ONE of the simple pleasures of life is the opportunity to recline on the sofa, with a good book and a chilled bottle of wine trembling in the convivial environment as you luxuriate lavishly upon the glitter and glimmer of former escapades – moments of heartwarming reminiscences. Here is one from “The Night Shifters” – a chapter devoted to the night crawling aspect of entertainment journalism.
“One of the perks of the business of reporting entertainment in Nigeria in the 1990s was a familiarity and patronage in many of the top clubs in Lagos, or any parts of the country we had the privilege of visiting – through band tours, regional concerts, and in pursuit of stories generally. Clubs that flourished, and were attractive for me as a “night reporter” included the sublime to the ordinary. I tried not to discriminate, but those in the seedy areas were prone to unexpected explosions of fracas and deadly fisticuffs. Usually, my weekend nightly tour would start from the Kodesoh area, Ikeja (what today’s street people call ‘Ikeja Under-Bridge’). There was a small nightclub, Princes, owned by one of Ebenezer Obey’s big-time fans, Prince Jide Oshinubi (died June, 2021 at 81). On the other side of the road was Pepple Street where Fela’s Kalakuta Republic was situated. I mostly avoided Baba’s place, I had no stomach for ‘weed’ nor the wide-eyed roughnecks.
Then, to John Chukwu’s Klass Nite Club, almost at the beginning of Obafemi Awolowo Way, Ikeja. Often, Klass was the starting point, and the terminus of my midnight ‘excursions’. The Klass was managed by top DJ and entertainment guru, Eddie ‘Jay’ Omodiagbe. It was a simple black and white duplex that usually transformed at night to a kaleidoscope of colours, thumping sounds, frolicking patrons, scantily dressed damsels, and flood of drinks – all sorts. John Chukwu was a massive influence in Nigerian media – a great radio DJ, a wonderful master of ceremonies, a big screen actor (was in Ola Balogun’s Amadi, 1975 and Ladi Ladebo’s Bisi, Daughter of the River, 1977); an inspiring comic who could shuffle between ages and eras without any creases. Many journalists hung around Klass to catch a glimpse of JC, and some rib crackers. I remember accompanying his coffin in a military aircraft sometime in 1990 where every passenger in that funeral delegation thought we were going to die with JC – that was not funny, at all. If JC were alive, he would have cracked several jokes out of our frightened faces.
From Klass, we moved to the glistering spot at the top of Jabita Hotel, opposite the Airport Hotel on the same Awolowo Way. DeRoof nightclub was run by the fast-talking, warm-hearted Jibola Shitta-Bey. Next venue was the swanky layout on Allen Avenue, called Ozone Nite Club. The former Ace of Clubs was a nice hangout with pulsating music, and people minding their businesses. It was run by good-looking gentleman and ex-aviator, Jerry Anazia.
We usually stayed longest at the next spot – the same place where you have today’s Tastee Fried Chicken at 21, Opebi Road. The peculiar air and pageantry of Niteshift would need more space, as most of our discussions and quarrels were at the dizzying entrails of the Niteshift, and under the shadows of the enigmatic Guv’nor of the groove, Ken-Calebs Olumese.
Before I go further, there were detours preceding Opebi, and sometimes, beyond. Turning off at the end of Allen Avenue, into Toyin Street, on the right, we could spend a few minutes at the Climax Nite Club (not related to the magazine of the same name – learned it was acquired in the 90s by Leo Stan Eke and master DJ, Stagger Lee, and renamed Silverbird) opposite the Customs offices. And a quick dash to the swanky layout at the mouth of Mende, under those buzzing power lines in Maryland – the Lord’s Club. That was only in the Ikeja area.
Usually, Niteshift was the landing port to waste the night. The club was a great attraction, what with the razzmatazz and panache of the owner and chief conductor, Olumese. The ex-director at Swipha, a pharmaceutical company, Olumese poured himself completely, and sometimes dangerously, into that club for more than three decades. In the beginning, both of us often quarrelled. He would have something to complain about a gist I had written one week or the other which he felt was capable of jeopardizing his relationships with members of the ‘Gold Card’ section of his club. I didn’t understand why anyone should be sacred. Once or twice, he had me thrown out of the club. Some friends would intervene, and calm him down…then four hours later, he would be appealing to me to spend a few more minutes, after 6 am…to take some coffee or tea – for the road!
