By DELE MOMODU
I had two major bosses at the Weekend Concord newspaper, from 1989 to 1990. The first was Mr Mike Awoyinfa, my extraordinary Editor. The second was his Deputy Editor, the extremely God-fearing gentleman and prodigious literary talent, Mr Dimgba Igwe. Theirs was a special professional relationship. They were both phenomenally gifted in the art of writing. They had tremendous mutual respect for each other and both were best of friends. Their type of friendship was uncommon. They were like husband and wife, mutually supportive, fiercely loyal to each other and almost without any arguments other than constructive debates about stories. They almost thought alike and were almost telepathic in their relationship.
One practically knew what the other was thinking even before the thought was actualised by being voiced by the other. Their only sharp difference was in the area of socials. Awoyinfa was an extrovert, easy going, outgoing and adventurous, while Igwe was staid, more ascetic and introverted. He was more of a Pastor. Nevertheless, they were both fun to be around, witty and full of laughter and gaiety when the occasion demanded it. Above all, their passion for reading and writing was indisputable and unmistakable and made them superstars in the media world. Indeed, they were already big names when I arrived Concord Press in May 1988. I remember first meeting Awoyinfa who was then the Features Editor of the National Concord while I later met Igwe as a must-read columnist of the Sunday Concord. When I met Igwe, I was already a Staff Writer at the African Concord magazine. For a budding reporter and fledgling wordsmith like me, they were my ideal role models. I never knew fate would soon bring us closer.
Awoyinfa had earlier met me when I came seeking a job at the African Concord in April 1988. He was already familiar with some of my controversial articles in The Guardian and Sunday Tribune. He didn’t hide his excitement on meeting me and spoke of his admiration for me. To demonstrate his appreciation of the quality of my work, he instantly gave me a feature article to write. That same day, my first boss in the Concord Group of Newspapers, and Editor at the African Concord magazine, Mr Lewis Obi, employed me on the spot.
As soon as I resumed work fully in May 1988, I instantly hit the ground running. I worked like the proverbial donkey, a thoroughbred workhorse and everyone in the Concord Group soon knew a new prolific writer was in town and a journalism star was being birthed and moulded in the stables of African Concord.
A few months down the line, it must have been January 1989, I was invited by Obi to his office. “I have a bit of bad news for you. Our Managing Director, Mrs Doyin Abiola, has requested that you be transferred to a new publication to be called Weekend Concord. It will be edited by Mike Awoyinfa and his Deputy will be Dimgba Igwe. The Management said they have carefully handpicked the best writers from different departments… And none of those selected should reject the offer…”
I was immediately downcast. “A serious writer like me, with a Master’s degree in Literature-in-English, to join a weekend entertainment paper…”, I soliloquised. If I had a choice, I would have resigned immediately. But hunger and anger are not the best of friends. And at this time, I was certainly hungrier in every sense of the word. I thirsted for experience, knowledge and wisdom just as much as I hungered to put good food on my table and develop myself personally. So, I calmed down. I was told to meet with Awoyinfa and Igwe for proper briefing about our new project and challenge. I was boiling tempestuously and raging inside, unknown to them.
Most reluctantly, I went for the meeting as instructed. At this point I could not do otherwise really. As my people say “Aare n pe o, o ni o’n d’Ifa” (The Generalissimo summons you and you say you are still divining”). Awoyinfa and Igwe could not hide their excitement. This was like a dream come true for them. Like a penitent schoolboy, I listened attentively to what they had to say. However, I wished this cup could just pass over me. Why me? Why not leave me to be writing my cerebral masterpieces in a serious paper? A stream of monologues raced inside me. But this cup refused to go away. So, I accepted my destiny with equanimity, like a raging storm would do to you. I was lucky that their infectious enthusiasm soon carried me along with them and I was eventually swept off my feet and I joined the moving train full chested and full-throttled, although I must confess to a scrawny chest at the time!
I was given my first assignment – to go find a potential maiden cover story and return to the office within one week, a befitting story to grace an inaugural paper.
Pronto, I set off on my journey. It was like a blind date and I had no idea what I would get. Let’s leave the details of my initiation, adventures and foray into the heady and murky world of entertainment journalism for another day.
I came back with what my bosses called a major scoop, a blockbuster story that made it to our lead cover. For weeks and months, I churned out cover stories, like popcorn. And I was amply rewarded. Excitedly, my bosses rewarded me with quick fire promotions. Within nine months, I had climbed to the number three position in the Weekend Concord hierarchy, arguably unprecedented at the time and even now. The “Siamese twins,” Awoyinfa and Igwe made this feat possible. The truth is, we surpassed all expectations and our bosses and the owner, Aare M. K. O. Abiola, were grateful, gracious and generous. The only problem was that my rise was meteoric and I soon reached the pinnacle, which in my case was a cul-de-sac, a dead-end from which there was no progress or return. The truth is that I was never going to be able to rise above the duo and there was nothing else in the offing for me. I could not simply upturn the established pecking order and had no desire to do so.
Rather than remain stagnant, I was encouraged to take the irresistible offer of editing the Classique magazine which was owned by May Ellen Ezekiel. But my relationship with Awoyinfa and Igwe continued to blossom regardless. We had become a trio bonded by our passion for entertainment journalism with a difference. The essence was the building of an ethical and principled ethos which Igwe professed, Awoyinfa nurtured and I practicalised.
Awoyinfa and Igwe later left the Concord Press. They started The Sun newspapers together with my dear friend, Dr Orji Uzor Kalu, and others. These brilliant gentlemen built their homes next to each other in Okota. They authored books together. They travelled together. Their friendship was enviable. The heavens smiled at them. It seemed the bond they shared could not be severed in their lifetimes. You wondered if they would not leave this earth together. Such was the strength of their friendship and their love for each other.
Everything ran smoothly, until one evil morning. Igwe was an exercise enthusiast, a keep-fit aficionado. Like everything he did, he put his heart, mind and soul into it. He was dedicated and disciplined. He went out jogging one fateful morning and never returned. An accursed being, a satanic hit-and-run driver snuffed the life out of this literary titan, this quintessential family man and perfect gentleman in a jiffy. Just like that.
The news spread everywhere like bushfire in harmattan. The world stood still for those of us his friends and fans. We were dumbfounded, struck numb. Our anguish, (grief and pain) was palpable and unparalleled. Awoyinfa was worse hit. I doubt he ever recovered from this nightmare. Igwe was too close to God to suffer such horrendous ordeal at his end. He deserved the peaceful transition that we all envisaged and prayed for. We almost queried God. Such blasphemy was only natural. A good man had exited the stage in unbelievably tragic circumstances.
Ten years after, we have not fully healed. Doubtful that we ever will. It is impossible to see Awoyinfa and not remember Igwe. Impossible to write about one and not attach the other. It is a perpetual torture, a recurring horror and enduring somnambulist state that our mutual friends will suffer till kingdom come.
Igwe was indeed an Igwe, a King as his surname means in Igbo. Life without Dimgba Igwe is simply a huge void.