the layers of public scandal and personal myth.

    In the interview, he demonstrated commendable leadership and set a positive example for younger Fuji artistes to follow. Despite his shortcomings, his responses were insightful. A few of his responses left some gaps, like Kunle Ayanlowo’s allegation on blood oath. He said it was for medical test. Ayanlowo said it was for blood oath. Whoever is lying between the two of them knows.

    My final take: The interview made me understand not just the controversies that shadow him, but the immense cultural force he represents. In that moment, it became clear why K1 remains the beating heart of Fuji music. The story of the genre’s evolution, from its gritty street roots to its international acclaim, cannot be told without him at the centre.

    He is not merely a performer; he is a symbol of transformation, resilience, and the sometimes uneasy intersection of tradition, fame, and faith.

    I suspect that Alhaji Sikiru Ayinde Barrister, the man who turned were to Fuji music, keeps shaking his head at K1’s exploits. Largely, because of K1’s strides and the bulk of what we call afrobeats today, Barrister’s Fuji remains alive.

  • Birthday and deathday

    Birthday and deathday

    Every single day, millions are born. Everyday millions die. It is our reality, one we can’t run away from.

    Some months ago, at an office I frequent in Southwest Houston, I was told that a Filipino man, a client, had only a few days to live. Before that moment, he had been irregular in his visits. A call to his phone revealed the truth: he was battling a serious illness.

    He eventually showed up again, but he was a shadow of the man he used to be. Once meticulous and sharp-eyed, the illness had dulled his memory. I recall a moment when he insisted he had paid for a service he hadn’t, something he would never have done before. Not long after, it became clear that the doctors had numbered his days. He has since passed. His younger brother now runs the business he left behind.

    He has experienced the only two days in our lives over which we have no control: the day we arrive, and the day we depart.

    On the day we are born, we are greeted with open arms, but on the day we die, the other closes the door, leaving sorrow and tears.

    Birthday, loud and bright, arrives with the weightless cry of a new soul pushing into air. It’s marked by joy, by hopes projected onto a tiny being who knows nothing yet of the world, yet carries its possibilities like seeds. There are balloons, names whispered for the first time, and the warmth of hands that promise to hold us through the unknown.

    Deathday, on the contrary, rarely comes with celebration. It moves in shadows, even when expected. It closes chapters, leaves questions hanging mid-sentence. Where the birthday is filled with noise and movement, the deathday often brings stillness. It draws people together in grief or reflection, and in its silence, it asks the hardest questions: Did we love well? Did we live fully? Did we leave something that mattered?

    Between those two dates lies everything that is ours. The space between birthday and deathday is where we make choices. Where we write, erase, begin again. Where we stumble, learn, heal, and grow. It is in that space that we shape the story that neither the first nor the final day can truly tell.

    We are taught to count our birthdays, to mark them with candles and milestones, to celebrate each added year. But rarely do we speak of the other date, though it is just as inevitable. If the birthday is the opening line, the deathday is the period. Neither reveals much without the sentences in between.

    Some lives blaze with colour, loud, vivid, unforgettable. Others flow quietly, like rivers carving meaning into every bend. We are not remembered for how we entered or how we exited, but for how we were while we were here. For the truths we lived, the kindness we gave, the battles we chose, and the beauty we created, however small or fleeting.

    To reflect on both birthday and deathday is to reckon with time, not in fear, but in reverence. It is to ask, again and again, what am I doing with this precious in-between? It is to wake with the understanding that today is part of the story. That though we don’t know the ending, we are still writing.

    So when the candles are lit, and the years are counted, let us also remember the gravity of time. And when silence falls for someone we love, let us not only mourn the loss but also honour the life they carved between two unchosen days.

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    As you mark your birthday, take a moment to remember your deathday, with intention. Let it not be just a passing thought, but a quiet space to ask yourself questions that matter. In the midst of celebration and laughter, pause and reflect: What kind of life am I really living?

    Ask yourself: Am I greedy? Am I accumulating wealth that I do not need, chasing after excess while forgetting the simplicity of enough? Am I fair in my dealings, or do I tilt the scales in my favor when no one is watching? Am I diligent in my responsibilities, or am I coasting through, leaving others to carry what I drop?

