Chief Kola Animashaun, 73, a columnist and former chairman of the Editorial Board of Vanguard, shares his experiences with ADEOLA BALOGUN
How do you feel at 73 as a Nigerian?
I won’t say I am very happy. But as a Muslim, I want to ensure that I end well. Of course, I am retired. Still, I am trying to do as much as I can to struggle in the cause of Allah.
What were your dreams and aspirations as a youth?
I wanted to rise to the top in any profession that I chose. I didn’t set out to be a journalist. I wanted something totally different. My father was a patent medicine seller, but I thought I could be better by becoming a certified pharmacist. That was the extent of my aspiration. On some occasions I wanted to be a lawyer. In fact, I was about to study law when my mother stopped me. She wanted me to return to Nigeria, which was what I did after qualifying as a journalist. After I obtained a diploma, I wanted to pursue a Bachelor’s degree in law in London and come back here to attend the Law School.
Did you stumble on journalism?
I did not stumble on journalism; I intentionally started a career in journalism. I read a lot of journals and after meeting people like Alade Odunewu and Uncle Sam, I decided to join them. When I left school, I looked at the back of a newspaper, known in those days as The Truth, and found the address of the publishers in Idumagbo. I went to the office and met Naseem Saivi, a missionary of the Ahmadiyyah Movement. I told him I wanted to be a journalist. He asked if I had practised as a journalist before. When I said no, he said they would teach me. I got a job in the newspaper as a reporter with additional responsibility. Then, you would do sub-editing, proofreading and all of that. I practised it for a few months, but no money came in and I told myself that I couldn’t continue like that. I quit and went to UAC to take a test for employment. I passed the test. The result came by mail and I was assigned to work in the photographic section. But it was for a brief period. When my school results came, I had to move on. I told Saivi, my former editor, that I wanted a job. Before then, I had informed him about the results. I told him that I passed and he was happy for me. He asked why I failed to tell him that I would leave. I told him that I could not continue working with him without a salary. He understood, but advised me to go back to the media. So, he asked me to go and see Alade Odunewu’s elder brother, Bolaji. He said to me, ‘Tell him that I instructed you to sit on his shoulders until he found you a job.’ The plan was that I would get a job in the Federal Ministry of Information and win a scholarship to study journalism at the Regent Polytechnic in London. Bolaji was a deputy director in the ministry at the time. But he told me that government had stopped recruiting freshers into the ministry. He advised me to go and break into the media for me to have the opportunity. So, I went back to Saivi to tell him that they would not employ me and he said I should not worry. He sent me to Mr. Bisi Onabanjo, who was then the Editorial Director of the Daily Express. When I met him, he asked me what I had done in terms of reporting and I told him of what I did in The Truth and the few reviews in The Express. He told me to come back. Later, he asked me to be taken to the sub desk. That was in July 1961. That was how I started journalism. I worked for a month before I finally left Nigeria for the United Kingdom on Aug. 25, 1961. I travelled by sea on the MV Takwa, a cargo passenger liner. It was a memorable journey. We were seen off at the Apapa Wharf, as was the custom, by my friends and relatives. It was like a festive occasion. My parents had travelled all the way from Northern Nigeria where they lived. I travelled second class, which says a lot about the status of my mother who sponsored me. We arrived in Liverpool after 17 days at sea. We stopped in Freetown for about five days after which we crossed the Atlantic and moved straight to England. We moved to London by train from Liverpool.
What exactly did you plan to study?
I preferred pharmacy. But due to my weakness in chemistry, a friend of mine who already lived in the UK advised me to do what I believed would be easier for me. I chose journalism. I arrived at a time when admission had been closed at Regent Street Polytechnic. I tried to study at the Institute of Journalism, but I was not admitted. To keep myself busy, I proceeded to the London Institute of World Affairs at the University of London to do a diploma in international affairs. I was admitted for a two-year course. My Nigerian classmates were Vivian Fowler, who at the same time was studying law; one Mabinuori, and Jimi Johnson who later worked in the Federal Ministry of Trade and served as an attaché for trade in the High Commission in London. As fate would have it, an incident aborted my effort at the end of the first year. But before my training at Regent, I had already embarked on a correspondence course in journalism with the London School of Journalism and I had gone far before I left Nigeria. I finished my diploma before I went to Regent.
When you returned to Nigeria, where did you work?
