By Tunde Odesola
The life of Nagudu paints, in vivid colours of fire, the state of Nigerian journalism. Who is Nagudu, by the way? Nagudu is the black-bellied, fire-eating iron cauldron that cleans up after others. Nagudu sits in the fire, taking the heat so others may have food to eat. He swallows flame, exhales smoke and still smiles through soot and scorch. Nagudu, thick and strong, never complains. To take care of others’ business is Nagudu’s job and cross, and he carries both twins with equanimity.
When the Elephant dies, Nagudu devours its beef. When the Buffalo dies, Nagudu digests its meat. But when Nagudu dies, there is no one to cook or eat Nagudu, such is life: Erin ku, nagudu fije, efon ku nagudu fije, nagudu wa ku, ko ri eni ti o je ohun, yò yò lenu aráyé, apologies to Juju music legend, Chief Commander Ebenezer Remilekun Aremu Olasupo Obey-Fabiyi.
Nagudu is a word the Yoruba borrowed from the Hausa language. Yoruba’s own word for Nagudu is ‘isasun’ or ‘ikoko obe’, which means cooking pot. But Nagudu has come to stay on the Yoruba tripod-hearth called arò, that trinity of stones that cradle the pot and the flame.
If you savour bitter leaf without knowing its mythic ancestry, you’re committing a crime undeserving of President Bola Tinubu’s pardon. But because I don’t want you to rot in jail while drug convicts, murderers, illegal miners and fraudsters get presidential kisses, I’ll travel to the beginning of time and bring you the origin of bitter leaf as told by world-acclaimed Ifa scholar and Araba of Osogbo, Ifayemi Elebuibon.
In a short telephone interview, Elebuibon discloses to me the origin of the bitter leaf, known to the Yoruba as Ewúro, recalling its evolution as contained in the Ifa corpus. “The verse is called Oríko Òtúrá: òtúrá lótun, ògbè losì,” Elebuibon begins in Yoruba, adding, “Once upon a time, there was a seed called Ewúro. Ewúro wanted to go on a journey of transfiguration. Ewúro wanted to transfigure into a vegetable. So, it went to a renowned babalawo known as Èso Sùsù to foreknow the outcome of its impending journey. Èso Sùsù told Ewúro to offer a sacrifice called Ebo Iwaju as fortification for the rough journey ahead, saying the lessons of the sacrifice are patience and perseverance.
“As directed, Ewúro offered the first sacrifice, but the leaves of the vegetable it turned into were inedibly bitter; people ate and spat it out. Sad and disappointed, Ewúro went to another babalawo named Adùndéhìn, who consulted Ifa and told it what to do. Adùndéhìn said, ‘The sacrifice you are going to offer is called Ebo Eyin, the harbinger of accomplishment. Add honey to the sacrifice and all shall be well.’”
Ewúro did as commanded. It sprouted and was ready for harvest. People cooked and ate it. This time, Ewúro’s patience and perseverance, which symbolise a foretaste of bitterness, had paid off, giving way to a sweetening aftertaste epitomised by honey.
The bitter-sweet myth of Ewúro summarises the peaks and valleys of the newsroom. Journalism in itself is precarious, but the newsroom is a slippery terrain bursting with landmines. It’s not an exaggeration to call the newsroom a mental home. I borrowed the Nagudu myth from Ebenezer Obey and the Ewúro myth from Elebuibon just to capture the endangerment of journalism and journalists. Even in Western democracies, the art and the artists of journalism often come under vicious attacks.
According to the Freedom of the Press Foundation and the U.S. Press Freedom Tracker, over 90 cases of assaults on journalists have been recorded in the US by August 2025, a statistic that shows one of the worst years on record. Also, during a protest in Los Angeles on June 7, 2025, a photojournalist, Nick Stern, was seriously injured when he was struck by a flash-bang explosive device fired by law enforcement while covering a protest against immigration enforcement, despite wearing press credentials.
A story headlined, “Northern Ireland journalists face attacks and death threats, says Amnesty report,” published on June 3, 2025, by The Guardian, U.S. edition, says, “Journalists in Northern Ireland routinely face attacks and death threats from paramilitary and organised crime groups that act with impunity. Reporters have been physically assaulted and told they will be shot, stabbed, raped or blown up, making Northern Ireland the most dangerous place in the UK for journalism. It (the report) documented more than 70 attacks and threats since 2019 but found there were no prosecutions for threats from paramilitary groups, the most significant source of intimidation.”
In August 2025, the Canadian Association of Journalists claimed that some journalists were assaulted in Montreal by the police while on assignment and despite wearing clearly visible press credentials. In July 2024, Wall Street Journal reporter, Evan Gershkovich, a U.S. citizen, was sentenced to 16 years in Russia, marking a significant escalation of the Kremlin’s weaponisation of the law to gag the press.
As a result of the precarious nature of journalism, the lives of journalists have ostensibly become atonement for democracy, equity and social justice globally. Therefore, I ask, “Is it not apposite to celebrate a handsome man, who rose from rookie ranks, combing the tarred and dusty Lagos roads on foot, to become, firstly, the editor of Nigeria’s biggest and liveliest newspaper, emerging later as the newspaper’s managing director and editor-in-chief, arming himself with numerous professional qualifications, certificates and a law degree, along the way.
Ladies and gentlemen, permit me to humbly introduce to you, from my personal observatory, the Iroko of Nigerian journalism, Sir Ademola Osinubi, whom I’m about to unveil on the canvas of personal perception, using the honest colours of imagination.