    Consider how you treat those around you. Am I riding roughshod over those who look up to me, forgetting that power without compassion is tyranny? Am I a good leader? One who listens, lifts, and guides, or one who demands and dominates? Am I a good follower? Am I respectful, responsible, and dependable, or do I make life harder for those leading me?

    Then go deeper. Am I a good husband? A good wife? A present parent? A loyal friend? Do I always insist I’m right, or have I learnt the grace of apology? Do I make room for others to grow, or do I box them into my expectations?

    And finally, ask yourself this: If I were to die today, and there were a judgment, whatever form it takes, will I pass? Will my life, as it stands, be enough to meet the measure of what is good, what is just, what is meaningful?

    So, as you mark the day you were born, hold space in your heart for the day you will leave. Let it guide you to live wisely, love deeply, and move through life with humility and purpose. Let the questions shape you, not shame you. Because in the end, birthdays are not just about growing older, they’re about growing better.

    In the end, the question is not when we began or when we will end, but how we lived in the space where both had not yet come.

  • That the poor may breathe

    That the poor may breathe

    Are the poor a class to be treated like the devil, kept at arm’s length, helped only from a safe distance? According to a man of God, Pastor David Ibiyeomie, the answer is yes. We should assist the poor, but we should not allow them too close to us, he claims the Bible supports this stance. It is not the first time the pastor has stirred this controversy—and perhaps, for some, that’s exactly the point.

    Well, here is my take:In many nations, poverty is not just an unfortunate reality; it is a policy outcome. Poverty is not natural. It is engineered by decades of poor governance, skewed priorities, and institutional neglect. The air has grown thin for the poor, not because they do not work hard, but because the systems built around them are designed to profit off their exclusion.

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    Market traders, bricklayers, farmers, teachers, factory workers are the people who sustain economies with their sweat and strength. Yet, they are the first to suffer when subsidies are removed, when inflation hits, when salaries are delayed, or when governments “tighten belts” they never wore in the first place. They pay taxes but receive little or no services. They obey laws, yet their dignity is not protected by them. In the name of reform, they are asked to sacrifice. But how do you sacrifice what you’ve never been allowed to have?

    A mother walking miles to fetch water is a sign of systemic failure. A child hawking goods in traffic instead of learning in school is a victim of a broken promise.

    What the poor need is not pity. It is justice. Fair pay for honest work. Clean water. Accessible healthcare. Public education that teaches, not just babysits. Housing that shelters, not imprisons. They need their voices at the table where decisions are made. We need to widen the space, economically, socially and politically, so that the poor may breathe.

  • Miranda July’s ‘All Fours’

    Miranda July’s ‘All Fours’

    What does it mean to be both a working artist and an aging mother? What is it like to navigate the often painful shifts in identity required by each role? How does it feel to slip between selves—artist, mother, aging woman—and encounter the subtle glitches, the moments of disorientation, that emerge in the spaces between?Miranda July addresses these posers in ‘All Fours’, one of the finalists for this year’s Women Prize for Fiction.

    The author shows us how desire in aging women shifts and ambition reshapes itself. We see that the mirror may show unfamiliar contours, but the soul behind the eyes becomes clearer.

    From the novel, we are left in no doubt that aging in women is a profoundly transformative experience—physical, emotional. For the working artist and mother, aging adds another layer to the shifting terrain of identity. It brings both clarity and contradiction: a deepening of self-knowledge alongside a society’s diminishing gaze. As the body changes, as children grow and creative urgencies shift, the woman finds herself moving through multiple selves—each bearing its own joys, griefs, and quiet revolutions.

    At the beginning of the novel, the unnamed forty-five-year-old narrator is about to set off on a road trip from Los Angeles to New York. But as the story unfolds, it becomes clear that this isn’t just an ordinary journey; there’s much more beneath the surface than meets the eye. We sense the weight of someone trapped in a marriage and yearning for freedom. It’s only later that we come to understand her longing for escape. It is also later that we understand the link between her quest for escape and the fact that aging is an unpeeling of falsehoods and a reckoning with truth.