I didn’t come back directly. In fact, I was not in a hurry to return to Nigeria. I wanted to see the world, particularly Africa. I had met with Cecil Dennis, an elderly Americo-Liberian and the publisher of the Liberian Listener. He asked me for an interview at the Excelsior Hotel in London. He wanted me to work with him on his newspaper in Monrovia. He was buying a printing machine from R.T. Briscoe in Lagos. Of course, I jumped at the offer. He paid the fare and I found myself in Monrovia in October 1963. At that time, Monrovia was a stratified society with Americo-Liberians living in opulence and the indigenous Liberians living like slaves.. You may not be very proud of what Nigeria has become but in those days, it was a place to be proud of. No policeman carried guns everywhere. But in Monrovia, everybody carried guns. I never thought that was possible. Until that time, I had not visited America. Policemen on duty were armed with only batons. That put me off. I discovered that you could not speak your mind in Monrovia then, especially if you were a foreigner. The ruling class in Liberia had perfected the phenomenon of the Big Brother who watched over everybody. Any foreigner used to freedom and free speech was soon caught. Coming from a different background, I could not hold my tongue from what I had seen and I blurted out my indignation. Apart from paying for my fare and accommodation, Dennis left me with nothing. I left England with nothing because I was going to earn my upkeep in Monrovia. It was obvious that I could not cope with the lack of freedom and I was becoming apprehensive for my safety. So, I decided to return to Nigeria. Before I left London, I had an appointment for an interview which I jettisoned. When I got to Nigeria, I could not immediately arrange the interview, so I went back to Tribune. It was in the turbulent times of political upheaval in the Western Region. Tribune was the political paper to beat and the political travail ensured that we did not get much business. Yet, we sold many copies. The beneficiaries were vendors who sold a copy for as much as 10 shillings, which is the equivalent of today’s N1000 or more. The Tribune in those hard times could not pay salaries. I worked there as the production news editor. Then Atanda Eniola was the editor; the last time we heard of him, he was a professor of journalism. We had people like Ojewunmi, who later became a commissioner in the old Western Region and Peter Ajayi. Advertisement was not coming and so there was no way to pay us adequately. For one-and-a-half years that I worked there, I earned £63. In March, 1964, I earned £6 and I spent everything on Awolowo’s birthday at the Palm Tree Club in Oke Bola. The Sketch was coming up and everybody scrambled to get a piece of the action. The management of the paper invited me for an interview, I went there, but they didn’t like me. Because I was in charge of writing editorials, they asked me what I wrote particularly about Yoruba Ronu. Of course, I told them the truth. They didn’t like it and they didn’t show it. They didn’t give me the job. When I told my in-law, Abdulazeez Ajimobi that they didn’t give me the job because they said I was an Action Group man, he was furious and probably fought them, the letter of appointment as a reporter came. Then he was the parliamentary secretary to Chief A.O. Adeyi, the Minister of Works in those days. It was not the best of time for those who worked for the Sketch then. Not many wanted anything to do with its reporters. Those who were not hostile to us were indifferent. Those who needed the services of the media ignored us and went to look for our colleagues in other newspapers. I recall an occasion when we had to bulldoze our way into a conference, we were treated as lepers. Vehicles of the Sketch were stoned on a number of occasions.
What beat did you cover for the Sketch?
My beat was the Supreme Court. By-lines were not as easy to get as of today where reporters are credited with what they did not originate. Today, reporters sit in the office and get by-lines merely by rewriting a press release dropped in the office. In my time, some of the stories were reduced to briefs and you were even glad they saw the daylight. I returned to the sub-desk of the old Daily Express when I left Sketch. I left Express for England on a salary of £42. Still, the same financial problem kept reocurring. Eventually, I opted out and joined the civil service. I was employed by the Ministry of Information after an interview panel comprising Sir Samuel Manuwa and Sule Katagum. Sir Samuel asked me why I wanted to work with the civil service instead of the private sector, which had a better pay. I told him that I wanted security of tenure. I was employed as an information officer on a salary of £56 per annum. I began to look for another job the next day because of lack of challenges. You were lucky if you wrote a release a day or a feature for months. Although I didn’t like the job, I was stuck with it and remained there for 13 years before I finally pulled out. I worked with the National Provident Fund as public relations officer. You had to be inventive not to lose your mind in the civil service then. Some creative minds took to writing books, novels and short plays. I am referring to the likes of Cyprian Ekwensi, A.G.S. Momodu, Fela Davies, Demola James and others. People like us kept columns in newspapers, designed advert material engaged in public relations and advertising mostly to break boredom. The demands of the Civil War moved me to the Nigeria Broadcasting Commission, where I was part of a group writing news talks specifically directed to the rebel enclave from the ministry.
What was it like working in the Ministry of Information and what were your duties?
I was not reporting, but I was part of the observer group that went to the war front. I was very conversant with the 3rd Marine Commando. Observers came from all over the world, including the military and journalists. I was always on hand to follow them. We would see soldiers in their trenches. I conducted journalists round. It’s not that the task was not dangerous because we met people who were being killed or maimed. I saw death in Owerri. I was in Ikot Ekpene where Godwin Alabi-Isama was in charge. I was also in Oron where I could not eat what was available and at Calabar where war-horse, Col. Ayo Ariyo, led his men in battle. After the war, I was posted to Enugu to open an information centre for the Ministry of Information in 1970 to cater for the East-Central State. But I initially turned down the offer.
Why did you turn it down?