Who is Ademola Osinubi, and why is he worthy of celebration? Osinubi is the immediate past managing director and editor-in-chief of PUNCH titles. His middle name could be Ajala, the mythical moulder of destinies, for Osinubi moulded many heads during his 27 years at the helm, stoking some heads in fire for refinement, parching some, and yanking some off altogether.
To many lazy, dishonest, shabby and sloppy staff members, Osinubi was the bitter foretaste of the Ewúro. To many hard-working, punctual, creative, smart and conscientious staff, Osinubi represented the sweet aftertaste of the Ewúro. Osinubi is not a god. He’s a mortal, with his own foibles, among which include zero tolerance for arrogance and extravagance, two inalienable personal rights, which colour Osinubi’s perception of his staff. As a manager of men, women and resources, Osinubi is also highly judgmental. Whether this is right or wrong depends on which end of the stick you hold – the managerial end or the staff end. A managing director, who oversees the most successful and self-sustaining news media in Nigeria, is bound to judge his staff, just as the staff may cry foul and raise the flag of personal boundary encroachment.
Going by his years and experience, Baba Loke (that was the name I secretly gave him when I worked under him) belongs to the Old School, a synonym for people who hardly unmake their minds once they make them up. Baba Loke means Father Above, a name depicting the location of the former MD’s office, which was a couple of storeys above the newsroom, where I worked. It also depicted the MD as a steadfast god who rewarded and rebuked.
In my decades-long period of working with The PUNCH, I, luckily and thankfully, never had a brush with Baba Loke, who is now Baba 70, though I had a couple of personal experiences with him. When I got promoted as news and politics editor, Saturday PUNCH in 2013, I packed my baggage after working for 10 years in Osogbo, Osun State, and headed to the headquarters to assume duty.
Not one to fawn before powers temporal or spiritual, I resumed at the headquarters and hit the ground running. Over a week after my resumption, a female boss called me aside and asked if I had gone to thank the MD. “Thank the MD? Is that necessary?” I asked. “Ha, it is necessary o. Very, very necessary ni pàá pàá,” the female staffer said. “Kilo n so yi ke, Tunde,” she added.
Though I detest bureaucracy, I thanked the lady and reluctantly headed for the lift. The lift trip felt like a shuttle into forever. When the lift doors finally opened, my breathing increased. “This is why I hate the head office o,” I complained inwardly to myself. I knocked on the door, and a female voice urged me to come in. I cracked the door open and put my head through the opening. The secretary looked up, and I introduced myself, “My name is Tunde Odesola. I want to see the MD.” “Is he expecting you?” “No.” “Wait.” “Thank you.”
She dialled the intercom on her desk and announced my presence to the MD, who told her to allow me in. I wasn’t afraid, but I just didn’t fancy the idea of barging into people’s offices, more so, the office of the almighty MD. I opened the door and the most fit-for-purpose office stared back at me, dripping in taste and class.
“Good afternoon, sir,” I said. “Tunde, good afternoon, bawo ni? Family e nko?” the MD said with a smile. “I have come to thank you for my promotion, sir.” No, Tunde, you don’t need to thank me; you merited it. If you do not, you won’t be promoted. You just continue to do your work,” he said. “Thank you, sir,” I mumbled. “Are you moving your family to Lagos or are you leaving them behind in Osogbo?” he asked. “I’m leaving them behind in Osogbo because I don’t want to disrupt the schooling of the children, sir.” “Ok, that means you must not be far from your family,” he counselled. I prostrated and left.
Back in the newsroom, I sat down at my desk and relived the scenario I just witnessed upstairs. “Was that the MD I just spoke with?” I asked myself. Was he the one so warm? Where is the rumoured unpleasantness? During my short time in his office, my eyes did not leave his eyes, and I saw behind the mahogany desk, a man on whose shoulders lay the success or failure of The PUNCH newspapers. I saw a man of many parts, whose heart beats as a journalist, an accountant, a lawyer, a competitor, a haggler, an administrator, a family head, a mentor, a leader, an instructor, an entrepreneur and a winner. His eyes were shrewd but sincere.
One afternoon, the Admin Manager, Mrs Folake Gbemutor, breezed into the newsroom with alacrity, saying, “Oga, Tunde. The MD sent me to you.” My colleague, Segun Olugbile, was on leave, and I was doubling up for him as news editor, The PUNCH. “What does the MD want o,” I said jocularly. Gbemutor didn’t answer my question, but she asked another, “Do you know Mr Ben Bayo Oyemade?” “Yes, I do,” I said, “Ehn-ehn! Mr Oyemade is dead. He worked in The PUNCH for many years. The MD wants you to help write about him because Lizzy said you know him. Someone here in the newsroom has written a tribute about him, but the MD doesn’t like the write-up. He says the write-up doesn’t reflect Mr Oyemade enough.” I told Gbemutor to drop the piece of paper containing a brief on Mr Oyemade’s life. Mrs Elizabeth Diolulu was the Head, Pre-Press Unit.
“Drop ke? The MD wants it now, now ni,” Gbemutor said. “I can’t do it now, now o because the job I’m doing presently is also the MD’s job and I don’t want to get a query for missing the deadline,” I told Gbemutor. I don’t know how Gbemutor and I became so chummy; she was such a sport. She breathed down hard, feigning exasperation, “Ok, Oga Tunde. When do I come back to collect it o?” “I’ll start work on it when I finish planning these pages,” I said. And Gbemutor left.
To be continued.
Email: tundeodes2003@yahoo.com
Facebook: @Tunde Odesola
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