    The narrator, who regularly finds herself wondering if her life is real, is the mother of a child, Sam, born prematurely, a situation which subjects her and her husband Harris to eight anguished weeks.

    The circumstances surrounding the child’s birth leave her feeling estranged from both her husband and reality. In search of an escape from the confining space motherhood has placed her in, she turns to art—keeping her struggles hidden from her husband. At times, she resorts to lies to conceal the truth, and she relies on elaborate fantasies to sustain her sexual connection.

    On her way to New York, just a few miles outside Los Angeles—in a quiet town called Monrovia—she meets Davey, a young Hertz employee. She runs into him two more times that same day. Choosing to rest in the small town, she books a room at a modest motel, its facilities well below her usual standard. For reasons known only to her, she decides to renovate the room and hires Davey’s wife, Claire, as the interior decorator. Both the motel’s management and Claire are baffled by her decision to pour thousands of dollars into the redesign.

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    After the room’s redesign is complete, she ends up staying in the town for three weeks, well beyond what she had first planned. Each afternoon, Davey visits her. A mutual, unspoken passion begins to surface—tender yet unresolved. She learns that Davey is a dancer, and through dance, they begin to explore new forms of intimacy, ones that slowly draw her closer to reality. Within its faded walls, the room offers her a blueprint for life.“I could always be how I was in the room. Imperfect, ungendered, game, unashamed. I had everything I needed in my pockets, a full soul.”

    When she returns to Los Angeles, she is met with the daunting task of making sense of her life. Should she come clean with Harris? What is clear is that she must confront the quiet weight of menopause, the haunting memory of her Grandma Esther and Aunt Ruth who both took their lives in their fifties, and her own brush with death during the birth of her now-seven-year-old non-binary child.

    The narrator finds herself comparing the lives of men and women in their late forties, noticing the stark contrast in the ease with which men seem to glide through this phase. Her husband’s experience, she muses, is like “ambling along a gently sloping country road with a piece of straw in the corner of his mouth, whistling” with effortless contentment. Meanwhile, her situation makes her imagine “getting up right now, slipping out the front door and finding that all the women in the neighborhood were also leaving their houses. We were all running to the same field, a place we hadn’t discussed but implicitly knew we would meet in when the tipping point tipped.”

    The book also delves into the theme of female friendship. We see this through the narrator’s bond with Jordi, her fellow artist. In their open conversations, the narrator confides in Jordi about her anxieties, fears, and the bizarre predicaments she often finds herself in. Jordi serves as a guiding figure, offering advice and always taking her calls, no matter the time of night. Through these exchanges, the narrator reveals that speaking with Jordi is “my one chance a week to be myself.”

    July delivers a humane and sympathetic exploration of the journey to menopause, a subject often shrouded in silence and misunderstanding, as if it were something to conceal rather than acknowledge with empathy and honesty. The author confronts this phase of life that our society urges women to endure quietly. She addresses it in a way that calls out our society for its failure to support women through a delicate moment the narrator’s friend, Mary, sees as the time women must “decide what to do when you come to the fork in the road”.

    My final take: July clearly shows that aging, especially in women, is not a fading, but a complex becoming. It is not the slow erasure our culture often suggests, but a deep unfolding—a gathering of layers, wisdom, scars, and softness. With each passing year, a woman becomes more attuned to what matters, more fluent in her boundaries, more rooted in her contradictions. The body may soften, sag, or ache, but it also speaks with a new kind of honesty.

    This is a novel with brutal honesty about sexual exploration!

  • Neither Wike, nor Fubara

    Neither Wike, nor Fubara

    Siminalayi Fubara, the suspended Governor of Rivers State, is an intelligent and well-educated man. His intellect is beyond my authority to question. By all accounts, he is more than qualified to govern any state in Nigeria. In fact, several individuals who have held the office of governor — and even president — have not been as gifted as he is.

    However, when Fubara ascended to the governorship, he lacked the political structure and machinery necessary to secure such a position on his own. Left to his own devices, he wouldn’t have clinched the Peoples Democratic Party (PDP) governorship ticket. That’s where Nyesom Wike, then governor of Rivers State, came in.

