Adamu Ciroma: My boss, my mentor

Death cheated me. It denied me the chance to see Mallam Adamu Ciroma, my boss and my mentor, in the last days of his battle with the grim reaper. I visited a close friend of mine in Abuja July 5. As I was about taking my leave, he said he too was going out to see Mallam Adamu because he was not feeling well. I had no idea how serious his health challenge was. I informed my friend with whom I am staying in Abuja about this. We then decided to visit him the next day, July 6, after lunch. 

We were getting ready to leave for his house when we received the shocking news of his passing on. My mind went numb. I felt frozen. I sleep-walked into my room. And the tears flowed. 

I had looked forward to seeing him and reminding him that July 6 this year, the day this piece was written, marked my milestone of 51 years in journalism. All thanks to him. Mallam Adamu, the first editor of the New Nigerian and the man who built the newspaper into the prestigious medium of dependable public record it was, recruited me as a staff writer on the newspaper on July 6, 1967. He had accepted my daring challenge to make me a journalist. As the first shots in the Nigerian civil war were fired at Gakem, Cross River State, I stepped into the strange world of journalism, looking vaguely odd among the sub-editors and the raucous bunch of reporters in the newsroom. 

Mallam Adamu immediately took me under his wings. I came to the newspaper with no training or experience in the profession. I knew nary to nothing about journalism, having never even been to a newspaper house. I came, burdened with no discernible writing skill. My writing skill, such as it was, consisted of long and complex sentences that appeared to have a mind to go round the newspaper building. I had no sense of humour. Or wit. Or satire. At least, I did not understand them as essential writing tools. But I wanted to become a writer.

Mallam Adamu took on that challenge and invested his time in coaching and mentoring me. He began, first, by trimming my interminable sentences. Under him, I learnt the virtues of the short sentence. He taught me to say more in a short space rather than less in more space. He impressed on me the critical discipline of self-editing. He was his own greatest editor. His editorials and the Candido column, which I usually typed for him, under went two or three revisions before he felt satisfied enough to let them go. He taught me the discipline of not wasting words or putting wrong words in the right places. 

I once thoughtlessly offended him on that last point. I once wrote a five-page feature for him. He called me in, beamed somewhat and I said, “this is very good.” He then flipped to page three or so where he had underlined one word. He said, “What is this word doing here?”

The proper word that I should have used popped into my head. Too late. He tore the piece into two and dropped them in his waste paper basket. “Next time, put the proper word in its proper place. Go and re-write it,” said.

 He was always concerned about not making the newspaper look stupid. Facts must check out in news and the editorials. His patience with me once snapped over my editorial draft. Primary school teachers in Igala Native Authority went on strike to press for regular pay. The editorial board decided to take issues with the NA in support of the teachers. Mallam Adamu briefed me and asked me to draft the editorial. My first sentence was: “Thousands of teachers in Igala Native….” Sacrilegious.

The editor came to the door and called me into his office. It was the first time he was angry with me. He asked me if I knew Igala NA. I said no. He asked me if I knew how many teachers were employed by it. I said no. At that point, I think he knew he still had a lot of work to do to make me a good journalist and a writer. He bottled his anger. He forgave me but he underlined this important point: “Never write anything that would make this newspaper look stupid.” I took the advice. Exaggeration is the enemy of good journalism.

The important point I would want to make in this short tribute to the man who made me what I became later in the profession, is that Mallam Adamu had a unique mentoring system. He threw challenges at me and guided me. Barely three months or so after I assumed duty, he made me draft editorials and contribute to the Candido column. The prestige and the fame of the New Nigerian rested on its editorials – always fair, always strong, and you always knew where it stood on issues. No beating about the bush. In my first editorial draft for him, one word survived as his black biro walked through it. I fared somewhat better in my second attempt. One sentence survived. I was on a roll.

Perhaps, the greatest challenge the editor threw at me in my early months on the newspaper was to assign me to interview the six military governors of the northern states: CP Audu Bako (Kano); ACP Joseph Gomwalk (Benue-Plateau); Major Abba Kyari (North-Central); Major Musa Usman (North-Est) Major David Bamigboye (Kwara) and Superintendent of Police, Usman Faruk (North-West). 

The editorial adviser, Dai Hayward, had told me that he and I would conduct the interviews. But after our interview with the military governor of Benue-Plateau State, ACP J.D. Gomwalk, the first in the series, I was told to conduct the remaining five interviews alone. Mallam Adamu knew I did not have the experience. But he knew that experience comes with doing and learning. He wanted me to learn by doing. I did and I learnt. 

I decided last year to compile and publish those interviews in a book, The Six Military Governors.  Reminisces of a reporter, as an eloquent testimony to his mentoring. The book is now in print. I had looked forward to presenting him with copies along copies of my other books. In 2011, I published a book, The Columnists Companion. The art and craft of column writing, that I dedicated it to this wonderful man, a mentor like no other.

Mallam Adamu was a kind, patient and understanding man. I was truly lucky to have had him as my mentor. I owe whatever I have made of my journalism career to the patient man who accepted the challenge of making me a journalist. And did. His lessons have remained with me all these years. No, take that back. I have passed his lessons onto younger men and women in the newspapers, including the New Nigerian, that I edited. I made mistakes but he never threw me under the moving vehicle. He protected me. 

When I became editor of the New Nigerian in July 1982, the first former reporter of the paper to occupy his former seat in the cramped but powerful office, Mallam Adamu phoned to congratulate me. He reminded me that the prestige and the reputation of the newspaper were now in my hands. I promised him I would do nothing to impugn them. I always feel that the great man was looking over my shoulders. My entire journalism and writing career is a tribute to him.

Well, as the Hausa say, kwana ya kare. Sadly so. Mallam Adamu’s allotted time on earth ended on July 5, 2018. And he had to answer the call that no mortal has the right to reject. May Allah grant him peace and eternal rest.