A man of impeccable taste and flourish – he appointed every area of his club to pass some sort of class-conscious message. His staff were dressed in attractive finery specially designed according to clearly demarcated sections… each with a peculiarly distinguishing appellation. Once you enter the club, you will see the cordoned section called the Gold Card Section, and its members addressed as “very very Senior Fellows of the Gold Card Section”. You turned left to enter further, and a slightly narrower section on your left was the ‘Glamour Section’ (GS) – for the upwardly mobile young folks (they used to call some of them ‘yuppies’). This was home to many of my friends in the media, fashion, movies, business, and so on. And further down, and to the largest section of the club was the Regular Section. Each section had its tumblers, service uniform epaulets, cup covers, stools, and unique table covers. Woe betide the stewardess who would serve a guest in the Gold section, with a cup meant for the Regular, or the GS. It was a sacrilege deserving of immediate punishment.
The uniforms had names too. I was privileged to help him name the uniforms for the Glamour Boys Section… Oh, Guv’nor loved appellations, like me, so we called the uniform ‘Oriental Ornamental’ (basically, a gibberish, but it sounded apt and fitting, and it stuck).
I wouldn’t know why we didn’t have a Glamour Girls section, perhaps because we didn’t have that many girls who could have complained, I suspect, apart from Omasan Buwa (ex-beauty queen), Gloria Anozie (then a journalist), and a couple other faces I can’t recollect. In any case, a few years later, Kenneth Nnebue, perhaps influenced by the noise of the Niteshift’s Glamour Boys’ escapades, released his blockbuster movie entitled Glamour Girls in 1995.
A full-fledged advocate of glamour and charismatic articles, the Guv’nor had titles and signatures for major items of the business that others took for granted. Right from the main gate, he didn’t use ‘bouncers’, ‘guards’ or ‘gatemen’, the big dude at the entrance was called ‘First Man’. The lead DJ was ‘Music Captain’, his two assistants ‘Pilot’ and ‘Co-Pilot’. We assumed the DJ cubicle was the Cockpit, and it was built to suggest that. The toilets were not called conveniences or ‘gents/ladies’….they were the Vanity Section.
The opening music was called the Niteshift Bugaloo, performed by the Coliseum Dancers. It was only after their routine, we all could assail the dance floor. Waitresses would start the night in black uniforms; and deep into the night, they would change to sparkling whites – for added effects. The girls, and some boys, were ranked according to the sections they manned: a group with one or two gold stripes served the Regular Section; a senior waitress with three stripes dealt with the Glamour Section; while a couple of seniors with four stripes waited on the Gold Section.”
https://www.thisdaylive.com/index.php/2023/12/09/once-upon-a-night-duty
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Reminiscences: Hazards of Our Job – 2
“ONE incident I would not easily forget about Ken-Caleb Olumese’s Niteshift and its rainbow coalition of patrons was my encounter with perennial ‘World Cruiserweight’ contender, Bash Ali. As was usual with Niteshift, the quality and diversity of patrons made it a prime catchment area for interesting tidbits about the wealthy, the famous, and the shadowy pretenders. In one of my write-ups, I had written something about Bash Ali that was very annoying to him, but hilarious and factual to me. And he had sworn to deal with that “bloody journalist” anywhere he came across him. On that fateful night, I came quietly as usual into the Niteshift, and as it was common with the protocol of the house, the DJ would make a short announcement hailing your presence. But Bash Ali was around in the Gold Card section. He sprang up when he heard my initials and was looking for me. Since I mostly worked incognito then, he didn’t know me. Seeing him at over six feet, with bulging though greying muscles…I had no doubt that my little boxing skills picked up at Rowe Park ages ago would be greatly out-smashed and pulverised by the enraged ‘professional’.
Someone must have told him I had just stepped downstairs, and he charged down, threatening and shouting as he sped down. Several good Samaritans, God bless their unknown souls, stepped in between us as the hulk of a man came within a foot of my lanky frame. He calmed down somewhat and threatened to watch for my next edition to know his next action – now that he had seen my face. I was quiet, playing with a small smile by the corner of my mouth. Those close to me, who knew that was my sign to mean “we have just started”…then began to beg me to ‘let bygones be bygones.”
In general, producing what we called “Nigeria’s number one celebrity journal” in our late 20s, would ordinarily be some kind of catapult capable of flinging you into uncharted waters, needing you to apply wisdom or native intelligence, if you must survive.
“Big men, under the illusion that they had you in their pockets (as your privileged friends or godfathers), would speak so unguardedly and cavalierly. We fed on their frailties and delusion, chipping gently and carefully around those incredible exposes, while we craftily devised means of screening them from any link or part in some of the “world exclusive” reports we published.
