By Muyiwa Adetiba

Last weekend, I attended the 80th birthday celebration of Mr Ben Lawrence. It was hosted by his nephew, Nosa Igiebor, the CEO of Tell Magazine, a weekly news magazine that played a prominent role in the June 12 saga. The ‘party’ was all that I expected; a quiet get-together of veteran journalists—mainly of the defunct Daily Times stock—who had paid their dues to the pen profession.

I had followed the writings of Mr Lawrence in the papers but did not work with him until about a decade ago when I was invited as a judge to DAME, the organisation that grades and gives awards to deserving media practitioners. Mr Lawrence and I found ourselves in the same committee a couple of times. He was passionate. He was professional. And in many ways was understandably ‘old school’ about falling standards in the profession.

A week before then, another Lawrence, Uncle Bizlaw, marked his 83 years on earth. This time it was the turn of veteran broadcasters and senior members of the Vanguard family to share the day with him. The occasion was more expansive—in space, mood and attendance—than that of his other name sake. I first heard of Bisi Lawrence through my senior brother who had worked with him in the old NBC (Nigerian Broadcasting Corporation) days and who often eulogised his writing skills. I eventually had the opportunity to witness those skills—and more—when he was introduced to me in Punch some 35 years ago by the late Ayo Ositelu after his retirement as the GM of Radio Lagos. He was to express himself more at the Vanguard where he added other repertoires to sports writing which he was already well known for. He is a true connoisseur of the art of expression.

In between, another veteran, Mrs Anike Agbaje celebrated her own 80th birthday. She was the first female announcer for the first TV station in Africa. Again, I knew of her mainly through my brother and his circle of friends in the electronic media. Light skinned and elegant, hers was a beautiful voice in a beautiful body. Just about this time, Mr Bruce Obviagele, another broadcaster and husband of our own Helen Obviagele, the first Woman Editor of Vanguard, celebrated his 80th in far – away America. I spoke with him two weeks before he travelled and he was looking forward to crossing the Rubicon. These people were pioneers in their own way in the sense that they belonged to an era when journalism was still nascent in the country. They and their colleagues, were larger than life. They ruled the waves both literally and figuratively. Many hearts fluttered at the mention of their names and in their presence.

Today, they have all aged. They might have aged differently, but they have aged. Looking at them, I couldn’t help remembering their golden years of the 60s and 70s. Never a loud talker at the best of times, Uncle Bizlaw could hardly raise his voice above a whisper when he was responding to his toast. But the mental acuity, the turn of phrase either in English or Yoruba, the adroit use of pun that make reading him or listening to him a delight were still there. What was gone was the physical strength.

These people in their moments of solitude must wonder where the years went. Even I, almost two decades younger, often do. Especially when I wake up in the morning and the body aches. Or when I sleep late and the body refuses to wake up the following day. I now know there are repercussions any time I push my body beyond what it is used to and that includes the intake of alcohol and certain types of food. I forget things a lot more easily now and hope it is not the onset of dementia. But what my ego finds difficult to accept is the physical deterioration. I pass by a mirror sometimes and can’t recognise myself; or put more correctly, I don’t like the person I see. The eyes look tired (no pun intended), the skin looks tired, the grey hair looks tired. The clothes don’t hang well and the walk is becoming a shuffle. Surely this can’t be me! Not only is it me, it is what those who haven’t seen me for a while see. It helps to put things in perspective when I see an old colleague or classmate at a function and tell myself ‘gosh, he has aged’.

This reminds me of a story I once read about a woman who had to see a doctor at the hospital. The man in whose presence she was ushered looked vaguely familiar but she could not put her finger on it. He looked too old and too heavy to have been her old classmate. Where could she have known the man? Then he spoke and some realisation dawned. She tentatively asked if he attended a particular primary school. He answered in the affirmative wondering what it was all about. With a eureka feeling, she introduced herself as having attended the school and mentioned her name. He peered closely and unable to recognise her, said he didn’t think there was a teacher with that name during his time. To those who are slow in catching the punch line, what the doctor saw was not the possibility of an old classmate but that of an old teacher!

Yet, despite the recurring pain, the physical deterioration, the increasing loss of energy, I don’t, like some of my friends do, want my youth back. I don’t want to contend again with the fears and uncertainties of youth. Maybe because I have been lucky. Maybe because I have tried my hands at many of the things I set out to do as a young man and have learnt to be content with my modest achievements. Maybe because I have never put material acquisitions as my motivation. Maybe because I have a wife who has not asked me ‘to see where my mates are.’ Maybe because I am blessed with reasonably good health. Maybe because my children are healthy and gainfully employed. Maybe because I have friends and family who watch my back. Maybe because I have learnt, like the poem Desiderata urges, to ‘gracefully surrender the things of youth.’ Maybe because God has been really good to me. What I am doing, in case you have not noticed, is counting my blessings and naming some of them. I am sure the octogenarians mentioned above have done so. We all should. Everyone has reasons to be grateful.

Let us learn, like the psalmist, to number our days so we can apply our hearts to wisdom. We will all age— if we are lucky—and have to surrender the things of youth. What is important is what we do with those years and the lives we touch. Then we can say, like St Paul ‘I have fought a good fight. I have finished my course. I have kept the faith.’

Those who have a second chance to affect lives don’t know how blessed— or cursed—they are. Depending on what they do with this second window.

Happy birthday to all these veteran journalists. You are one of the reasons we are in the profession.