As spokesman to President Goodluck Jonathan, my phones rang
endlessly and became more than personal navigators within the social space.
They defined my entire life; dusk to dawn, all year-round. The phones buzzed
non-stop, my email was permanently active; my twitter account received tons of
messages per second. The worst moments
were those days when there was a Boko Haram attack virtually every Sunday.
The intrusion
into my private life was total as my wife complained about her sleep being
disrupted by phones that never seemed to stop ringing. Besides, whenever I was
not checking or responding to the phones, I was busy online trying to find out
if the APC had said something contrarian or some other fellow was up to any
mischief. A media manager in the 21st century is a slave of the Breaking News,
a slave particularly of the 24-hour news cycle, and a potential nervous
breakdown case. Debo Adesina, my colleague at The Guardian once said I was
running a “one week, one trouble schedule”. There were actually moments when
trouble knocked on the door every hour, and duty required my team and I to
respond to as many issues that came up.
Top of the task
list was the management of phone calls related to the principal. In my first
week on the job, for example, one of my phones ran out of battery and I had
taken the liberty to charge it. While it was still in the off mode, the
“Control Room”: the all-powerful communications centre at the State House tried
to reach me. They had only just that phone number, so I couldn’t be reached.
When eventually they did, the fellow at the other end was livid.
“SA Media, where are you? We have been trying to reach you.
Mr President wants to speak with you”
“Sorry, I was charging my phone. The phone was off.”
“Sir, you can’t switch off your phone now. Mr President must be able to reach you at any
time. You must always be available.” I
was like: “really? Which kin job be dis?”
The Control Room eventually collected all my phone numbers.
If I did not pick up a call on time, they called my wife. Sometimes the calls
came directly from the Residence, as we referred to the President’s official
quarters.
“Abati, Oga dey call you!”
If I still could not be reached, every phone that was ever
connected to me would ring non-stop. Busy bodies who had just picked up the
information that Abati was needed also often took it upon themselves to track
me down. My wife soon got used to her being asked to produce me, or a car
showing up to take me straight to the Residence. I eventually got used to it,
and learnt to remain on duty round-the-clock.
In due course, President Jonathan himself would call directly. My wife
used to joke that each time there was a call from him, even if I was sleeping,
I would spring to my feet and without listening to what he had to say, I would
start with a barrage of “Yes sirs”! Other calls that could not be joked with
were calls from my own office. Something could come up that would require
coverage, or there could be a breaking story, or it could be something as harmless
as office gossip, except that in the corridors of power, nothing is ever
harmless. Looking back now, I still can’t figure out how I survived that
onslaught of the terror of the telephone.
Of equal
significance were the calls from journalists who wanted clarifications on
issues of the moment, or the President’s opinion on every issue. I don’t need
to remind anyone who lived in Nigeria during the period, that we had a
particularly interesting time. The Jonathan government had to deal from the very
first day with a desperate and hyper-negative opposition, which gained help
from a crowd of naysayers who bought into their narrative. I was required to
respond to issues. Bad news sells newspapers and attracts listeners/viewers.
Everything had to be managed. You knew
something had happened as the phones rang, and the text messages, emails,
twitter comments poured in. The media could not be ignored. Interfacing with
every kind of journalist was my main task.
I learnt many lessons, a subject
for another day. And the busy bodies
didn’t make things easy.
If in 1980, the
media manager had to deal with print and broadcast journalists, today, the big
task is the dilemma of the over-democratization of media practice in the age of
information. The question used to be asked in Nigerian media circles: who is a
journalist? Attempts were subsequently made to produce a register of
professionals but that is now clearly an illusion. The media of the 21st
Century is the strongest evidence we have for the triumph of democracy.
Everybody is a journalist now, once you can purchase a phone or a laptop, or an
ipad and you can take pictures, set up a blog, or go on instagram, linked-in,
viber etc.
All kinds of
persons have earned great reputation as editors and opinion influencers on
social media where you don’t have to make sense to attract followers. The new
stars and celebrities are not necessarily the most educated or knowledgeable,
but those who with 140 words or less, or with a picture or a borrowed quote, can produce fast-food type public
intellectualism, or can excite with a little display of the exotic -Kadarshian,
Nicki Minaj style. But I was obligated
to attend to all calls. The ones who didn’t receive an answer complained about
Abati not picking their calls.
My defence was
that most editors in Nigeria have correspondents in the State House. Every
correspondent had access to me. There was no way I could be accused of not
picking calls, and in any case, there were other channels: instagram, twitter direct
message, email, and media assistants who could interface with me. But this was
the main challenge: while in public office, people treat you as if you are at
their mercy, they threaten to sabotage you and get you sacked, every phone call
was a request with a price attached, you get clobbered; you are treated like
you had committed a crime to serve your nation. Relatives and privileged
kinsmen struggled with you to do the job - media management is that one
assignment in which everyone is an expert even if their only claim to relevance
is that they once had an uncle who was a newspaper vendor!
The thinking
that anyone who opts to serve is there to make money in that famous arena for
primitive accumulation partly accounts for this. And that takes me to those
phone calls from persons who solicited for financial help as if there was a
tree at the Villa that produced money. Such people would never believe that
government officials don’t necessarily have access to money. They wanted to be
assisted: to pay school fees, to settle medical bills, to build a house,
purchase a car, complete an uncompleted building, or link them up with the
President. Everybody wanted a part of the national cake and they thought a
phone call was all they needed. If you
offered any explanation, they reminded you that you’d be better off on the
lecture circuit. Businessmen also hovered around the system like bees around
nectar.
But what to do?
“Volenti non fit injuria,” the principle says.
There were also calls from the unkind lot. “I have called you
repeatedly, you did not pick my calls. I hope you know that you will leave
government one day!”. Or those who told
you point blank that they were calling because you were in the position as
their representative and that you owed them a living. Or that other crowd who said, “it is our
brother that has given you that opportunity, you must give us our share.”
The
Presidential election went as it did, and everything changed. Days after, State House became Ghost House. The
Residence, which used to receive visitors as early as 6 am, (regular early
morning devotion attendees) became quiet. The throng of visitors stopped. The
number of phone calls began to drop. By May 29, my phones had stopped ringing
as they used to. They more or less became museum pieces; their silence
reminding me of the four years of my life that proved so momentous. On one
occasion, after a whole day of silence, I had to check if the phones were
damaged! As it were, a cynical public relates to you not as a person, but as
the office you occupy; the moment you leave office, the people move on; erasing
every memory, they throw you into yesterday’s dustbin. Opportunism is the driver of the public’s
relationship with public officials.
Today, the
phones remain loudly silent, with the exception of calls from those friends who
are not gloating, who have been offering words of commendation and support.
They include childhood friends, former colleagues, elderly associates, fans,
and family members. And those who want interviews with President Jonathan, both
local and international - they want his reaction on every development, so many
of them from every part of the planet. But he is resting and he has asked me to
say he is not ready yet to say anything. It is truly, a different moment, and
indeed, “no condition is permanent.” The ones who won’t give up with the stream
of phone calls and text messages are those who keep pestering me with requests
for financial assistance. I am made to understand that there is something
called “special handshake” and that everyone who goes into government is supposed
to exit with carton loads of cash. I am in no position to assist such people,
because no explanation will make sense to them. Here I am, at the crossroads; I
am glad to be here.
No comments:
Post a Comment