The first time I saw Uncle Sam, it was on a football field in Enugu. It must have been in the 50s. We warmed to each other without anyone introducing us to each other.
I was a sportscaster in those days, and he was a great enthusiast. So we had that broad platform, sports, for our acquaintanceship to stand on. We met occasionally and when he began to write for Daily Times, the most widely read journal of its day, I followed his column closely.
I liked his capacity for a turn of phrase, especially when he made a word explode to expose a kernel of realty out of the shell of truth. One of such astounding phrases was unforgettable to me: The rich get richer, the poor get cholera. Just think a second about it. That is vintage “Sad Sam.”
It was the pen-name he had adopted for himself. The reading public seemed to have taken it with a pinch of salt. How could a young man with a good job and other bright prospects of life call himself sad? But Sam Amuka, if we could use his real name for once, was not describing what he felt about himself, but his emotions about the injustice, dishonesty, crime, cruelty and all the ugliness of human existence, especially as they affected the victims. And that was about what he wrote—about the poor who not just got poorer but got cholera to boot.
He could never abide the infliction of unkindness or any kind of cruelty on anyone. Generosity came to him as a normal way of life, and the effect could be seen in the way his workers relate to him.
One appreciates the reality of this as one moves closer to him. This began for me after I began to work for him. I had achieved all my set goals in broadcasting. I had received expert training at the BBC, worked for years at the VOA in Washington, headed a radio station an even founded another in Nigeria, got bored and retired. I was not even 50 years old yet, and looked forward to years of delightful indolence ahead.
I started a beer parlour—where I was my own best customer. My only serious diversion was in the NFA (Nigeria Football Association) where I was the Publicity Secretary. It while on tour in Abidjan with the national team that I learnt that Uncle Sam was to start his own newspaper. How sweet, I thought. I had run across him occasionally at the Punch Newspaper where he had become the Editor-in-Chief, or Managing Director.
I was really at the Punch to deliver my weekly sports column, “Inside Sports”, which I took up through the sponsorship, and courtesy, of Ayo Oshitelu, the Sports Editor of beautiful memory, just to keep my hand in, so to say. But I had got bored with Punch and preferred my pastime of absolute laziness.
Then soon upon my return from Abidjan, Uncle Sam came to visit me to invite me to write for his newspaper. And leave this life of tranquil inactivity to face coverages, and interviews, and deadlines, and ….? No way. But he was back at the week-end, ostensibly to enjoy himself at the bar.
Totally at ease, I let him break down my defence by engaging him in a discussion about current events. Before I knew it, I had been spouting about what was wrong, and what was right. And what needed to be done to set things right. He then slipped in the offer of a column, and I had agreed before I could think it all over again. I was in the premises of what was to be known as “Vanguard” newspaper the next Monday, and I have been there ever since, thanks to Uncle Sam.
Perhaps the good company in which I found myself was also partially responsible for my continued stay. Imagine being in the company of Henry Nwanna, Dapo Daramola.
After the first flush of enthusiasm, I had come back to myself and was sure I would soon return to my favourite corner at “Ibi T’o Tutu” —that was the name of my bar—and stay there. But Uncle Sam would not let that happen. First, he began to call me “Uncle Bisi” and everybody took that up to make me comfortable because of the possible embarrassment of the age difference between me and the rest of the staff. He would ride in my car and make his driver follow us in his own whenever we had to go out together. He found everything I did commendable, and identified with all my efforts. So I felt elated and comfortable, and did more and more. At a certain point, it had gone beyond Uncle Sam’s encouragement to my own position in life.
You see, at my retirement, I was still a big noise in certain quarters—General Manager, Radio Lagos. A few months after my retirement, much of that noise had died down. Quietly, and without any noticeable impact, one’s relevance was fading until one bean to feel naked in the village square without anybody looking back. A few more months without Vanguard, all I have valued in my position as a Radio Chief Executive would have evaporated.
My identification with a newspaper house had been no less than auspicious. It had clothed me anew with a sense of being someone to be noticed, someone who was still in the arena or movement of meaningful action—that’s the word, meaning: it added meaning to my existence the way I was used to. I became the Vice-Chairman of the NFA; I was able to attend international sports events like the World Cup, as I used to, I was recalled to life. I closed down “Ibi T’o Tutu”, my beer-hole, and resumed a presentable life. I even started to attend church regularly.
Of course, I was doing more in the newspaper to the delight of Uncle Sam, who told people about how much of a help—help? I was to the paper. I often wondered if he realized how much of a help the paper had been to me, how much of a help he had personal be to my life, but he never showed it. I owe him a re-birth, and I am unabashed to say it. I have never expressed my appreciation to him personally.
He would only have dismissed it, anyway. The last time I saw him, he had practically forced me to go the hospital where he met me and encouraged me to see the doctor. Decades had come and gone. We had become quite advanced in years, and rather close. As usual, I was touched by his obvious concern for my welfare. He repeated some of the old jokes we used to share and got me laughing over my pains and aches. He was very gentle, treating me with the affection of a friend, almost of a girl-friend, even.
I took the opportunity to ask him how he was preparing for his 80th birthday, and he brightly replied that he would be travelling to China. I was not surprised. It is in the character of this gentleman who would almost give his right arm to show his appreciation of others that he would avoid being on the receiving end of other people’s genuine appreciation.
I had to wait till today to wish him all the best one could wish a human being on his 80th birthday. I was afraid the golden showers from all and sundry would put my tawdry effort in the shade. Of course, it has been said that he is everybody’s “Uncle Sam”, which is true enough; some call him a veteran, which is like a sub-title for him; some call him a professional, which he will always remain; I call him my friend, which is all he is to me.
Many happy returns of the day, and thanks, Uncle Sam.
Time out.
– See more at: http://www.vanguardngr.com/2015/06/uncle-sam-and-i/#sthash.p4Seksex.dpuf
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