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    Wike, whose political style I have never admired, did everything within his power to impose Fubara on other governorship hopefuls within the PDP and eventually foisted him upon the state. Forget the eventual outcome of the election — Fubara knows precisely how Wike made him governor.

    Naturally, the cracks began to show not long after he assumed office. Don’t let anyone deceive you into believing either party is driven by the interest of Rivers people. It’s all politics — a game of ego, influence, and control of resources. Both men are playing to the gallery with their pontifications while Rivers State continues to lose.

    With emergency rule now in place, it seems Wike currently holds the upper hand. Yet, as always, the truth remains constant that nothing here is about the betterment of Rivers. I neither weep for Fubara nor do I rejoice with Wike, whom the gods appear to have favoured — at least for now.

  • Even ‘never’ may not last forever

    Even ‘never’ may not last forever

    On April 4, Omoni Oboli TV unveiled a drama titled ‘While This Heart Beats’. At its core, the theatrical piece tells the story of Ifunnaya, played with haunting depth by the remarkable Omowunmi Dada. A single word lingers in the wake of her pain—’never’.

    Ifunaya’s world is shattered by tragedy. Her father, the anchor of her existence, is wrenched from her in a cruel accident. In the throes of grief, she clenches her heart around a vow: she will never have anything to do with the man she holds responsible for her father’s death. That word—never—falls from her lips more than once, each utterance a wall she builds, brick by brick, around her wounded soul.

    But as I watched, that word took root in my own mind, refusing to let go. ‘Never’—so final, so resolute. A word of locked doors and severed ties, of fates written in stone. It proclaims the impossible, the unchangeable, the immovable. Yet, as I turn it over in my thoughts, I realise it’s deception.

    My situation wasn’t helped by the fact that news filtered in as I was watching the movie that Tunde Oladunjoye, my course mate at the Nigerian Institute of Journalism (NIJ), was dead. He had been earlier declared dead, but it turned out he was still battling with death. But now the finality of his end, like the word ‘never’, seemed no longer in doubt.

    Oladunjoye, though older, was a friend. Memories of our years at NIJ came flooding back: our hangouts at the café inside LTV 8, his meticulous editing of a poetry collection in which I was featured, our collective struggle to get NIJ’s certificate accredited by the National Board for Technical Education… and so much more filled my mind.

    I was tempted to feel that, because he is dead, we will never see him again. But is that really true? His works will continue to speak for him. So can we truly say we’ll never see him again? Even religious texts suggest the possibility of reunion in the hereafter. So—never say never, right?

    In the main, the world does not abide by ‘never’. It knows only the shifting of tides, the slow crumble of mountains, the soft insistence of dawn breaking through even the longest night. What we call ‘never’ is but a fragile dam against the flood of time, an illusion of permanence in a universe that thrives on change.

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    So I wonder—when Ifunnaya spoke that word, does she truly believe it? Or is she, like all of us, simply reaching for control in a world where certainty is but a fleeting shadow?

    Philosophically, ‘never’ implies a timeless certainty about what cannot be. But can we ever possess such certainty? Consider history: the impossible becomes possible, the unthinkable is realised. The earth was once thought to be the center of the universe, flight an unattainable dream, and instantaneous global communication mere fantasy. All through our years in secondary school, we were told the earth was spherical; we were also told beans were proteinous. Then they could never have been seen otherwise. But, now, we know better. To say something will “never” happen assumes knowledge beyond our grasp. It is a declaration that denies the unpredictable nature of existence.

    God, the one who creates us, hasn’t given us the power of finality, the power of ‘never’, so it is not surprising that many a time our ‘never’ has become ‘ever’.

    Nietzsche might argue that “never” is a tool of human limitation, a construct of fear that binds us to rigid expectations. To say “I will never change” is to resist the flow of life, to deny growth. Yet, we change despite ourselves.

    To say, “I will never marry him again,” or “I’ll never forgive him,” is to shut a door that perhaps should remain ajar, if only slightly. It is to draw a hard, uncompromising line in the sand—one that can easily become a prison rather than a boundary. Such declarations often echo with the sharpness of finality, sounding more like emotional ultimatums than reasoned convictions. In truth, ‘never’ is a kind of fanaticism—an extreme posture that seldom reflects the complex, yet tender reality of human relationships.