During the war, there were opportunities for other assignments. When I was picked to go to the war front, others were sent to Ghana to cover cultural assignments and to Fernado Po to work in the embassy. The practice then was that the most senior Muslim officer was usually assigned to cover Hajj every year. But when it came to my turn, Abubakar Rimi, who was my junior, was chosen to go in my place. Ahmed Joda, our permanent secretary, was responsible for that and he believed he did nothing wrong. When the Fernando Po position became open, I spoke to the then director Scott Emmakpor, who I thought was my friend, but he turned the table against me. So when I refused the Enugu posting, the director resorted to subterfuge of the civil service rather than ask why I refused to go. But for service rules, he would have had me dismissed. When he did not succeed, he made sure that my salary was not paid for some months. Thanks to the intervention of another permanent secretary, Alhaji Tatari Ali, who listened to my case. But first he told me that as a civil servant, I should not refuse posting. I told him that going to Enugu was the least of my worries, but the injustice behind it. If I was good for the war front, I should be good for assignments abroad. He was sympathetic and promised me that as long as he was the permanent secretary, anything due to me would be given to me wherever I might be in the service. True to his words, I was posted to the Nigerian Embassy in Stockholm, Sweden, to man the information desk in 1972. I was accredited to Norway, Denmark and Finland concurrently. I kept my press link and whatever my ambassador did was sent to my editor friends back home and the materials were published.
During your stint with the Tribune, were you instructed to always sing the praise of its founder and leader of the Action Group, Chief Obafemi Awolowo?
We were not told to do anything. In fact, we reported what we saw. Of course, out of sympathy, one could write to suit the party but we rarely did because we could see what was happening. It was obvious. I never knew of any deliberate design to do something for or against them.
Did you decide to write columns after leaving the civil service?
I had always written columns. If I can remember well, the earliest ones that I wrote were published in the Herald newspaper for my friend, the late Peter Ajayi. Then I was writing from Scandinavia and covering Sweden, Norway and Finland. The next one I wrote was for my friend, Ben Lawrence, who was then the editor of the Evening Times. The piece was titled, ‘Take it or leave it’. I wrote others before I came to Vanguard and I didn’t deliberately step out to write the column for the Vanguard.
So how did it happen?
Because of the way I write, a young man named Chris Okogie said he liked what I wrote and asked whether I could write for the paper. I asked whether I would be paid and he said yes. I wrote the first article and he loved it and encouraged me to write again. After that, Uncle Sam himself called me and said, ‘Kola, you write very well.’ He said he liked what I wrote and asked me to write two times a week and I said no, that my job as a sub editor would suffer. Then, I had applied as a chief sub editor with the Vanguard. I was emphatic about my job as a sub. That is how I started writing a column for Vanguard. Of course, they didn’t pay me for it until I left the sub desk and became the editorial chairman.
Did you retire from the civil service before that time?
By the time I got to the Vanguard, I had already left the civil service, not on retirement though. The rule was that one must be in active service for a stipulated period of time before one could draw pension. The stipulations for retirement then were the mandatory 60 years or 45 years of age and I was neither. What I gained was my gratuity.
Why did you quit the service?
When I came back from my posting abroad, they gave me a very big position and I found that I could work only for a few hours a week. I couldn’t see myself idling away and I decided to call it quits.
How did you come to work for the Vanguard?
A friend of mine talked me into it after an attempt to return to the Sketch failed. My friend, Peter Ajayi, was the editor at the time. I told him that I wanted to come to Ibadan and work for him, but it did not work out that way. I took it for granted that being my friend, I would get the job but I was wrong. When some editorial positions were advertised, I applied as a matter of routine. To my surprise, I was invited to do a test. Not a few of our friends were surprised when they heard that I failed the test. But it was a blessing in disguise. Meanwhile, I had taken an application to Uncle Sam with the letter of introduction from Alhaji Layi Mabinuori procured for me by my late friend, Olu Adekoya. When I met Uncle Sam, it was as if he had known me for many years. Since he did not know me before, he said I should write something to prove to him that I could write. I did write for him. In fact, I caricatured him in one of my writings. When I went to see him again, he passed me to his editor, Muyiwa Adetiba, and the deputy, Toye Akiyode, both of whom were younger to me in age and in practice. Neither of them did anything to my application and scripts, which Uncle Sam passed to them and the old man asked that I should be taken to the sub-desk, though my appointment letter read senior features writer. The chairman asked me to produce the paper when Adetiba lost his dad and he seemed to like what I did. By then, I had been made an assistant editor. Uncle Sam did not like my judgement when I published a picture of the burial on the front page to honour the editor and warned that even if his own mother died, we should not publish it on the front page of the paper. Apart from that, he commended me for the job. I was offered the job of the editor of the Vanguard two times and I declined it. I was satisfied with my column and my joy knew no bounds when Uncle Sam appointed me the chairman of the editorial board. I have since handed the column to my daughter.
Did you get married as a civil servant or journalist?
I got married as a journalist. Only a few women would endure what my wife suffered in those days. As journalist, I worked at odd hours, absent at crucial times, and so on. She is one in a million.
A Muslim is allowed to marry more than one wife. Why did you stick to one?
I married one wife because I enjoy being married to her.