By the time you are reading this, I should have published my last ever major investigative story on my favourite news platform, NewswireNGR. It is about Polish entrepreneur Marek Zmyslowski and the less than stellar veracity of his ‘Chasing Black Unicorns’ Nigerian investment story. As with so many other stories before it, I would imagine by now the subject of the story has issued a fiercely worded statement accusing me of all types of unprofessional conduct, and possibly threatening to file a libel lawsuit if the story is not pulled.
I too should have issued a cavalier dismissal of the threats, typically on my Twitter handle, accompanied by a few emojis or gif images. There will as usual be intense disagreement in the various comment sections analysing the story, with some hailing me as the “Voice of Nigerian Youth,” and others dismissing me as a despicable, attention-seeking, insufferably egotistical, potty-mouthed ‘clout’ chaser. I will typically have responded to some of my traducers in my unique, no-hold-barred combative style. A few blocks will inevitably have been issued on both ends of the exchange. Eventually, mercifully, after about 72 hours, the audience will move on to another topic and I will be free.
Only this time, it will be the last time.
A tale of ‘Pashun’ and “Hethix’
When I segued from my quiet global finance and investment journalism niche last year to take up a few opportunities in the Nigerian media space such as this column, I did not necessarily have a plan laid out in my head. As I still tend to do even after crossing the magic age of 30, I simply examined the situation vis-a-vis what I thought I could bring to the table and I went for it. I mean really went for it. Not a few people had warned me about how treacherous the Nigerian journalism space is, but from day one I was determined to be the most objective, unflinching journalist Nigeria has ever had. If sunlight is the best disinfectant, my words would be the Sahara desert at noon.
I did of course have the fortune of possessing some leverage in the remote economy, such that I could treat Nigerian journalism as my passion project while using my brand and butter income to pay my bills. For a while it was the perfect situation. No one dared to offer financial inducements because I looked and sounded every bit the lip-curling aristocrat I was born as – that N100,000 that might compromise Ciroma Chukwuma Adekunle from XYZ newspaper wasn’t going to make me flinch, so nobody even bothered. No one made threats too, because I was a complete unknown quantity – a total maverick that no one quite knew what to make of.
The thing about journalism in post-1999 Nigeria is that Nigerians have not been deprogrammed from the Babangida and Abacha-imposed idea of what a ‘journalist’ is – a humbled, bedraggled, weatherbeaten, unconfident, sorry-looking individual with their eyes cast to the floor.
In time however, as Nigeria generally does, it began to figure me out. This was a proud, headstrong person with what he considered to be a strong social compass and a strong sense of independence, so the dark arts used to mesmerise Ciroma would not work here at the same scale. The solution? Use the same tricks, but at a much bigger scale. N100,000 wouldn’t impress this guy? Try N1,000,000. Anonymous threats don’t work? Get a family member in the security services to make greasy hints about him getting locked in an SSS cell 7 storeys underground in Abuja, during a family burial. Slowly I started to understand that Nigeria wanted me shushed, so I did what I always do when faced with bullies.
I put my head down and ran straight toward the threat, kamikaze style.
I got my first financial inducement offer earlier in the year in the sum of N5 million. The circumstances around the event actually spooked me enough to get on a flight to Dubai and spend a week figuring out what the situation was. In classic fashion, I came back ready for war with my keyboard. Anybody could get it – banker, billionaire industrialist, public official – anyone. My thinking was that very few people on the planet had the perfect storm of circumstances, abilities and audacity to actually do some much-needed public interest muckraking in Nigeria, and I thought “if not me, then who?”
When it stopped being fun
It was this sense of purpose that kept me firing when most people would have dialled the energy back a little. It is important to point out that I was always focused on exploring stories that I felt personally invested in, which is why I developed a reputation for writing investigations in an unusually impassioned, personalised manner. This style earned rebuke even from a few senior media colleagues, but I did not care because from day 1, it was always about what I wanted, not how it was perceived. Investigative journalism is about 65 percent storytelling, and storytelling is an art. The best kind of art is that which you do for yourself, completely unscripted and from the heart.
