Veteran journalist, Chief Adetola Adeniyi, tells AYOOLA OLASUPO how his journey traversed persecution and near imprisonment, which was altered by the 1979 electoral victory of Chief Bola Ige When you look back to May 29, 1945, when you were born, what defining childhood experience shaped the journalist you later became? The thing is that morning shows the day, and the influences I had — the primary and Quranic schools I went to, the children I grew up with, my parents and my grandparents — were a major influence in my life. I graduated from Quranic school at the age of 10. I was sent to school at the age of five or six. I had two siblings (sisters) ahead of me: one full sister and one half-sister. My mother’s first child was sent to school in either 1946 or 1947, followed by my half-sister between 1949 and 1950, but I was sent to school in 1950. I ran out of the place. I said I didn’t want a British education, so every effort to take me back to school failed. My father took me to Alfa Igboho. He was from Igboho, and the mosque also served as their school. My father just took me to him like a boarding school sort of, and I became a small boy living with the man. About two years later, the man insisted that I must go to school, so he boarded me on a bicycle and took me to a Muslim school in Ago-Iwoye and tied me to the table of the mistress, Mrs Taiwo. I stayed, so the following day, I didn’t have to be persuaded. The woman took me home and then convinced me that I needed both systems of education. By that time, we had left where I was born, and I came back to my grandfather’s place. So, when I got there, I got a job at the age of about eight or nine. We had catapults and traps, and used to go to small bushes around to hunt, and I was involved in activities like masquerades. I founded a social club at the age of nine called the Isamuro Boys. I would go to school, mosque, go hunting, and do all sorts of things. They elected me their leader before the age of 10, and I was called ‘Never Tired’ because I was so restless. I would do all the seasonal products for my mum. Then, when I was coming home from Ile Keu (Arabic class), they had a small arena where we did boxing training. We had some who were practising boxing, and I also took part in that, so it was a very busy period for me. By the time I was 12, I had already taken part in school plays. In fact, I took a lead role at the age of 12, participating in the Western Nigeria Festival of Arts, and our entry came first. At that time, up to 1961, I was playing female parts. I looked like my mum, and I was slim, so I was wearing my mother’s and sister’s dresses. If you do that now, they will think you are a cross-dresser. But I enjoyed it. I would use my mother’s headgear, so I was doing multi-dressing. They thought it was weird, but nowadays, people wear different colours using different fabrics for the same dress. I was doing that at the ages of 10, 11, and 12. Then I was also a preacher. An elderly man would carry me about because I was good at recitation, so I would recite Quranic verses, and I would sing, and people would throw money at me. Some elders who carried me aboutgive lectures and recite Quran, would collect the money and not give it to me. So, they took me around town, and it was that kind of life. Of course, instead of spending eight years in primary school, I spent five. I would say that was what they called a child prodigy; that is what I think I was, and this leadership trait started showing itself. Even when I was nine, I could form a club. I mentioned this in my book. Then I found that I was the youngest in my class because when I got to primary school, most people who had already spent three years — most of them were born in 1942, 1941, and 1940. There was one senior, Ibrahim, and by the time we were in Primary 6, he had two wives. Probably he was born in 1935. So, even from that age, people doubted my age in the class because all my classmates were much older, and some of them were bigger. It’s interesting that even to talk about ambition, when I was in Primary 6, I boasted that I would not marry anybody who was not a graduate. Meanwhile, I didn’t know what being a graduate was. I wasn’t sure whether I would ever go to secondary school. Why did you choose journalism as a profession? I started that right from secondary school. I was also the school reporter. I was in a social gathering every Saturday, and they would say, ‘Here is the news read by Saheed, and now we’ll read it.’ By the time I was in Form 2 and Form 3, all the junior students would meet me to be their college fathers. So, they would call me Mr Saheed. Then I acquired a nickname; I dropped ‘Never Tired’ and took ‘Lucky Star’, which sticks till today. So, anywhere I went, they hailed me ‘Lucky Star’, and I would say ‘Success’. I attribute that to the little things that have been in my life. If you have a child, and at the age of 13, he’s being called a Lucky Star, and he says success, it means success will follow him. You are often described as fearless. Was there ever a story you were afraid to publish? I was never afraid, but after publishing, I might worry a bit about the consequences, like when I wrote ‘Let Me Fall’, predicting that Gowon would fall, or when I wrote ‘We Will Never See It Again’, or when I called Shagari ‘Shokolokobangbose’ and many other stories, I expected some terrible repercussions. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. When you look back to May 29, 1945, when you were born, what defining childhood experience shaped the journalist you later became? The thing is that morning shows the day, and the influences I had — the primary and Quranic schools I went to, the children I grew up with, my parents and my grandparents — were a major influence in my life. I graduated from Quranic school at the age of 10. I was sent to school at the age of five or six. I had two siblings (sisters) ahead of me: one full sister and one half-sister. My mother’s first child was sent to school in either 1946 or 1947, followed by my half-sister between 1949 and 1950, but I was sent to school in 1950. I ran out of the place. I said I didn’t want a British education, so every effort to take me back to school failed. My father took me to Alfa Igboho. He was from Igboho, and the mosque also served as their school. My father just took me to him like a boarding school sort of, and I became a small boy living with the man. About two years later, the man insisted that I must go to school, so he boarded me on a bicycle and took me to a Muslim school in Ago-Iwoye and tied me to the table of the mistress, Mrs Taiwo. I stayed, so the following day, I didn’t have to be persuaded. The woman took me home and then convinced me that I needed both systems of education. By that time, we had left where I was born, and I came back to my grandfather’s place. So, when I got there, I got a job at the age of about eight or nine. We had catapults and traps, and used to go to small bushes around to hunt, and I was involved in activities like masquerades. I founded a social club at the age of nine called the Isamuro Boys. I would go to school, mosque, go hunting, and do all sorts of things. They elected me their leader before the age of 10, and I was called ‘Never Tired’ because I was so restless. I would do all the seasonal products for my mum. Then, when I was coming home from Ile Keu (Arabic class), they had a small arena where we did boxing training. We had some who were practising boxing, and I also took part in that, so it was a very busy period for me. By the time I was 12, I had already taken part in school plays. In fact, I took a lead role at the age of 12, participating in the Western Nigeria Festival of Arts, and our entry came first. At that time, up to 1961, I was playing female parts. I looked like my mum, and I was slim, so I was wearing my mother’s and sister’s dresses. If you do that now, they will think you are a cross-dresser. But I enjoyed it. I