The call from Media Trust’s Editor-in-Chief inviting me to write a column for this paper felt like a surreal dream.
Or more like daydreaming because Naziru Mikailu’s call came in the daytime when I was on board one of London’s bright red double-decker buses that appeared in the city in the mid-50s and became so iconic as to be synonymous to the city.
Naziru’s call bowled me over entirely.
I was too flabbergasted to speak.
I staggered, dumbfounded and dazzled as the children and their parents in the children’s novel “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” were when they got to the Chocolate Room that produces thousands and thousands of gallons of delicious chocolate per hour.
Yummy, yummy. I never thought my childhood dream would come true on that day in that manner on that 133 bus!
You can, of course, guess my response with more than scientific accuracy. That’s why we are here.
This isn’t just about a newspaper column. It is about the Daily Trust itself, and its integral part in my own story.
Growing up in Gashua – Yobe State, Daily Trust was a key player in my early adulthood, influencing my career and those of my friends in ways we never expected.
The stories, feature articles and visuals were great, but what captivated us was the newspaper’s intellectual nerve centre: the columns. Mahmud Jega got the week rolling; we enjoyed Mohammed Haruna on Wednesday, relished Adamu Adamu on Friday, savoured Bala Muhammad on Saturday and concluded with Garba Deen Muhammad.
Each was unique in their approach, style and brilliance. Their syntax, choice of vocabulary and phraseology were superb.
But most importantly, each column is informative, educative and entertaining. We’d read every line as though it was a revelation.
But I couldn’t afford a paper and we didn’t have the internet.
I borrowed copies from my great friend Habu, who purchased them partly because his brother and my primary six English teacher, Isa Sanusi, worked for the paper.
And we read them late: our copies never arrived on the day of publication.
But reading the columns was just the first step. I digested and debated them with Habu and another close friend, Kafa.
Being a student of English, Kafa was naturally drawn to Bookshelf, a section that features literary works.
We would argue vehemently on who was the best columnist or whose opinion was the strongest.
We’d memorise titles, sentences and even paragraphs to sharpen our arguments. Habu’s star columnist was Garba Deen, but Kafa and I were with Bala Muhammad.
I still remember his column in 2008, when his Kia Cerato car was stolen when he stopped to buy yam on the Abuja-Kano road.
He wrote a piece entitled “Now We Can’t Even Buy Yam”.
The yam was the central character as he emitted his frustration, but his brilliance came through in the humour he reserved for his loss: “My KIA! My Ash-Coloured KIA.
Ash! Remnant of fire. Hellfire. For the armed robbers.
Allah Ya isa! [Allah is enough].” On the incident’s 10th anniversary in 2018, he wrote remembering the vehicle, as though it was a beloved relative snatched by the cool hand of death, a painful reality awaiting each of us.
But the paper’s biggest impact was in its influence on our career trajectories.
In the mid-2000s, the stories I read of mismanagement of resources, bogus projects, the sorry state of education, and so on (you will all know the type), especially relating to my state, kept me awake at night.
As the frustration mounted, I knew I had to speak up, but I was too young and inexperienced to publish in the Daily Trust.
And in any case, most of those I wanted to reach couldn’t read the paper because they weren’t educated.
So, I invented my scheme. I’d write short reactive pieces in the Hausa language and print one copy from a business centre.
I’d then photocopy dozens and distribute them in Gashu’a. my friends like Tukur and Braji would help me in handing them out.
As time went by, volunteers started making more copies, and the pieces started getting further afield, to Nguru, Potiskum and Damaturu.
And then – of course – threats of arrest and detention started to be made, mostly by politicians and their cronies.
As the intimidation increased, and the threats’ fulfilment became more likely, I had to plan.
I told myself one day that if I was to be jailed, it would be because of a legal complaint, and I would need a lawyer to represent me.
The best thing to do, therefore, was to become a lawyer myself so that I could mount my own defence.
That was how I revived another childhood dream and went to Bayero University to study law.
And the rest, as they say, is now history. Kafa studied mass communications, and Habu read history.
There were, of course, other influences including the Hausa services of the BBC, VOA and DW, which we avidly listened to on our cheap Kchibo transistors and digested, but that’s a different topic for another day.
In my decade-long sojourn in Kano, I finally met my hero, Bala Muhammad.
One day I told him about my dream of becoming a columnist like him. He encouraged, supported and mentored me.
He even occasionally indulged me to write in his place on the back page of Daily Trust on Saturday.
And then Naziru’s call came. In light of that history, I had to see it as a call to duty: a solemn opportunity to fulfil a childhood dream, contribute to national dialogue and to shaping the next generation by my humble offerings on political violence, human rights and social issues in Nigeria and across sub-Saharan Africa.
My choice of “Straight from the Shoulder” for the name of the column was deliberate.
In the spirit of Mallam Sa’adu Zungur’s line in his popular Hausa poem, Arewa Jamhuriya ko Mulukiya, “Gaskiya ba ta neman ado” (the truth doesn’t need any adornment), I shan’t mix truth with falsehood or conceal the truth for fear or favour, ill will or affection.
No kolo-kolo. I shall be frank and even blunt when the occasion demands.
I ask you to join me in praying to the Almighty to help and guide me.