We also sought earth-shattering interviews, especially those with the edgy spice of high-flying relationships gone awry, business masterpieces shattered by greed, or some other wrongdoings. One particular story that became perhaps our all-time greatest cover story was as a result of a double-part interview granted me by Remi, the estranged first wife of former head of state, General Olusegun Obasanjo (retd).
The woman was wary and distrustful of journalists. In 1991, she was in a volatile and precarious relationship with Obasanjo. She wanted to tell her story which she believed was toxic and would be highly disconcerting to the person and stature of the retired general. She was living in a duplex inside Ikeja GRA which she claimed belonged to the couple, and from which Obasanjo had been trying to eject her.
For a few years, she had been frustrated by antics of some of the journalists she had tried to open up to…she believed the reporters or their editors were intimidated by Obasanjo to abandon the story. By the time I was introduced to her, the prevailing circumstances were even more ominous for her to be afraid of any dealings with the media. It was around the time, late in 1991, when Obasanjo ran a strong campaign to succeed Peruvian diplomat, Javier Pérez de Cuéllar, as the next Secretary General of the United Nations.
When we met, I was able to convince her to let down her robust guard and share her reminiscences with me. The winning argument was that I held the unique privilege of being a reporter like most journalists, but also an editor and a co-publisher of the magazine, which no one else then could match. She was mollified. But we still had a back-and-forth, jousting like expert fencers, for about two days, before she finally accepted the interview.
Really, we just wanted to know more about Obasanjo from the home perspective, beyond the usual. Well, when she started, she assured me she was only going to focus on what he was as a husband, and not provide us with any salacious details. She didn’t want to ‘kill’ him…only to let him know he couldn’t get away with ‘attempted murder’! But by the end of the session – and two more sessions spanning a week – she had overrun her barriers, and provided a chest full of “shattering” info, scenarios and incidents that put Obasanjo squarely in the mud.
To remind you of the feel of that powerful edition, let me rehash the preamble I wrote before the main interview in
October, 1991: “Few minutes after the interview began, somebody called the attention of Mrs. Oluremi Obasanjo to the presence of a visitor at the gate. Within seconds the greying woman in her mid-fifties had been enveloped in another battle. A true picture of her life: constant battles with forces she could not manage nor persuade. At the end of her hands were the rumpled kaftan of a tall dark man identified simply as Charlie. He confirmed that he is “Personal Assistant” to General Olusegun Obasanjo, Nigerian former head of state and front-runner for the coveted post of the United Nations’ Secretary-General. That was Wednesday, this week (October 9, 1991).”
“Just as Remi Obasanjo, who married the General on June 22, 1963 (S.E. West, London) screamed that the tall dark chap was an agent-provocateur who had been sent to inflict injury on her; so did the man quietly protest that he came in good faith. He had no weapon on him except his rumpled kaftan and a cap now resting far away from his head after being flung off during the ‘scuffle’.
“The estranged couple have been (at) each other’s throats over the rentage of a bungalow situated on high-brow Oduduwa Crescent, GRA, Ikeja (Lagos). The General insisted in a letter to his wife that he had sold the house for ₦2 million, but the wife disagreed; she has also rented it out for an undisclosed sum. Battle storm gathered.
“But the conflict goes far beyond today’s misunderstanding. According to the middle-aged woman who first met the General on a Sunday in March, 1956 at Owu, Abeokuta (Ogun State), the incident is one in her multitude of woes which have now made her believe her husband has become a threat.
“With unhidden frustration, the mother of six children bared her hurt heart to FAME Weekly, and we (have captured) the
General as you may never have seen before – through the eyes of his very first wife. This is her story.”
Of course, we splashed the stories across the covers of two editions…to the consternation of friends and loved ones…and to the grief of the general’s supporters and our competitors. The first explosion, on October 12, 1981, was titled “Obasanjo’s Secret Shame Exposed: First wife tears him a-p-a-r-t – He beats me often – I sold my trinkets to pay children’s school fees – His son once told him: ‘I’m mad because you’re mad…’”.
It completely dominated the cover with the couple’s traditional wedding picture. The follow-up on October 19 was equally the main cover story: “Obasanjo’s Expose Update: First wife cries out – I want Nigerians to save my life”… (with a fairly big picture highlighting her swollen right eye).
Well, Obasanjo lost the chance, despite his otherwise sterling credentials. His Egyptian counterpart, Boutros Boutros-Ghali became the sixth holder of that prestigious office, from January 1, 1992 to December 31, 1996.”
https://www.thisdaylive.com/index.php/2023/12/23/reminiscences-hazards-of-our-job-2