would use my mother’s headgear, so I was doing multi-dressing. They thought it was weird, but nowadays, people wear different colours using different fabrics for the same dress. I was doing that at the ages of 10, 11, and 12. Then I was also a preacher. An elderly man would carry me about because I was good at recitation, so I would recite Quranic verses, and I would sing, and people would throw money at me. Some elders who carried me aboutgive lectures and recite Quran, would collect the money and not give it to me. So, they took me around town, and it was that kind of life. Of course, instead of spending eight years in primary school, I spent five. I would say that was what they called a child prodigy; that is what I think I was, and this leadership trait started showing itself. Even when I was nine, I could form a club. I mentioned this in my book. Then I found that I was the youngest in my class because when I got to primary school, most people who had already spent three years — most of them were born in 1942, 1941, and 1940. There was one senior, Ibrahim, and by the time we were in Primary 6, he had two wives. Probably he was born in 1935. So, even from that age, people doubted my age in the class because all my classmates were much older, and some of them were bigger. It’s interesting that even to talk about ambition, when I was in Primary 6, I boasted that I would not marry anybody who was not a graduate. Meanwhile, I didn’t know what being a graduate was. I wasn’t sure whether I would ever go to secondary school. Why did you choose journalism as a profession? I started that right from secondary school. I was also the school reporter. I was in a social gathering every Saturday, and they would say, ‘Here is the news read by Saheed, and now we’ll read it.’ By the time I was in Form 2 and Form 3, all the junior students would meet me to be their college fathers. So, they would call me Mr Saheed. Then I acquired a nickname; I dropped ‘Never Tired’ and took ‘Lucky Star’, which sticks till today. So, anywhere I went, they hailed me ‘Lucky Star’, and I would say ‘Success’. I attribute that to the little things that have been in my life. If you have a child, and at the age of 13, he’s being called a Lucky Star, and he says success, it means success will follow him. You are often described as fearless. Was there ever a story you were afraid to publish? I was never afraid, but after publishing, I might worry a bit about the consequences, like when I wrote ‘Let Me Fall’, predicting that Gowon would fall, or when I wrote ‘We Will Never See It Again’, or when I called Shagari ‘Shokolokobangbose’ and many other stories, I expected some terrible repercussions. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. The thing is that morning shows the day, and the influences I had — the primary and Quranic schools I went to, the children I grew up with, my parents and my grandparents — were a major influence in my life. I graduated from Quranic school at the age of 10. I was sent to school at the age of five or six. I had two siblings (sisters) ahead of me: one full sister and one half-sister. My mother’s first child was sent to school in either 1946 or 1947, followed by my half-sister between 1949 and 1950, but I was sent to school in 1950. I ran out of the place. I said I didn’t want a British education, so every effort to take me back to school failed. My father took me to Alfa Igboho. He was from Igboho, and the mosque also served as their school. My father just took me to him like a boarding school sort of, and I became a small boy living with the man. About two years later, the man insisted that I must go to school, so he boarded me on a bicycle and took me to a Muslim school in Ago-Iwoye and tied me to the table of the mistress, Mrs Taiwo. I stayed, so the following day, I didn’t have to be persuaded. The woman took me home and then convinced me that I needed both systems of education. By that time, we had left where I was born, and I came back to my grandfather’s place. So, when I got there, I got a job at the age of about eight or nine. We had catapults and traps, and used to go to small bushes around to hunt, and I was involved in activities like masquerades. I founded a social club at the age of nine called the Isamuro Boys. I would go to school, mosque, go hunting, and do all sorts of things. They elected me their leader before the age of 10, and I was called ‘Never Tired’ because I was so restless. I would do all the seasonal products for my mum. Then, when I was coming home from Ile Keu (Arabic class), they had a small arena where we did boxing training. We had some who were practising boxing, and I also took part in that, so it was a very busy period for me. By the time I was 12, I had already taken part in school plays. In fact, I took a lead role at the age of 12, participating in the Western Nigeria Festival of Arts, and our entry came first. At that time, up to 1961, I was playing female parts. I looked like my mum, and I was slim, so I was wearing my mother’s and sister’s dresses. If you do that now, they will think you are a cross-dresser. But I enjoyed it. I would use my mother’s headgear, so I was doing multi-dressing. They thought it was weird, but nowadays, people wear different colours using different fabrics for the same dress. I was doing that at the ages of 10, 11, and 12. Then I was also a preacher. An elderly man would carry me about because I was good at recitation, so I would recite Quranic verses, and I would sing, and people would throw money at me. Some elders who carried me aboutgive lectures and recite Quran, would collect the money and not give it to me. So, they took me around town, and it was that kind of life. Of course, instead of spending eight years in primary school, I spent five. I would say that was what they called a child prodigy; that is what I think I was, and this leadership trait started showing itself. Even when I was nine, I could form a club. I mentioned this in my book. Then I found that I was the youngest in my class because when I got to primary school, most people who had already spent three years — most of them were born in 1942, 1941, and 1940. There was one senior, Ibrahim, and by the time we were in Primary 6, he had two wives. Probably he was born in 1935. So, even from that age, people doubted my age in the class because all my classmates were much older, and some of them were bigger. It’s interesting that even to talk about ambition, when I was in Primary 6, I boasted that I would not marry anybody who was not a graduate. Meanwhile, I didn’t know what being a graduate was. I wasn’t sure whether I would ever go to secondary school. Why did you choose journalism as a profession? I started that right from secondary school. I was also the school reporter. I was in a social gathering every Saturday, and they would say, ‘Here is the news read by Saheed, and now we’ll read it.’ By the time I was in Form 2 and Form 3, all the junior students would meet me to be their college fathers. So, they would call me Mr Saheed. Then I acquired a nickname; I dropped ‘Never Tired’ and took ‘Lucky Star’, which sticks till today. So, anywhere I went, they hailed me ‘Lucky Star’, and I would say ‘Success’. I attribute that to the little things that have been in my life. If you have a child, and at the age of 13, he’s being called a Lucky Star, and he says success, it means success will follow him. You are often described as fearless. Was there ever a story you were afraid to publish? I was never afraid, but after publishing, I might worry a bit about the consequences, like when I wrote ‘Let Me Fall’, predicting that Gowon would fall, or when I wrote ‘We Will Never See It Again’, or when I called Shagari ‘Shokolokobangbose’ and many other stories, I expected some terrible repercussions. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. I ran out of the place. I said I didn’t want a British education, so every effort to take me back to school failed. My father took me to Alfa Igboho. He was from Igboho, and the mosque also served as their school. My father just took me to him like a boarding school sort of, and I became a small boy living with the man. About two years later, the man insisted that I must go to school, so he boarded me on a bicycle and took me to a Muslim school in Ago-Iwoye and tied me to the table of the mistress, Mrs Taiwo. I stayed, so the following day, I didn’t have to be persuaded. The woman took me home and then convinced me that I needed both systems of education. By that time, we had left where I was born, and I came back to my grandfather’s place. So, when I got there, I got a job at the age of about eight or nine. We had catapults and traps, and used to go to small bushes around to hunt, and I was involved in activities like masquerades. I founded a social club at the age of nine called the Isamuro Boys. I would go to school, mosque, go hunting, and do all sorts of things. They elected me their leader before the age of 10, and I was called ‘Never Tired’ because I was so restless. I would do all the seasonal products for my mum. Then, when I was coming home from Ile Keu (Arabic class), they had a small arena where we did boxing training. We had some who were practising boxing, and I also took part in that, so it was a very busy period for me. By the time I was 12, I had already taken part in school plays. In fact, I took a lead role at the age of 12, participating in the Western Nigeria Festival of Arts, and our entry came first. At that time, up to 1961, I was playing female parts. I looked like my mum, and I was slim, so I was wearing my mother’s and sister’s dresses. If you do that now, they will think you are a cross-dresser. But I enjoyed it. I would use my mother’s headgear, so I was doing multi-dressing. They thought it was weird, but nowadays, people wear different colours using different fabrics for the same dress. I was doing that at the ages of 10, 11, and 12. Then I was also a preacher. An elderly man would carry me about because I was good at recitation, so I would recite Quranic verses, and I would sing, and people would throw money at me. Some elders who carried me aboutgive lectures and recite Quran, would collect the money and not give it to me. So, they took me around town, and it was that kind of life. Of course, instead of spending eight years in primary school, I spent five. I would say that was what they called a child prodigy; that is what I think I was, and this leadership trait started showing itself. Even when I was nine, I could form a club. I mentioned this in my book. Then I found that I was the youngest in my class because when I got to primary school, most people who had already spent three years — most of them were born in 1942, 1941, and 1940. There was one senior, Ibrahim, and by the time we were in Primary 6, he had two wives. Probably he was born in 1935. So, even from that age, people doubted my age in the class because all my classmates were much older, and some of them were bigger. It’s interesting that even to talk about ambition, when I was in Primary 6, I boasted that I would not marry anybody who was not a graduate. Meanwhile, I didn’t know what being a graduate was. I wasn’t sure whether I would ever go to secondary school. Why did you choose journalism as a profession? I started that right from secondary school. I was also the school reporter. I was in a social gathering every Saturday, and they would say, ‘Here is the news read by Saheed, and now we’ll read it.’ By the time I was in Form 2 and Form 3, all the junior students would meet me to be their college fathers. So, they would call me Mr Saheed. Then I acquired a nickname; I dropped ‘Never Tired’ and took ‘Lucky Star’, which sticks till today. So, anywhere I went, they hailed me ‘Lucky Star’, and I would say ‘Success’. I attribute that to the little things that have been in my life. If you have a child, and at the age of 13, he’s being called a Lucky Star, and he says success, it means success will follow him. You are often described as fearless. Was there ever a story you were afraid to publish? I was never afraid, but after publishing, I might worry a bit about the consequences, like when I wrote ‘Let Me Fall’, predicting that Gowon would fall, or when I wrote ‘We Will Never See It Again’, or when I called Shagari ‘Shokolokobangbose’ and many other stories, I expected some terrible repercussions. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. About two years later, the man insisted that I must go to school, so he boarded me on a bicycle and took me to a Muslim school in Ago-Iwoye and tied me to the table of the mistress, Mrs Taiwo. I stayed, so the following day, I didn’t have to be persuaded. The woman took me home and then convinced me that I needed both systems of education. By that time, we had left where I was born, and I came back to my grandfather’s place. So, when I got there, I got a job at the age of about eight or nine. We had catapults and traps, and used to go to small bushes around to hunt, and I was involved in activities like masquerades. I founded a social club at the age of nine called the Isamuro Boys. I would go to school, mosque, go hunting, and do all sorts of things. They elected me their leader before the age of 10, and I was called ‘Never Tired’ because I was so restless. I would do all the seasonal products for my mum. Then, when I was coming home from Ile Keu (Arabic class), they had a small arena where we did boxing training. We had some who were practising boxing, and I also took part in that, so it was a very busy period for me. By the time I was 12, I had already taken part in school plays. In fact, I took a lead role at the age of 12, participating in the Western Nigeria Festival of Arts, and our entry came first. At that time, up to 1961, I was playing female parts. I looked like my mum, and I was slim, so I was wearing my mother’s and sister’s dresses. If you do that now, they will think you are a cross-dresser. But I enjoyed it. I would use my mother’s headgear, so I was doing multi-dressing. They thought it was weird, but nowadays, people wear different colours using different fabrics for the same dress. I was doing that at the ages of 10, 11, and 12. Then I was also a preacher. An elderly man would carry me about because I was good at recitation, so I would recite Quranic verses, and I would sing, and people would throw money at me. Some elders who carried me aboutgive lectures and recite Quran, would collect the money and not give it to me. So, they took me around town, and it was that kind of life. Of course, instead of spending eight years in primary school, I spent five. I would say that was what they called a child prodigy; that is what I think I was, and this leadership trait started showing itself. Even when I was nine, I could form a club. I mentioned this in my book. Then I found that I was the youngest in my class because when I got to primary school, most people who had already spent three years — most of them were born in 1942, 1941, and 1940. There was one senior, Ibrahim, and by the time we were in Primary 6, he had two wives. Probably he was born in 1935. So, even from that age, people doubted my age in the class because all my classmates were much older, and some of them were bigger. It’s interesting that even to talk about ambition, when I was in Primary 6, I boasted that I would not marry anybody who was not a graduate. Meanwhile, I didn’t know what being a graduate was. I wasn’t sure whether I would ever go to secondary school. Why did you choose journalism as a profession? I started that right from secondary school. I was also the school reporter. I was in a social gathering every Saturday, and they would say, ‘Here is the news read by Saheed, and now we’ll read it.’ By the time I was in Form 2 and Form 3, all the junior students would meet me to be their college fathers. So, they would call me Mr Saheed. Then I acquired a nickname; I dropped ‘Never Tired’ and took ‘Lucky Star’, which sticks till today. So, anywhere I went, they hailed me ‘Lucky Star’, and I would say ‘Success’. I attribute that to the little things that have been in my life. If you have a child, and at the age of 13, he’s being called a Lucky Star, and he says success, it means success will follow him. You are often described as fearless. Was there ever a story you were afraid to publish? I was never afraid, but after publishing, I might worry a bit about the consequences, like when I wrote ‘Let Me Fall’, predicting that Gowon would fall, or when I wrote ‘We Will Never See It Again’, or when I called Shagari ‘Shokolokobangbose’ and many other stories, I expected some terrible repercussions. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. By that time, we had left where I was born, and I came back to my grandfather’s place. So, when I got there, I got a job at the age of about eight or nine. We had catapults and traps, and used to go to small bushes around to hunt, and I was involved in activities like masquerades. I founded a social club at the age of nine called the Isamuro Boys. I would go to school, mosque, go hunting, and do all sorts of things. They elected me their leader before the age of 10, and I was called ‘Never Tired’ because I was so restless. I would do all the seasonal products for my mum. Then, when I was coming home from Ile Keu (Arabic class), they had a small arena where we did boxing training. We had some who were practising boxing, and I also took part in that, so it was a very busy period for me. By the time I was 12, I had already taken part in school plays. In fact, I took a lead role at the age of 12, participating in the Western Nigeria Festival of Arts, and our entry came first. At that time, up to 1961, I was playing female parts. I looked like my mum, and I was slim, so I was wearing my mother’s and sister’s dresses. If you do that now, they will think you are a cross-dresser. But I enjoyed it. I would use my mother’s headgear, so I was doing multi-dressing. They thought it was weird, but nowadays, people wear different colours using different fabrics for the same dress. I was doing that at the ages of 10, 11, and 12. Then I was also a preacher. An elderly man would carry me about because I was good at recitation, so I would recite Quranic verses, and I would sing, and people would throw money at me. Some elders who carried me aboutgive lectures and recite Quran, would collect the money and not give it to me. So, they took me around town, and it was that kind of life. Of course, instead of spending eight years in primary school, I spent five. I would say that was what they called a child prodigy; that is what I think I was, and this leadership trait started showing itself. Even when I was nine, I could form a club. I mentioned this in my book. Then I found that I was the youngest in my class because when I got to primary school, most people who had already spent three years — most of them were born in 1942, 1941, and 1940. There was one senior, Ibrahim, and by the time we were in Primary 6, he had two wives. Probably he was born in 1935. So, even from that age, people doubted my age in the class because all my classmates were much older, and some of them were bigger. It’s interesting that even to talk about ambition, when I was in Primary 6, I boasted that I would not marry anybody who was not a graduate. Meanwhile, I didn’t know what being a graduate was. I wasn’t sure whether I would ever go to secondary school. Why did you choose journalism as a profession? I started that right from secondary school. I was also the school reporter. I was in a social gathering every Saturday, and they would say, ‘Here is the news read by Saheed, and now we’ll read it.’ By the time I was in Form 2 and Form 3, all the junior students would meet me to be their college fathers. So, they would call me Mr Saheed. Then I acquired a nickname; I dropped ‘Never Tired’ and took ‘Lucky Star’, which sticks till today. So, anywhere I went, they hailed me ‘Lucky Star’, and I would say ‘Success’. I attribute that to the little things that have been in my life. If you have a child, and at the age of 13, he’s being called a Lucky Star, and he says success, it means success will follow him. You are often described as fearless. Was there ever a story you were afraid to publish? I was never afraid, but after publishing, I might worry a bit about the consequences, like when I wrote ‘Let Me Fall’, predicting that Gowon would fall, or when I wrote ‘We Will Never See It Again’, or when I called Shagari ‘Shokolokobangbose’ and many other stories, I expected some terrible repercussions. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. I would go to school, mosque, go hunting, and do all sorts of things. They elected me their leader before the age of 10, and I was called ‘Never Tired’ because I was so restless. I would do all the seasonal products for my mum. Then, when I was coming home from Ile Keu (Arabic class), they had a small arena where we did boxing training. We had some who were practising boxing, and I also took part in that, so it was a very busy period for me. By the time I was 12, I had already taken part in school plays. In fact, I took a lead role at the age of 12, participating in the Western Nigeria Festival of Arts, and our entry came first. At that time, up to 1961, I was playing female parts. I looked like my mum, and I was slim, so I was wearing my mother’s and sister’s dresses. If you do that now, they will think you are a cross-dresser. But I enjoyed it. I would use my mother’s headgear, so I was doing multi-dressing. They thought it was weird, but nowadays, people wear different colours using different fabrics for the same dress. I was doing that at the ages of 10, 11, and 12. Then I was also a preacher. An elderly man would carry me about because I was good at recitation, so I would recite Quranic verses, and I would sing, and people would throw money at me. Some elders who carried me aboutgive lectures and recite Quran, would collect the money and not give it to me. So, they took me around town, and it was that kind of life. Of course, instead of spending eight years in primary school, I spent five. I would say that was what they called a child prodigy; that is what I think I was, and this leadership trait started showing itself. Even when I was nine, I could form a club. I mentioned this in my book. Then I found that I was the youngest in my class because when I got to primary school, most people who had already spent three years — most of them were born in 1942, 1941, and 1940. There was one senior, Ibrahim, and by the time we were in Primary 6, he had two wives. Probably he was born in 1935. So, even from that age, people doubted my age in the class because all my classmates were much older, and some of them were bigger. It’s interesting that even to talk about ambition, when I was in Primary 6, I boasted that I would not marry anybody who was not a graduate. Meanwhile, I didn’t know what being a graduate was. I wasn’t sure whether I would ever go to secondary school. Why did you choose journalism as a profession? I started that right from secondary school. I was also the school reporter. I was in a social gathering every Saturday, and they would say, ‘Here is the news read by Saheed, and now we’ll read it.’ By the time I was in Form 2 and Form 3, all the junior students would meet me to be their college fathers. So, they would call me Mr Saheed. Then I acquired a nickname; I dropped ‘Never Tired’ and took ‘Lucky Star’, which sticks till today. So, anywhere I went, they hailed me ‘Lucky Star’, and I would say ‘Success’. I attribute that to the little things that have been in my life. If you have a child, and at the age of 13, he’s being called a Lucky Star, and he says success, it means success will follow him. You are often described as fearless. Was there ever a story you were afraid to publish? I was never afraid, but after publishing, I might worry a bit about the consequences, like when I wrote ‘Let Me Fall’, predicting that Gowon would fall, or when I wrote ‘We Will Never See It Again’, or when I called Shagari ‘Shokolokobangbose’ and many other stories, I expected some terrible repercussions. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. We had some who were practising boxing, and I also took part in that, so it was a very busy period for me. By the time I was 12, I had already taken part in school plays. In fact, I took a lead role at the age of 12, participating in the Western Nigeria Festival of Arts, and our entry came first. At that time, up to 1961, I was playing female parts. I looked like my mum, and I was slim, so I was wearing my mother’s and sister’s dresses. If you do that now, they will think you are a cross-dresser. But I enjoyed it. I would use my mother’s headgear, so I was doing multi-dressing. They thought it was weird, but nowadays, people wear different colours using different fabrics for the same dress. I was doing that at the ages of 10, 11, and 12. Then I was also a preacher. An elderly man would carry me about because I was good at recitation, so I would recite Quranic verses, and I would sing, and people would throw money at me. Some elders who carried me aboutgive lectures and recite Quran, would collect the money and not give it to me. So, they took me around town, and it was that kind of life. Of course, instead of spending eight years in primary school, I spent five. I would say that was what they called a child prodigy; that is what I think I was, and this leadership trait started showing itself. Even when I was nine, I could form a club. I mentioned this in my book. Then I found that I was the youngest in my class because when I got to primary school, most people who had already spent three years — most of them were born in 1942, 1941, and 1940. There was one senior, Ibrahim, and by the time we were in Primary 6, he had two wives. Probably he was born in 1935. So, even from that age, people doubted my age in the class because all my classmates were much older, and some of them were bigger. It’s interesting that even to talk about ambition, when I was in Primary 6, I boasted that I would not marry anybody who was not a graduate. Meanwhile, I didn’t know what being a graduate was. I wasn’t sure whether I would ever go to secondary school. Why did you choose journalism as a profession? I started that right from secondary school. I was also the school reporter. I was in a social gathering every Saturday, and they would say, ‘Here is the news read by Saheed, and now we’ll read it.’ By the time I was in Form 2 and Form 3, all the junior students would meet me to be their college fathers. So, they would call me Mr Saheed. Then I acquired a nickname; I dropped ‘Never Tired’ and took ‘Lucky Star’, which sticks till today. So, anywhere I went, they hailed me ‘Lucky Star’, and I would say ‘Success’. I attribute that to the little things that have been in my life. If you have a child, and at the age of 13, he’s being called a Lucky Star, and he says success, it means success will follow him. You are often described as fearless. Was there ever a story you were afraid to publish? I was never afraid, but after publishing, I might worry a bit about the consequences, like when I wrote ‘Let Me Fall’, predicting that Gowon would fall, or when I wrote ‘We Will Never See It Again’, or when I called Shagari ‘Shokolokobangbose’ and many other stories, I expected some terrible repercussions. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. At that time, up to 1961, I was playing female parts. I looked like my mum, and I was slim, so I was wearing my mother’s and sister’s dresses. If you do that now, they will think you are a cross-dresser. But I enjoyed it. I would use my mother’s headgear, so I was doing multi-dressing. They thought it was weird, but nowadays, people wear different colours using different fabrics for the same dress. I was doing that at the ages of 10, 11, and 12. Then I was also a preacher. An elderly man would carry me about because I was good at recitation, so I would recite Quranic verses, and I would sing, and people would throw money at me. Some elders who carried me aboutgive lectures and recite Quran, would collect the money and not give it to me. So, they took me around town, and it was that kind of life. Of course, instead of spending eight years in primary school, I spent five. I would say that was what they called a child prodigy; that is what I think I was, and this leadership trait started showing itself. Even when I was nine, I could form a club. I mentioned this in my book. Then I found that I was the youngest in my class because when I got to primary school, most people who had already spent three years — most of them were born in 1942, 1941, and 1940. There was one senior, Ibrahim, and by the time we were in Primary 6, he had two wives. Probably he was born in 1935. So, even from that age, people doubted my age in the class because all my classmates were much older, and some of them were bigger. It’s interesting that even to talk about ambition, when I was in Primary 6, I boasted that I would not marry anybody who was not a graduate. Meanwhile, I didn’t know what being a graduate was. I wasn’t sure whether I would ever go to secondary school. Why did you choose journalism as a profession? I started that right from secondary school. I was also the school reporter. I was in a social gathering every Saturday, and they would say, ‘Here is the news read by Saheed, and now we’ll read it.’ By the time I was in Form 2 and Form 3, all the junior students would meet me to be their college fathers. So, they would call me Mr Saheed. Then I acquired a nickname; I dropped ‘Never Tired’ and took ‘Lucky Star’, which sticks till today. So, anywhere I went, they hailed me ‘Lucky Star’, and I would say ‘Success’. I attribute that to the little things that have been in my life. If you have a child, and at the age of 13, he’s being called a Lucky Star, and he says success, it means success will follow him. You are often described as fearless. Was there ever a story you were afraid to publish? I was never afraid, but after publishing, I might worry a bit about the consequences, like when I wrote ‘Let Me Fall’, predicting that Gowon would fall, or when I wrote ‘We Will Never See It Again’, or when I called Shagari ‘Shokolokobangbose’ and many other stories, I expected some terrible repercussions. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. I was doing that at the ages of 10, 11, and 12. Then I was also a preacher. An elderly man would carry me about because I was good at recitation, so I would recite Quranic verses, and I would sing, and people would throw money at me. Some elders who carried me aboutgive lectures and recite Quran, would collect the money and not give it to me. So, they took me around town, and it was that kind of life. Of course, instead of spending eight years in primary school, I spent five. I would say that was what they called a child prodigy; that is what I think I was, and this leadership trait started showing itself. Even when I was nine, I could form a club. I mentioned this in my book. Then I found that I was the youngest in my class because when I got to primary school, most people who had already spent three years — most of them were born in 1942, 1941, and 1940. There was one senior, Ibrahim, and by the time we were in Primary 6, he had two wives. Probably he was born in 1935. So, even from that age, people doubted my age in the class because all my classmates were much older, and some of them were bigger. It’s interesting that even to talk about ambition, when I was in Primary 6, I boasted that I would not marry anybody who was not a graduate. Meanwhile, I didn’t know what being a graduate was. I wasn’t sure whether I would ever go to secondary school. Why did you choose journalism as a profession? I started that right from secondary school. I was also the school reporter. I was in a social gathering every Saturday, and they would say, ‘Here is the news read by Saheed, and now we’ll read it.’ By the time I was in Form 2 and Form 3, all the junior students would meet me to be their college fathers. So, they would call me Mr Saheed. Then I acquired a nickname; I dropped ‘Never Tired’ and took ‘Lucky Star’, which sticks till today. So, anywhere I went, they hailed me ‘Lucky Star’, and I would say ‘Success’. I attribute that to the little things that have been in my life. If you have a child, and at the age of 13, he’s being called a Lucky Star, and he says success, it means success will follow him. You are often described as fearless. Was there ever a story you were afraid to publish? I was never afraid, but after publishing, I might worry a bit about the consequences, like when I wrote ‘Let Me Fall’, predicting that Gowon would fall, or when I wrote ‘We Will Never See It Again’, or when I called Shagari ‘Shokolokobangbose’ and many other stories, I expected some terrible repercussions. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. So, they took me around town, and it was that kind of life. Of course, instead of spending eight years in primary school, I spent five. I would say that was what they called a child prodigy; that is what I think I was, and this leadership trait started showing itself. Even when I was nine, I could form a club. I mentioned this in my book. Then I found that I was the youngest in my class because when I got to primary school, most people who had already spent three years — most of them were born in 1942, 1941, and 1940. There was one senior, Ibrahim, and by the time we were in Primary 6, he had two wives. Probably he was born in 1935. So, even from that age, people doubted my age in the class because all my classmates were much older, and some of them were bigger. It’s interesting that even to talk about ambition, when I was in Primary 6, I boasted that I would not marry anybody who was not a graduate. Meanwhile, I didn’t know what being a graduate was. I wasn’t sure whether I would ever go to secondary school. Why did you choose journalism as a profession? I started that right from secondary school. I was also the school reporter. I was in a social gathering every Saturday, and they would say, ‘Here is the news read by Saheed, and now we’ll read it.’ By the time I was in Form 2 and Form 3, all the junior students would meet me to be their college fathers. So, they would call me Mr Saheed. Then I acquired a nickname; I dropped ‘Never Tired’ and took ‘Lucky Star’, which sticks till today. So, anywhere I went, they hailed me ‘Lucky Star’, and I would say ‘Success’. I attribute that to the little things that have been in my life. If you have a child, and at the age of 13, he’s being called a Lucky Star, and he says success, it means success will follow him. You are often described as fearless. Was there ever a story you were afraid to publish? I was never afraid, but after publishing, I might worry a bit about the consequences, like when I wrote ‘Let Me Fall’, predicting that Gowon would fall, or when I wrote ‘We Will Never See It Again’, or when I called Shagari ‘Shokolokobangbose’ and many other stories, I expected some terrible repercussions. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. Even when I was nine, I could form a club. I mentioned this in my book. Then I found that I was the youngest in my class because when I got to primary school, most people who had already spent three years — most of them were born in 1942, 1941, and 1940. There was one senior, Ibrahim, and by the time we were in Primary 6, he had two wives. Probably he was born in 1935. So, even from that age, people doubted my age in the class because all my classmates were much older, and some of them were bigger. It’s interesting that even to talk about ambition, when I was in Primary 6, I boasted that I would not marry anybody who was not a graduate. Meanwhile, I didn’t know what being a graduate was. I wasn’t sure whether I would ever go to secondary school. Why did you choose journalism as a profession? I started that right from secondary school. I was also the school reporter. I was in a social gathering every Saturday, and they would say, ‘Here is the news read by Saheed, and now we’ll read it.’ By the time I was in Form 2 and Form 3, all the junior students would meet me to be their college fathers. So, they would call me Mr Saheed. Then I acquired a nickname; I dropped ‘Never Tired’ and took ‘Lucky Star’, which sticks till today. So, anywhere I went, they hailed me ‘Lucky Star’, and I would say ‘Success’. I attribute that to the little things that have been in my life. If you have a child, and at the age of 13, he’s being called a Lucky Star, and he says success, it means success will follow him. You are often described as fearless. Was there ever a story you were afraid to publish? I was never afraid, but after publishing, I might worry a bit about the consequences, like when I wrote ‘Let Me Fall’, predicting that Gowon would fall, or when I wrote ‘We Will Never See It Again’, or when I called Shagari ‘Shokolokobangbose’ and many other stories, I expected some terrible repercussions. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. There was one senior, Ibrahim, and by the time we were in Primary 6, he had two wives. Probably he was born in 1935. So, even from that age, people doubted my age in the class because all my classmates were much older, and some of them were bigger. It’s interesting that even to talk about ambition, when I was in Primary 6, I boasted that I would not marry anybody who was not a graduate. Meanwhile, I didn’t know what being a graduate was. I wasn’t sure whether I would ever go to secondary school. Why did you choose journalism as a profession? I started that right from secondary school. I was also the school reporter. I was in a social gathering every Saturday, and they would say, ‘Here is the news read by Saheed, and now we’ll read it.’ By the time I was in Form 2 and Form 3, all the junior students would meet me to be their college fathers. So, they would call me Mr Saheed. Then I acquired a nickname; I dropped ‘Never Tired’ and took ‘Lucky Star’, which sticks till today. So, anywhere I went, they hailed me ‘Lucky Star’, and I would say ‘Success’. I attribute that to the little things that have been in my life. If you have a child, and at the age of 13, he’s being called a Lucky Star, and he says success, it means success will follow him. You are often described as fearless. Was there ever a story you were afraid to publish? I was never afraid, but after publishing, I might worry a bit about the consequences, like when I wrote ‘Let Me Fall’, predicting that Gowon would fall, or when I wrote ‘We Will Never See It Again’, or when I called Shagari ‘Shokolokobangbose’ and many other stories, I expected some terrible repercussions. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. It’s interesting that even to talk about ambition, when I was in Primary 6, I boasted that I would not marry anybody who was not a graduate. Meanwhile, I didn’t know what being a graduate was. I wasn’t sure whether I would ever go to secondary school. Why did you choose journalism as a profession? I started that right from secondary school. I was also the school reporter. I was in a social gathering every Saturday, and they would say, ‘Here is the news read by Saheed, and now we’ll read it.’ By the time I was in Form 2 and Form 3, all the junior students would meet me to be their college fathers. So, they would call me Mr Saheed. Then I acquired a nickname; I dropped ‘Never Tired’ and took ‘Lucky Star’, which sticks till today. So, anywhere I went, they hailed me ‘Lucky Star’, and I would say ‘Success’. I attribute that to the little things that have been in my life. If you have a child, and at the age of 13, he’s being called a Lucky Star, and he says success, it means success will follow him. You are often described as fearless. Was there ever a story you were afraid to publish? I was never afraid, but after publishing, I might worry a bit about the consequences, like when I wrote ‘Let Me Fall’, predicting that Gowon would fall, or when I wrote ‘We Will Never See It Again’, or when I called Shagari ‘Shokolokobangbose’ and many other stories, I expected some terrible repercussions. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. Why did you choose journalism as a profession? I started that right from secondary school. I was also the school reporter. I was in a social gathering every Saturday, and they would say, ‘Here is the news read by Saheed, and now we’ll read it.’ By the time I was in Form 2 and Form 3, all the junior students would meet me to be their college fathers. So, they would call me Mr Saheed. Then I acquired a nickname; I dropped ‘Never Tired’ and took ‘Lucky Star’, which sticks till today. So, anywhere I went, they hailed me ‘Lucky Star’, and I would say ‘Success’. I attribute that to the little things that have been in my life. If you have a child, and at the age of 13, he’s being called a Lucky Star, and he says success, it means success will follow him. You are often described as fearless. Was there ever a story you were afraid to publish? I was never afraid, but after publishing, I might worry a bit about the consequences, like when I wrote ‘Let Me Fall’, predicting that Gowon would fall, or when I wrote ‘We Will Never See It Again’, or when I called Shagari ‘Shokolokobangbose’ and many other stories, I expected some terrible repercussions. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. I started that right from secondary school. I was also the school reporter. I was in a social gathering every Saturday, and they would say, ‘Here is the news read by Saheed, and now we’ll read it.’ By the time I was in Form 2 and Form 3, all the junior students would meet me to be their college fathers. So, they would call me Mr Saheed. Then I acquired a nickname; I dropped ‘Never Tired’ and took ‘Lucky Star’, which sticks till today. So, anywhere I went, they hailed me ‘Lucky Star’, and I would say ‘Success’. I attribute that to the little things that have been in my life. If you have a child, and at the age of 13, he’s being called a Lucky Star, and he says success, it means success will follow him. You are often described as fearless. Was there ever a story you were afraid to publish? I was never afraid, but after publishing, I might worry a bit about the consequences, like when I wrote ‘Let Me Fall’, predicting that Gowon would fall, or when I wrote ‘We Will Never See It Again’, or when I called Shagari ‘Shokolokobangbose’ and many other stories, I expected some terrible repercussions. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. So, they would call me Mr Saheed. Then I acquired a nickname; I dropped ‘Never Tired’ and took ‘Lucky Star’, which sticks till today. So, anywhere I went, they hailed me ‘Lucky Star’, and I would say ‘Success’. I attribute that to the little things that have been in my life. If you have a child, and at the age of 13, he’s being called a Lucky Star, and he says success, it means success will follow him. You are often described as fearless. Was there ever a story you were afraid to publish? I was never afraid, but after publishing, I might worry a bit about the consequences, like when I wrote ‘Let Me Fall’, predicting that Gowon would fall, or when I wrote ‘We Will Never See It Again’, or when I called Shagari ‘Shokolokobangbose’ and many other stories, I expected some terrible repercussions. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. You are often described as fearless. Was there ever a story you were afraid to publish? I was never afraid, but after publishing, I might worry a bit about the consequences, like when I wrote ‘Let Me Fall’, predicting that Gowon would fall, or when I wrote ‘We Will Never See It Again’, or when I called Shagari ‘Shokolokobangbose’ and many other stories, I expected some terrible repercussions. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. I was never afraid, but after publishing, I might worry a bit about the consequences, like when I wrote ‘Let Me Fall’, predicting that Gowon would fall, or when I wrote ‘We Will Never See It Again’, or when I called Shagari ‘Shokolokobangbose’ and many other stories, I expected some terrible repercussions. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. But again, I wasn’t afraid of what might come; I was aware that something might come. In some cases, I was arrested, tortured, and sometimes they would just ignore me. I am a master of distancing because I can always take myself out of whatever I write. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. When I write about someone, it could be about the person’s style of politics — anything — but not the individual person, so I can also be the person’s friend. That’s why I don’t allow my emotions to come into anything I write. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. As Africa’s first newspaper ombudsman, how were you able to provide loyalty and accountability to the public? The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. The newsroom ombudsman was actually the public complaints man. I was to be the public defender. That was the whole essence. As the first newsroom ombudsman in Africa, I was to interview people, listen to public complaints, and intervene. So, my first test was the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway, which became the bone of contention. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. When I wrote an article, I said, ‘How could they give the job of an engineer to a tailor?’ That forced Gowon to take it away from the contractor. I also campaigned for the erection of an overhead pedestrian bridge because people were dying. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. So, my campaign yielded fruit for the construction of an overhead pedestrian bridge in this country in 1974. Then the funny one was when three women came to complain to me at the Daily Times office that the company where their husband was working did not pay compensation when their husband passed, and they were so bitter that their husband died on duty. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. So, I went to the company’s personnel manager and told him that I received this complaint from the three wives of the late employee. The man said, ‘Mr Ombudsman, please sit down. The man did not die on duty. He died during office hours, but not on duty. We normally have a one-hour break in the organisation, and during that break, the man went to a motel nearby with a 16-year-old secondary school girl to compete in a championship. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. ‘So, in the exercise, the man tumbled and died, so the man committed suicide. Yes, he died during office hours, but not on duty. If he died on duty, it was his own duty, not our duty.’ The women came back to me, and I told them what they said. I said we should all go to the place. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. We went there, and the man repeated what he said. It was because of the tag he had on that they were able to trace that he belonged to the organisation. He told them that their husband died by voluntarily submitting himself to death. Then the women started raining curses on their late husband. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. Each of them had four children, so he left them with 12 children, and the girl he went out with was younger than his children. Related News Nwachukwu, Aregbesola hail veteran journalist Adeniyi at book launch Our special bond with London Akeem Lasisi unveils fourth edition of Night of My Flight How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. How did your cultural roots as a Yoruba influence your worldview and your writing style? I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. I founded cultural organisations, even in the Daily Times and other places where I worked. Don’t forget that I started my career as an Akewi, chanting Yoruba poetry on Radio Nigeria at the age of 16, and I still recite poetry till now. It also infused some moral values and virtues in me while growing up, like I couldn’t look at a woman’s nakedness when I went to university. