By Onuminya Innocent The news of Dan Agbese’s passing spread through Lagos’s bustling newsrooms like a sudden hush, a collectiv...
By Onuminya Innocent
The news of Dan Agbese’s passing spread through Lagos’s bustling newsrooms like a sudden hush, a collective pause that seemed to make the city’s endless clamor fall silent for a moment.
In the annals of Nigerian journalism, Agbese’s name has long been synonymous with measured prose, steadfast integrity, and an unflinching commitment to truth.
Born on May 12, 1944, he grew up in a modest household in Agila, Ado Local Government of Benue, where acquiring a Western education was a difficult struggle.
The rhythm of daily life there was punctuated by the rustle of communal gatherings and the chatter of community meetings, a backdrop that shaped his early worldview.
Despite the challenges, he pursued learning with tenacity and eventually earned a degree in Mass Communication from the University of Lagos.
His entry into print journalism came at a time when the profession was being reshaped by both opportunity and oppression.
His first major assignment came with The News magazine, where his calm, analytical style quickly set him apart from his peers.
Agbese treated the pen as a scalpel, preferring precision over sensationalism, and his stories often cut through the noise of military decrees and political spin.
From the oil‑rich Niger Delta to the arid plains of the north, he travelled across the country, chronicling the lives of ordinary Nigerians caught in the grip of a regime that sought to control the narrative.
Colleagues remember him as a gentle mentor, always ready to share his old typewriter as a rite of passage and to remind young reporters that ink may stain, but it should never stain the conscience.
He cautioned young journalists that they should not allow their biasness to affect their sense of judgement in news writing.
When veteran journalist Ray Ekpu penned a moving tribute to his late friend, the piece resonated deeply, highlighting Agbese’s grace and the void his absence created.
Yet Ekpu also took a sharp turn, dismissing what he called “guerrilla journalism” as “vile propaganda… not fit to be touched by any self‑respecting journalist.”
Babafemi Ojudu, another veteran of the era, responded with a thoughtful clarification, arguing that guerrilla journalism was not a philosophy of propaganda but a survival strategy born of necessity.
Ojudu recalled a conversation with former head of state General Ibrahim Babangida, who confessed that the underground press was one of the two biggest challenges to his regime, alongside the Orkar coup.
According to Ojudu, the secret to the guerrilla press’s success lay in a network of sources cultivated at every level of society, people who trusted journalists because they never traded truth for access.
These journalists worked from hidden safe houses, used pseudonyms, smuggled stories across borders, and printed in the dead of night to keep the nation informed when the public sphere was under threat.
The stakes were high: newsrooms were raided, editors detained, and entire publications banned, yet the underground press persisted, driven by a refusal to let tyranny win by default.
Legal battles were a constant companion; publications such as _The News_ and _Tempo_ faced numerous lawsuits, but only one case—brought by Chief Olu Onagoruwa—was lost, and that was due to lack of representation, not faulty reporting.
Ojudu also reminded readers of the 1995 incident when a false claim about a parcel bomb that killed Dele Giwa was investigated, dismissed, and later regretted by Newswatch then edited by Ekpu.
He emphasized that the guerrilla journalists, despite operating under extreme pressure, maintained a commitment to accuracy and integrity, never allowing sensationalism to eclipse the truth.
In contrast, Dan Agbese chose a different path, one that combined hard‑hitting investigation with a measured tone, earning respect from both peers and adversaries.
Friends describe Agbese as a quiet soul who loved simple pleasures a good book, a game of chess, and long walks along the Marina, where he could reflect on the stories he had told.
His mentorship extended beyond the newsroom; he would often invite young reporters to his home, offering tea and counsel, and reminding them that journalism should be a service, not a spectacle.
Today, as Nigeria grapples with new forms of media repression—social media bans, online harassment, and state‑sponsored narratives—the story of Dan Agbese feels more relevant than ever.
His life reminds us that journalism can be both courageous and courteous, that the pen can be a weapon without becoming a weapon of hate, and that Dan Agbese’s steady hand continues to guide the narrative for those who listen.
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