    Granted, there are rare instances where such finality is not only justified but necessary—for safety, for dignity, for peace of mind. Yet, more often than not, the doors we bolt shut in the heat of hurt were never meant to be sealed forever. We speak of ‘never’ as if it were a badge of strength, when it may in fact be a symptom of unresolved pain.

    Especially in matters of the heart, ‘never’ is a dangerous word. In relationships, forgiveness is less a gift to the other than it is a balm for ourselves. There is, truly, no such thing as the unforgivable—only what we choose not to revisit, not to understand, not to release. And time, with its gentle yet relentless hand, has shown again and again that the reasons we cling to irrevocable decisions are often rooted in emotion rather than fact. Pride, betrayal, disappointment—these are felt deeply, yes, but they are not immovable forces. They shift under the weight of reflection, perspective, and grace.

    Emotion is unreliable. Emotion fluctuates; it is, by nature, contingent and temporal. Thus, to swear off forgiveness or reconciliation purely out of personal injury is to fail the test of the categorical imperative.

    I’m reminded of an interview Omoni Oboli once granted on the subject of marriage. Her words stayed with me. She spoke of how the person who wounds us most deeply is often the one who never intended to do so. Often, the pain we carry is rarely premeditated. We hurt, not because someone aimed to harm, but because they too are flawed, fallible, and human and at times because they don’t know how their actions or inactions will affect the other.

    Rigidity—the kind that ‘never’ implies—is the silent destroyer of love. It denies the necessary ebb and flow that relationships require to survive. Flexibility, not firmness, is what sustains. The willingness to bend, to reconsider, to speak after the silence—that is what keeps hearts from breaking beyond repair.

    In love, as in life, perhaps the wiser posture is not ‘never’—but ‘not yet’. Not yet ready. Not yet healed. Not yet able to forgive. Because unlike ‘never’, ‘not yet’ leaves space for growth. For change. For grace.

    Ironically, if change is the only constant, then “never” itself is an impossibility. That which we deem impossible today may unfold tomorrow. Even the laws of physics, which seem immutable, remain subject to deeper discovery. If nothing is eternal, then even “never” is not forever.

    My final take: Perhaps the wisest approach to “never” is caution. We may use it to mark our moral boundaries, but we must also leave space for revision, for new understanding, for the unforeseen. To say “never” too absolutely is to close the door on life’s infinite potential. Thus, we end with a paradox: “Never say never”—for even “never” may not last forever.

  • When Maik Nwosu returns…

    When Maik Nwosu returns…

    When I first met Maik Nwosu, now a professor of English at the University of Denver in Colorado, he was the Executive Editor of The Source, the news magazine where I began my journalism career. While he was my boss, he published, ‘Invisible Chapters’, a novel built the demolition of Maroko, now the site of the bulk of what we call Lekki. He also at the time published ‘Alpha Song’, narrated by a dying man who decides to bequeath his memory to his then under-aged child.

    Years later, Nwosu published his third novel, ‘A Gecko’s Farewell’. In ‘A Gecko’s Farewell’, The characters meet in spirit. Nwosu fuses the traditional English novel form with the African oral storytelling tradition. The novel is grounded in tragedies, which make it difficult for there to be a dull moment. Nwosu manages the shift among the three narrators with a deft touch. He gives the book a candour and naturalness that is vital to its attainment as an exceptional work of art. The author creates lucidity and authority and he builds images and descriptions with a unique power. Where necessary, Nwosu marries reality and fantasy and the result is a narration that leaves the reader salivating.

    Now, he has released his fourth novel titled ‘The Book of Everything’, which confirms his uniqueness. It follows Ile, a Nigerian academic living in America, who receives a mysterious voicemail from a law firm in faraway South Africa. In the message, the caller claims to have a message for Ile from his grandfather — a man who died forty-four years, four months, and four days ago, long before Ile was born. The message raises posers about if the grandfather is miraculously alive in South Africa or if he has a secret family there.

    Ile discovers the voicemail on a weekend and he must wait until Monday to call back the law office and unravel the mystery surrounding the man seen as “too spectacular for any simple story”.

