Life is all about memories. It is the only thing we are left
with when flesh and spirit depart the earthly plane, and we can do no more than
remember the life of the departed, through memories of times and moments
shared, and their deeds in their lifetime. I received a phone call and a
whatsapp message announcing the death of Justin Abuah, popularly known to all
and sundry as O.J. Abuah, and the world seemed as if it had stood still for a
few minutes.
He was one of my media officers when I
served as President Goodluck Jonathan’s Special Adviser, Media and Publicity
and as official spokesperson; after the retirement of another dependable
officer, Musa Aduwak, he replaced Aduwak as Director of Information in the
department. I left him behind in the Villa in 2015, hale and hearty, an asset
to the department, an efficient, service-oriented, disciplined, and devoted
civil servant who could be relied upon at all times for high quality
delivery. And now they say he is gone. Last Sunday. Just like that. It is
painful, shocking and sad. OJ, what happened?
I had some difficulty initially adjusting to the ways and
habits of civil servants when I got to the Villa in 2011. I found them too laid
back, too conspiratorial, and always on the look out for reward, or what they
call motivation. But what I found most exasperating was the lack of initiative.
Coming from the private sector, I was used to members of a team doing their
part and not waiting to be directed, knowing that any delay could affect the
rest of the team and the quality of service delivery. But I met a
situation whereby civil servants believed they always had to be directed to
carry out even the same routine tasks that they undertook daily.
“SA, you didn’t give me any instruction”
“How? You and I discussed this matter and you know what to
do, you do it everyday.”
“You didn’t tell me to go ahead”
I always felt like hitting the roof. I didn’t see any reason
why a media assistant had to be reminded to take a podium to a presidential
event, microphones, batteries, or why a photographer or cameraman needed to be
reminded of pre-announced events, or why an information officer could not
use the initiative to prepare drafts. I used to get worked up and I would
scream: “civil servants, what is wrong with you people!” I was perhaps
prejudiced. I had been warned as soon as I assumed office that I should not
make use of the civil servants. I was advised to sideline them and bring a team
of my own who would get things done. I didn’t think this was right. If there is
a full-fledged department in place, with paid staff, assigned different tasks,
and who have been in the system forever, the best thing to do is to get them to
do their work and not undermine them. It may have taken a few months to
establish a rhythm, but I eventually won the confidence of the departmental
team to create a very resourceful and creative communications and media team
that ensured efficient coverage of the President’s activities. OJ Abuah as
Director of Information and as the most senior staff, as well his predecessor,
Aduwak, were most effective in helping to achieve this objective.
OJ became the bridge between the general staff and me. I
eventually figured out that apart from their love of directives, civil servants
worship hierarchy. They have this inherited military era mentality that pushes
them to function when they are given express orders. It was better if the order
was documented, and OJ had his ways of pushing them. This took a lot of
pressure off my shoulders, up to the point that at a time, whenever I shouted
“civil servants!”, the staff around would also say “SA!” or “The great Abati”
and we would all burst out laughing. We had great fun in the long run.
The civil servants were all individually and collectively my backbone.
It was just a matter of discovering their talents and
getting them to work: there was a lady for example who was so excellent in
protocol matters who later left us, there was another who always got things
done particularly during foreign trips because once she showed up, all the men
around could never say No to her, we later recruited a multilingual chap who
was also so good in protocol matters that the protocol department used to
report him to me to keep him away from their territory, and of course the
diligent quartet who monitored the print, electronic and digital media and
prepared daily reports and analyses, and the army of other staff, the foot-soldiers
- from secretary to drivers and boom operators- who covered every event. I want
to thank OJ for his friendship and support and also for his readiness to take
responsibility on behalf of the other staff whenever anything went wrong or
when other departments blamed the media department for a microphone that did
not work, a podium that stood in the way or photographers and cameramen
blocking people’s views.
OJ had my back. He had been in the Presidency since Dodan
Barracks. He had served under different Presidents and Media Advisers.
This placed him in a vantage position to avail me of institutional
memory. He could tell me what previous advisers did under certain
circumstances, and the expectations of those who occupy the office of
President. He also knew the intrigues within the palace, and the scent of
inter-departmental rivalry. Because he had been in the system for long, nothing
escaped his notice and if anything was going on, somehow he would get to know.
He always tipped me off. He drew my attention to intrigues even before
they blew into the open. Let no one joke about it: the Nigerian Presidency is a
nest of malevolent intrigues. And running the media and publicity department
could be very much like being in a wrestling ring, because it is one job that
everyone claims to know.
People whose responsibility it wasn’t wanted to arrange
media interviews, manage the President’s appearance, organize his public
speaking, take his photographs, record his speeches, and determine how speeches
and press statements should sound. Someone even came up with what became known
as “the space theory”, meaning anybody could do anybody’s job, once they could
create a space to do it. It got so challenging at a point, and on one
occasion, a cleaner accosted me early morning and told me: “Oga Abati,
you are working hard, I see you for television, I no know say you sabi speak
English like that. Make you dey talk more hen. But dis your staff and
journalists…” I didn’t know what to say in response. But in the
face of it all, OJ helped to protect the integrity of the department. He
was loyal and dutiful.
He not only knew the system, he drew my attention to many
rules and regulations. If something could not be done, he would bring out the
rules book and state the position of government. In the end, I left the matters
related to civil service rules and regulations to the civil servants and stayed
with professional and technocratic aspects of the work. Every outsider
who finds himself in a political position in government needs a man like OJ. He
was nobody’s sycophant. He would tell you as it is. He had a critical mind, but
he was nevertheless fair-minded and constructive, and there was no reason to
doubt his loyalty to government and country.
He was above everything else, intellectually gifted.
He had been a journalist before joining the State House media department, and
he remained a damn good reporter and editor. He had a nose for news and a sense
of what can work or not in a media copy. He wrote well too, his prose was spare
but precise, his sentences were clean, his thoughts were clear. OJ could
discuss literature, politics, history, geography, economics and a wide range of
other subjects. We spent hours in my office whenever our schedule was light,
debating issues in a friendly atmosphere. In the course of duty, I also met
many knowledgeable and experienced civil servants, men and women who toil daily
to keep the Nigerian system going, but who are often unheard and ignored. OJ
was one of the most impressive. He was an ideal information officer, talented
and experienced, mature and disciplined, knowledgeable and smart. It was not
surprising that he passed his promotion examination in 2014 and became a
Director. I consider his death a major loss to the department and the
Nigerian civil service.
Gifted as he was, he was nevertheless a very quiet and
impeccably gracious man, to be found moving quietly close to the wall, as if he
did not want to be noticed in his regular, stylishly spacious batik
caftan. Even if he was angry, you would hardly hear his voice. He
was self-effacing almost to a fault, and he was intensely private. It was
always difficult to reach him after office hours or on weekends, but whenever
he was around or available, he got the job done beyond the call of duty and
earned everyone’s respect. He never talked about his family – the closest
I got was when we went to a bookshop in New York once and he bought books for
his son whom he said was studying in the UK. He did not invite anyone to his
house. Nobody knew which church he attended or whether or not he had
ceremonies to which he invited guests. Some of the staff even thought he was
queer. If he was in pains, he never showed it. If he was ill, nobody knew. He
was just himself. People like him are difficult to replace. He was the type of
man who would never have asked for a tribute, but he deserves this and more
tributes to come. So sad, he is gone…
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