It may surprise you to know for example, that the voluminous Marek Zmyslowski story I mentioned at the outset was drafted inside just 75 minutes. Typically, the most time-consuming part of my stories is the research and the preparation of visual and multimedia material. When I am done with these, the actual story draft flows out of my fingers in a single rush, a bit like how a recording artist has a studio freestyle session. I check it for typos, then I send it to my editor, and I wait for it to get published and…
…And then I started to get tired of what would happen next. If I were to use an analogy for why I fell out of love with my work, I would liken it to how the Messi vs Ronaldo debate has degenerated into a meaningless popularity contest that uses ranking metrics such as ‘who doesn’t threaten to leave his club whenever they lose’ and ‘who is more humble.’ these two metrics have absolutely nothing to do with their abilities and performances as professional footballers, but because the sport is now unavoidably personalised, these things have found their way into the conversation.
It was a similar thing with my work. I started noticing very early on that it was no longer about what work was done, but about who did it and what the reader’s perception of that person is. The thing about journalism in post-1999 Nigeria is that Nigerians have not been deprogrammed from the Babangida and Abacha-imposed idea of what a ‘journalist’ is – a humbled, bedraggled, weatherbeaten, unconfident, sorry-looking individual with their eyes cast to the floor. The Nigerian ‘journalist’ is supposed to be the the crestfallen subject of Femi Fani-Kayode’s indignant tirade – terrified and fearful for his job, and thankful for whatever crumbs are thrown his way.
To cut a very long story short, my presence began overshadowing my work. The audience stopped engaging on the subject of the stories and became more interested in the personality of the writer. “David Hundeyin is so arrogant” on one side versus “David Hundeyin is the voice of the youth!” I started seeing Twitter accounts named “David Hundeyin stan account” alongside those of the usual suspects who could never see anything good about whatever I did. Work that I created from the sincerity of my heart would go out and become agonisingly polarised for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with the contents of the story itself. Finally I made a realisation:
My presence is not helping
I believe that Nigeria is not yet ready to deal with my presence in the investigative space. I do not believe that I am guilty of being anything other than extremely proud of my work and passionate about my profession. However, Nigeria clearly still has a lot off post-1999 psychological and emotional baggage to decommission. Whether David Hundeyin is “proud” or “humble” is not and should not be an issue that intersects with the veracity and quality of the work I produce, but unfortunately we are simply not at that point of public emotional maturity.
The work that I do is now completely overshadowed by the personality behind the work, and this has created an impossible situation. On the one hand, my presence has completely turned some people off Nigerian journalism for reasons best known to them. On the other hand, it has created what is increasingly looking like an alarming cult of personality built around me, which I have no desire whatsoever to feed. My concept of freedom is both freedom from other people and freedom of other people from me. Clearly, my continued presence in that space would only serve to violate their freedom to not have to hear from someone as apparently intolerable as I am.
I am very proud of the work I have done over the past year and a half. Most notably, I am thrilled that my Abuja Raids investigation was cited by a Federal High Court ruling by Justice Murtala Binta Nyarko in November 2019, prohibiting violent arrests of young women in Abuja suspected of being sex workers. I am proud of my deep dive into the now-dropped NCDC bill, which was picked up by the Times of London. I am proud of my analysis of the CAMA Act which was supported and buttressed by no less than Femi Falana, SAN. I am very proud of the story about 40 Indian expatriates who were denied their entitlements, because the story ended up getting them their owed wages.
I am eternally grateful to my editor-in-chief and professional backbone Mercy Abang, my editor Fola Folayan, my friend and colleague William Ukpe and my late colleague Binta Bhadmus, for the roles they all played in what has been one of the most exhilarating periods of my life so far. As I transition back into my 2018 comfort zone and write this column, I hope someday Nigeria will be ready for the type of energy that I have brought to the table.
I say my goodbyes here.