    The voicemail prompts Ile to reflect on the journey that led him to America for graduate studies, his choice to stay back for the woman he loves, and his battle with anger and how his lover compels him to see Joel, a psychiatrist, who eventually becomes not just his confidant but also his best friend (until that shocking and heart-breaking scene in the novel’s last lap, a scene that got me saying ah and closing the book to recover from a twist I never saw coming).

    He also reflects on the circumstances surrounding his parents’ deaths, Uncle Ibe’s harrowing encounter with a Pentecostal pastor, Nigerian parties in Houston and his experiences in Memphis where he moved from Houston because of a lecturing job.

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    During this waiting period, he reaches out to his Uncle Ibe and his amazing Aunt Rosette for clarifications to the dilemma. However, their reactions are initially marked by an unusual silence, foreign to their nature. When they finally speak, their responses feel like answers wrapped in questions, deepening Ile’s sense that there is more to the story — especially given the family’s long history of keeping secrets. When his eccentric Uncle Ibe calls back and insists he must come back home for a discussion that, according to him, can’t be done on the phone, his worries mount. And when he finally speaks with Willem, the representative of the law firm from South Africa, who insists he must come to Stellenbosch, the puzzle deepens. He is unable to concentrate at work. Armed with a one-month leave, he sets out of the United States with his wife, Ella, to untie the knots of his life.

    The Nigerian leg of the trip proves fruitful, but it is in South Africa that the final pieces, to some extent, fall into place, revealing the intricate complexities of the human experience. The Eastern Nigerian leg of the journeys raises thought-provoking questions about the likely connection between his anger issues, the circumstances surrounding his father’s and grandfather’s ends, and a long-broken ancestral promise. The revelations from the trips are compelling, adding depth and momentum to the plot as it builds towards a captivating conclusion.

    The novel also offers insight into the complexities of marriage within the Nigerian community in Houston, shedding light on the unique challenges they face. It delves into the world of a fraudulent pastor who fabricates miracles, visits shrines, preys on widows, steals from tithes, and commits all manner of evil—all while hiding under the guise of ‘anointing.’

     ‘The Book of Everything’ is laced with humour, much of it delivered through the unforgettable Uncle Ibe and Egwuatu, the lawyer whose diction is gargantuan. More than once, I found myself chuckling, pausing to relish the wit before continuing.

    Told in the first person and set across America, Nigeria, and South Africa, Nwosu explores the clash between the ancient and the modern and the ordinary and the fantastical in prose as smooth as honey. The poetry of his writing shines on every page, and his deft use of suspense keeps us turning the pages, eager to uncover the truth about Ile’s grandfather—the man whose grave he once believed he knew, only to later have reason to question everything.

    The last lap of the novel is super intense and the many questions the narrator asks add to its intensity and beauty. As sad as this part is, the author’s handling of it shows nothing short of class and reinforces his position as a writer and artist deep in the spirit.

    My final take: All in all, ‘The Book of Everything’ is art at its finest—one that students of literature in English and art lovers will find deeply engaging as they peel back its layers, bit by bit.

    We need to constantly remind ourselves that the ancient has its role, the modern has its role and either of them isn’t always superior to the other. We only need to give to each its due and only then can we learn the lessons each is teaching us.

  • Olatunji Ololade’s long-awaited novel

    Olatunji Ololade’s long-awaited novel

    Olatunji Ololade and Remilekun Balogun (RB)—the protagonist of ‘Of Gods and Their Claytoys’, his debut novel, whose initial draft I read many years ago—have much in common. Both are products of the Mass Communication department of the then Ogun State Polytechnic. They are serial award-winning journalists, driven by a passion for people-centered stories and an innate willingness to take risks.

    However, unlike his protagonist, Ololade is married with children and holds second and third degrees. Commitment to a woman, a challenge for his character, is not an issue for him.

    Written in rich poetic prose, combined with a smooth mix of simple, compound, and compound-complex sentences, the novel follows RB, who often claims to be an only child, orphaned two decades ago by a tragic accident. But the truth is far messier—he has never known his biological father and he has every reason to doubt the woman who insists she gave birth to him.

