There was a time, not too long ago, when the Nigerian press stood as the soul of our struggle, the voice of our collective conscience, and the heartbeat of our liberation. Newspapers were not just ink on paper; they were weapons of resistance. Radio was not a platform for sycophancy; it was a clarion call for freedom. Our journalists faced guns, prison cells, exile, and death just to tell the truth.
From the anti-colonial crusades of Herbert Macaulay, Nnamdi Azikiwe, Obafemi Awolowo, and Anthony Enahoro, to the fearless pages of West African Pilot and The Nigerian Tribune, the press became the intellectual and ideological engine that challenged British imperialism and laid the foundation for our independence. These were not men and women chasing appointments, they were chasing purpose.
During the military years, the media didn’t retreat. In the face of tyranny, the Nigerian journalist stood upright. Names like Dele Giwa, Kunle Ajibade, Nosa Igiebor, Chris Anyanwu, and Chief Tola Adeniyi come to mind; journalists who risked or lost everything to remind Nigeria of what freedom should feel like. Even when bullets flew, the pen held firm. Even when voices were silenced, the echoes remained.
But now, in the very democracy that journalism fought to birth, the Nigerian press is bleeding from within. What military oppression couldn’t kill, money and access have murdered. What General Abacha couldn’t crush with Decrees, politicians have bought over with brown envelopes and meaningless appointments.
Since the return to civilian rule in 1999, we expected journalism to become even stronger, bolder, freer, more daring. Instead, what we see today is a nation gasping for breath, choked by bad governance, visionless leadership, and economic hopelessness;while the media, once its last hope, stands either in silence or in praise-singing suits.
How did we get here? where the average radio or TV presenter now twists his content just to please a local politician? Where headlines are bought and praise is scheduled? Where governors become overnight “performers” because they’ve bought airtime, sponsored jingles, or handed out iPhones and rice at media parley events?
Even worse, what do journalists get in return for this betrayal of their sacred calling? Peanuts.
A few thousand naira.
Or, if lucky, an appointment as Special Adviser on Media, Chief Press Secretary, or Communication Aide titles that come without dignity, stripped of independence, and loaded with the duty to launder bad governance.
Is this what the likes of Ernest Ikoli, Mokwugo Okoye, and Abidina Coomassie fought for?
Is this the reward for the media that once stood against jackboots and decrees?
Is this what Dele Giwa died for?
Is this what democracy promised us?
Today, the poor masses, ignorant, hungry, and deceived are fed with sweetened lies by those whose duty was to inform them. And the politicians? They have mastered the game. They have weaponized poverty not just to silence the people, but to colonize the press.
It is no longer just the masses who are hungry; the media is now hungry too.
A hungry journalist cannot hold power to account.
A compromised newsroom cannot produce revolutionary truth.
A rented voice cannot speak freedom.
What we have now is a chorus of microphones singing to power while the nation drowns.
But not all of us have bowed. Some of us still remember the weight of this calling.
As for me, I have chosen the hard path to speak truth in season and out of season.
Not because I seek attention, money, political favour, or patronage but because I cannot stand and watch Nigeria burn in silence.
Through the lens of journalism, the boldness of poetry, the intensity of film, and the power of satire, I have tried within my means to wake up a sleeping nation and confront the beasts in designer agbadas.
I have produced albums like ‘National Cake’ (1 & 2), ‘Banana Republic’, ‘Epistle to Baba Maigaskiya’, ‘Revelation’, and others, not as entertainment, but as weapons of conscience.
I have written the book ‘The Dilemmas of a Country’ to document the tragedies and contradictions of Nigeria.
I have created and aired several social satires like “Ilu Ariremase”, “Ilu Jogbo”, and more on radio and my TvAfrikana channel.
And in a country where survival itself is a daily miracle for the average broadcast journalist, I summoned personal courage and gathered scarce personal resources to produce a bold, A-class cinema movie titled “The Rubicon” which screened across cinemas nationwide; all in a determined bid to pass a message that must be heard. That, too, was a cry for national awakening.
I have written articles, not to trend, but to trouble consciences.
I have used my voice not to flatter politicians, but to remind them they are accountable.
This is my own little wake-up call.
This is my contribution to the nation of our dreams.
This is me, standing in the gap.
And yes, I know I am not alone; there were, and still a few uncompromised voices in the wilderness of Nigerian journalism. Journalists like Dele Giwa, Chris Anyanwu, Nosa Igiebor, Kunle Ajibade, Fisayo Soyombo, and Chief Tola Adeniyi. Names whose integrity has remained largely untarnished. They remind us that not all pens have price tags, and not all microphones are for hire.
Yet the system mocks us. Society dismisses us. And in the end, what you hear most often is the cynical echo:
“Everyone has a price tag.”
But no, not everyone does.
Some of us still bleed when Nigeria bleeds.
Some of us still believe that journalism is a calling, not a contract.
We are at a crossroads. The nation is choking. And the mic must find its might again.
If journalism dies, democracy won’t just collapse, it will vanish without a sound.
Let this not be our legacy. Let the Nigerian journalist look back and remember who he was before he sold his voice, his pen, and his soul.
