GOING DOWN THE MEMORY LANE It all started like a joke, I had nose for news, so they said. 200 level saw me sneaking around, gossiping, catching up on the latest news on campus, eavesdropping on people to hear the hottest gist. Call it a bad habit, whatever, it has brought me this far, made me the person I am today. Thanks to Olamibo Damilola who told me about Writers’ Press Club, though it was hidden then. I joined and started learning. The first month I was still an intending writer, wondering when I would ever write anything. Thanks to a dear friend who messed up at that time, my opportunity to write something came, and I made a big deal out of it. Thus I became a local champion with the pen name BBC……for those who can still remember. Though it was a hidden affair then, we were always hiding under trees and inside dark classrooms to hold our meetings. I remember someone offended Damilola in the club then and she left, then she angrily informed me that she told her mum about it and that she (her mum) told her not to worry, that she would send her to Journalism School after her first degree, thus being the very first time I would hear about Journalism School. Thanks to Adenike Akindele who introduced me to Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA), where it was not only about writing, but also increased my stage skills. Though it was hectic, I loved the stage life, I loved the shuku and patewo hairstyles, I loved the bata dance steps, I loved the beads and traditional costumes, I loved the chants and dirges. My Uncle Justine is a good man. The Saint Kunle I will never forget. Dad came to my school that day after my final exams; I was battling with my term paper. He brought Uncle Justine with him, and oh, my dear Uncle can talk, maybe I got that from him. He drilled me on what I would like to do after my first degree, and I told him I was interested in Journalism. “Oh, that’s good”, he said. I will introduce you to someone who will link you to Nigerian Institute of Journalism at Ogba, you will get the best training there. “What kind of reporter would you like to be?” he asked. I told him I would love to report crime, as I was so obsessed with capital punishment; I so much hated the death penalty and was looking for every way to campaign against it (I still pray that opportunity comes one day). He said fine and gave me his number. “Don’t call me until you are almost done with youth service”, he said. That call and timely encouragements have made me who I am today. Though I changed my mind at the final stage to rather go for Public Relations and Advertsing, instead of Broadcast/Print Journalism that everyone expected, Chief Dayo Duyile, my role model and my Journalism God-father was still understanding and supportive, not minding the fact that I prefer the fast advertising money to the sweaty-hand writing thing. What started as a joke back then (when I used to sneak out at odd times to the WPC’s board to paste or monitor articles, avoiding stones that could come from any angle should they suspect that I was a writer, making friends with enemies just to get facts and gossips from them, spending my allowances on trips just to know what would go down there and of course starving later, and most importantly, avoiding being defaced with excreta, because a pained guy actually did that to our WPC board at a time, I remember we had to borrow The Torch’s board for some time) is now a reality. I am happy. I thought I could do it, and I did. My dear sister Evelyn Atinuke Akinnagbe should be happy. She planted a seed that germinated well. She never knew a JSS3 girl was watching her then when she was a President of the Writer’s Press Club. I hope she will be proud.
Posted on: Thu, 20 Mar 2014 13:07:10 +0000