    Given the circumstances of his birth, RB’s early years are hard. Funding his education involves menial jobs and being helped out by a friend.

    The death of the woman he calls Mama—the one who told him that “black was the colour of bad things, of dirty, unwanted things”—forces him to move through life alone. Friendship, to him, is a luxury no one has earned.

    When RB comes of age, he chooses journalism as a profession. On the job, he discovers that the profession is not as honourable as he thinks. For instance, he discovers senior colleagues—men he once admired while growing up—are entangled in racketeering; their hands stained with filthy lucre, their pens unwilling to commit the truth to paper. Also, he finds out that election season is financially advantageous for journalists because of the abundance of breaking news stories and the influx of money from political campaigns.

    RB sees how during election periods, politicians are more willing to spend to influence media coverage or public perception. The author’s use of the imagery of money “flooding the economy like a burst dam” emphasizes the sudden and overwhelming flow of funds. The personal benefits journalists gain—such as buying new cars, acquiring bigger homes, or paying school fees—suggest that lucrative opportunities arise during this time. However, this also raises ethical considerations about the influence of money on journalistic integrity.

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    Though everyone seems to be losing their heads, he chooses to keep his and this creates antagonism for him. The opportunity to cement his image as the incorruptible one falls on his lap when he witnesses an ethical breach at the State House, where correspondents openly brawl over cash handouts from a governor. The altercation turns fatal, resulting in the death of one journalist, a tragedy swiftly covered up. But RB refuses to let the truth be buried. He publishes a damning report, unleashing chaos as powerful forces move to silence him. Death threats collide with death threats.

    He is transferred to Enugu as punishment for his audacity. Months into his stay, he stumbles upon a major story—one a powerful senator is desperate to bury. Determined to uncover the truth, he pushes forward, only to face the wrath of his boss in Lagos, who promptly summons him back. From that moment, his life spirals into further chaos, a relentless cycle of danger and escape, as if he were born to run—or destined for trouble, one day at a time.

    Beyond its strong focus on journalism, Ololade’s novel is about Nigeria. The Nigeria in his story, much like the one we know, struggles with corruption, poor leadership, decaying infrastructure, and mediocrity.

    The Nigerians in his novel grow weary of coexisting and decide to go their separate ways along ethnic lines. At some point, cities fall, their foundations shaken as violence spills into every corner. In open streets and secluded courtyards, the air, heavy with gunpowder, distorts the line between friend and foe. Pitched battles transform bustling avenues into rivers of blood. Spent shells and smuggled arms scatter across the asphalt, while the ordinary become warriors, standing shoulder to shoulder with soldiers in the chaos of war.

    The fallout of the disintegration reveals that the solutions to our challenges aren’t as simple as each region forming its own republic.

    The novel’s pages brim with remarkable characters. There’s Chiamaka, a fierce feminist who eats like a newly freed convict, drinks like a sailor, and loves with the hunger of a nymphomaniac. Mama, the only mother he has ever known, provides a grounding presence. Then there’s Gbotie, the closest thing RB has to a father figure—a journalist with an unshakable devotion to truth. Enitan and Alhaji, a couple pivotal to his journey, offer him a lifeline toward becoming someone in life. And finally, there’s Alhaja, Enitan’s mother, who boldly encourages her daughter to take a lover to make up for Alhaji’s shortcomings in the bedroom.

    Ololade skillfully deploys allusion, imagery, and poetry to craft a novel that is both probing and powerful. Its crackling energy and unflinching depth of this keenly observant and compelling novel make it an unforgettable read. It will resonate long after the final page.

    My final take: Ololade wears his social responsibility cap with pride, offering sharp insights into critical issues affecting Nigeria’s growth in this audacious, scathing, and riveting work. Through robust discourse on leadership, subsidy removal, and more, he provides a thought-provoking guide to the nation’s most pressing challenges.

    The issues he raised make me come to the conclusion that like every nation on earth, Nigeria isn’t perfect and there’s no doubt that many of our challenges are self-inflicted, and the solutions are in our hands. And until we confront these issues head-on, we will continue going in circles, trapped in a cycle of stagnation.