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. I wrote ‘Teenagers Must Repent’ before the age of 16. My journey was full of demagoguery. I still prostrate to all those older than I am. Although I say that there’s no seniority in culture, I also say that no culture is superior to the Yoruba culture. Our ways of life, traditions, and so on are just so unique. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. We are the only ethnic group in the world that gives thanks for what you did for them yesterday. When Yoruba see you in the morning, they will ask after your health, wife, children, and your entire household. We are the only people in the world who have humanity embedded in our culture. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. We were wearing three-piece suits when the Europeans were going about naked. It was colonialism that brought Agbepo to Yorubaland. Where you see Agbepo, it’s only in countries colonised by the British. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. You have trained and mentored many journalists. What worries you most about the current generation of media practitioners? Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. Employers of current professionals make their employees remain there and live with their frustration because they have no other place to go. It didn’t happen just recently. I remember as far back as 1985, somebody started a newspaper in this country, and when he was recruiting people, he would tell them that they only had vacancies for 10, and there were 20 who wanted the job. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. The person would then say, ‘Do I split the salary of 10 people amongst you if it’s okay?’ Or even say, ‘I’m not going to pay you any salary. Your tag that you are working for me in my newspaper is your salary. Use it to get what you can get.’ We have also experienced that in this country. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. So, they are not motivated, and when we are talking about them being corrupt and so on, it’s a product of society. I mean, the lawyers, doctors, and civil servants are the same. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. When you have a country that has become so low in everything, in moral values, don’t expect anybody to be different. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. Even though the journalists are to set the pace, they are to be the guardians and the light. But how can you be a light when every other person there is in darkness and they are enjoying it? That does not mean I would exclude them totally because some of them are lazy. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. Without all the gadgets that they have now, we didn’t have Google, television, telephone, and all that. We had no place to do any research except the library. We worked hard. The journalist of today does not want to submit to that kind of rigour. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. When I used to go to Akure from Lagos on Air Peace, it was N9,000, but now it’s N350,000. How do you expect a reporter sent on an assignment in Akure to go and do that for several thousand? It’s become so difficult. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. I want to say that my younger colleagues in this generation are going through pain and hell. It’s very difficult for them in the environment they find themselves and the environment imposed on them by those in charge of the country. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. What personal sacrifices did your family make because of your career? Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. Those sacrifices they made were just bearing with me. My wife is a very bold and courageous woman. She read all my articles before publishing, and she was never afraid. There were occasions when we had to hurry out of our house when we heard intelligence reports that some unknown persons were coming to burn down the house or assassinate me. Twice in 1979, we rushed to Mrs Oyediran, Obafemi Awolowo’s oldest daughter, because we had to vacate our house. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. What happened at that time? The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. The Nigerian Tribune was pro-UPN because of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, so we suspected that the NPN had thugs, assassins, and all sorts of characters. I thought it was in the character of politicians. Maybe the UPN also had some; I wouldn’t know, so we were always under threats that the Tribune House could be burnt down. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. Somebody came to tell me that they were planning to attack us that night. I wouldn’t know whether it was an article that I wrote against Shagari or not. But I think it was about the same time that Paul Tafa declared me wanted when they couldn’t get to me. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. Then he was a soldier and the administrator of Oyo State, and they sent a note to Shinkafi, the then Commissioner of Police. It was published in Tribune, and it’s also in my book now. He said, ‘Find Tola Adeniyi dead or alive, but better alive. Remove one eye and cut off one leg; then he will know what I, Tafa, will be remembered for.’ How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. How did you get the hint about that order? In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. In writing, the Commissioner of Police had people working for him there. They are PROs, and there were many media people working with them. It was a tip-off, so I ran away. I first went to Justice Thompson’s house. I wanted to go to my elder brother’s house, but the distance might be a little far, so I went to Justice Thompson’s house. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. From there, I went to another friend of mine, Mr Akinola, my colleague in Ibadan, and hid there for some days. When I eventually showed up, General Abisoye, a very close friend of my family, said he had talked to him. He said, ‘I think it’s all over now. Let’s go there.’ So, we went there, and Tafa said, ‘It’s okay now. You can go back to your house.’ Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. Weren’t you scared when he said that? As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. As soon as I left, I was taken straight to Shinkafi’s house. It was during Ramadan, and I was stripped naked, beaten black and blue, then they put me in a cell with condemned criminals. Later, General Abisoye and my wife went to tell him the development. I think I was released the following morning, and I was then charged with a felony. If Bola Ige had not won the election in 1979, I would have gone to jail. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. You’ll mark another birthday by May 29. What does that mean to you personally, beyond the public tribute and affluence? I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. I’ll just thank my stars that I’m still alive and relatively strong. My senses and my organs — my kidneys, my liver — are all working. I can still walk on my two feet unaided. I can still climb the staircase of a three- to four-storey building. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers. So, I think I’ll just continue to thank whoever sent me here and those who have helped me a lot in life. There are too many to mention. Those who have helped me are what you call destiny helpers.
Military govt wanted me dead or alive — Veteran journalist, Adeniyi
