Chris Ihidero Unedited: Reuben Abati and the credo of being and nothingness

By Chris Ihidero

It is often pretty difficult for me to write seriously about Reuben Abati for many reasons, one of which is the insistence of people like Chude Jideonwo that Abati and I look very much alike. I, of course, vehemently refute such untruths, carefully pointing out to people like Chude that I am actually pretty easy on the eye, and my blackness has an uncommon glow to it; attributes I insist Abati can’t lay claim to. Another reason is that many have pointed out the similarities in our writing, especially my ‘Wandering of a Rapidly Degenerating Mind‘ series on Facebook a few years ago. I started that series in Life Magazine, a supplement of the Guardian at a time when Abati was the most celebrated columnist in the country. While it may be easy to see the similarities, the likes of the cantankerous Rod Liddle and Jeremy Clarkson of the Times of London were greater influences than Abati, even though, for about five years, buying the Guardian on Sunday and reading Abati’s column was as much a tradition in my father’s house as eating rice on Sunday afternoons.

When Reuben Abati was a hit, he was a major hit. Young, cerebral and opinionated, he ruled the pages of newspapers and the layers of our minds like a colossus. His columns on Fridays and Sundays were a must-read for anyone interested in the Nigerian political landscape and general polity. If you wrote a book and you wanted to be taken seriously, you did yourself a lot of good if you got Reuben Abati to review it.  His participation and analysis on Patito’s Gang gave a face to the already popular name and a respected platform for interaction with those the few who didn’t read the Guardian and were yet to be cast under his spell. Nigeria had never seen such a rock star newspaper columnist; not even the greats like Alade Odunewu and Pini Jason had managed to garner such a cult following as Abati did in his glory days. If Abati said so, many believed it must be so.

Why then did Abati take a thankless job as the president’s media man, a job which by its nature guarantees scorn and derision? Could it be that he felt his goodwill amongst the general populace would carry him through? Did he actually believe that he could sway opinions and emotions in a positive direction on behalf of the federal government? And if he took the job knowing what it was, why try to make himself more than a government propagandist? Here is my answer to these questions: Abati, like many before him, was caught in the well spun web of denial and self preservation.

The chairmanship of the editorial board of a newspaper like the Guardian is no doubt prestigious, but what more is it? It is certainly not a position you can retire on and enjoy a glorious lifetime pension. Abati has never been an entrepreneur, so making money from other business ventures was always going to be difficult. In the true sense of the word, Abati was also never really a journalist. After a stint teaching at the then Ogun State University, he joined the Guardian as a columnist and member of the editorial board. He never reported, was never an editor, never groomed reporters and was really never liked or respected by those who were ‘real’ journalists. While he got his PhD at 24, he is neither an academic nor a force to be reckoned with in his field of study. What then was left for Abati to do? Where else would he have gone to from being the chairman of Guardian’s editorial board?   Some five years away from 50, he suddenly finds the opportunity to play at the big stage dropped on his lap; what was he to do? He knows that taking that job guarantees his children will go to the best schools, he and his family will live comfortably; he will see the kind of money he would never have seen as an editorial board chairman. When you work for the federal government of Nigeria, you become rich, simple. Again I ask, what was he to do? Bear in mind that he lives in a country where the best brains have gone to their graves in penury, unsung, unappreciated, belaboured by their ideologies and scorned by friends and family. Oh yes, he could have stuck to his ideologies and refused to join those he had derided for a long time. He could have been the proverbial dog who doesn’t go back to his vomit. Those who know Abati better that you and I insist that he was never really cut from any altruistic ideological cloth; we just never saw this side of him in his articles.

Elsewhere, Abati would have a couple of bestseller books by now and royalties will keep him comfortable. He would have paid speaking engagements and media appearances. He would have a house he had been paying a mortgage on for decades. His kids would be able to attend good schools; he wouldn’t have to worry too much about the future. The bigger question to ask, perhaps, is this: what is it about our country that ensures that the best among us often end up like Reuben Abati? How do we keep moving our best brains from being the main constructs to a peripheral existence of nothingness?

When I think of Abati these days, I imagine him soullessly walking the hallow corridors of Aso Rock, struggling for relevance, fighting to keep his corner as he feeds off the crumbs from the table of power. Where once he strode like a colossus, now he creeps like an amputee. Where once his words carried their weight in gold into our collective consciousness, now they thud with emptiness, inviting ridicule, attracting scorn.

When Reuben Abati was the man, he was the main man.

What is Reuben Abati now?