It is today, exactly a year ago that the government of one of the politicians I have for long, admired and respected, kicked me out of the Presidential Villa in Abuja where I had covered for different media organizations, including mine, for years.
I had, as usual arrived in the Villa around noon that day, but was stopped at the fourth entrance gate by plain clothed security agents. They requested to see my tag (identity card that allowed me into the inner side of the structure).
When they checked the list they were holding, they did not find my name there, and therefore, took hold of the tag and asked me to leave the premises. I was not the only one that was so treated with some form of indignity anyway. Since then, a year after, I and my colleagues who were so walked out of the Villa, have remained outside. And we haven’t been told the reason (s) for such action. (I for one, was not frequently going to the Presidency before then, for reason that I had other places and appointments to attend to.
And a year after, I am forced to have an introspection about what looks like an irony of the happenings around me time immemorial.
Three things that looked alike had happened to me as I was growing up that make me to think about what really I was destined for. The bottom line is that the ones I respect and admire most are the ones that always touched me negatively, and even dangerously.
When I was growing up, I involuntarily admired one of the three brave and accomplished soldiers. They were late General Mohammed Ramat Murtala, late General Mohammed Shuwa, General Yakubu Gowon and General Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida. The one I admired, respected and loved most was General Babangida, but it was his governmebt that came down so hard on me, to the extent of making me to shake hand with death (surviving it by whiskers, and the Will of Allah). Though I didn’t die but the sufferings I went through for nearly two years from 1987 were unbelievable.
On a smaller note was a friend and colleague of mine who was appointed to head the medium I was working in. As a matter of fact, long before his appointment, I had admired and respected him because of the fact that he looked promising on the job. One of the reasons for admiring and respecting him was he had good command of both written and spoken English language. But when he arrived in the newsroom and I joyfully welcomed him, telling him “you can count on my unalloyed support,” his response was sarcastic and quarrelsome, saying: “of course, you have no choice (than to support me).” He said other things that put me offguard.
He went on, few days later, to try to shuffle me around some editorial positions that was suggestive of punishment over offence I never committed. Indeed, his pressure and haughtiness eventually led me to resign my appointment and moved on to the next level.
And now, this Tinubu scenario. In fact, Tinubu was one of the few politicians I so much admired, respected and loved. Others are late Shehu Musa Yar’Adua, Umaru Yar’Adua, late Olusola Saraki and late Chief Ogbonnaya Onu for different reasons.
I admired, respected and loved Tinubu because of his fight with the military for democracy, the fight that saw him going into self exile. I have always seen Tinubu as a personification of democracy, the rule of law, and above all, the friend of journalists.
It therefore surprised me, and I’m yet to get out of the shock, that I was the one that eventually fell into the first set of journalists, who so much admired, respected and loved him, to be treated as if I was a criminal or as if I openly or secretly constituted any kind of danger to his presidency.
Like I pontificated earlier, the question that is still ringing in my head is: why is it that the ones I admire, respect and love are the ones that always climb my head and want to do away with me when they get to the top?
