Professionally, tomes have been written or said about his significant contributions to Nigerian letters, as a consistent public intellectual of more than three decades standing. For this particular purpose, I choose to bear testimony of a slightly different dimension of the Azu enigma: a deep commitment to family values. His professional accomplishments are arguably matched by the equal success in building an adorable home, with his kids turning out excellently well.
In conversation around African culture, the art of giving is often characterised as binary. The material and the immaterial. Whereas the former consists of gifting, say, gold and silver; the latter involves the intimacy of donating, say, time.
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Without denying the value of a material gift, there can, of course, be no disputing the nobility in devoting time to the pursuit of the interests of others. For, in the materialist world, we are classified either as billionaire, millionaire, simply comfortable or poor. Which means that our ability to give is contingent upon what providence has endowed us with.
But while the size of our wealth may vary individually, time is definitely a leveller of all. So, it can be seen that to give of one’s time — a resource universally fixed for everyone — is to truly give more indeed.
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This is how I choose to define the essence of Azubuike Ishiekwene, a friend who sticks closer than a brother. Journalism had introduced us more than three decades ago in Lagos; first, as acquaintances, and, despite a wide age gap, we became buddies, then brothers, and collaborators. I count him among that special tribe instinctively wired and eager to volunteer of their allotted daily 24 hours often in the service of those not in the position to give anything in return.
It is often said that the factor of woman or money is the bane of friendship between two males. But for more than a quarter of a century that Azu and I became what the Yoruba classify as “kori kosun” (intimate friends), we have never quarrelled for one day. Which is a reflection of his temperance and tolerance.
I, therefore, count myself among the countless beneficiaries of his generosity of spirit, which is quite ecumenical in texture. You only need to hint Azu of a difficulty — whether professional or personal — and, in the next moment, he has everything already worked out clinically, like an oracle in terms of solution options.
Indeed, his spare frame belies an immense capacity for hard work and laser focus. Not until a dire medical warning came a few years ago did Azu, for instance, finally agree to accept a major lifestyle change: muting his phone after 10 p.m. Over the years, he had become addicted to an editor’s hazardous routine – working for 24 hours.
But regardless, with the furious force of a soldier ant, Azu still juggles a lot of things at once: business manager, columnist, writer, reporter, speaker, mentor, etc. The amazing thing is the adroitness he brings to bear on each of these responsibilities.
Even at that, he yet has this uncanny way of inserting himself into other people’s world and inheriting their battles or yokes, so to speak.
That same spirit undoubtedly led him into countless volunteer organisations like the Open Fees NGO, which is committed to putting underprivileged children through school. One of its beneficiaries happens to be Azu’s own former gateman, now in medical school. When we started National Life newspapers in 2008, I drew immeasurably from Azu’s hands-on experience as Controller at THE PUNCH.
It was in the course of similarly pushing the boundaries of “community service” that he, for instance, had met his “missing rib” in the 80s. Then, Azu was roving around the idyllic campus of UNILAG, following the proverbial “October Rush,” when he bumped onto a needy JAMBITE trying to sort out her registration. Characteristically, the “Good Samaritan” took over her burden. Thereafter, one thing led to another, and he and Rume became an item on the Akoka campus.
The rest is now history.
That same spirit undoubtedly led him into countless volunteer organisations like the Open Fees NGO, which is committed to putting underprivileged children through school. One of its beneficiaries happens to be Azu’s own former gateman, now in medical school at Ahmadu Bello University, Kano.
When we started National Life newspapers in 2008, I drew immeasurably from Azu’s hands-on experience as Controller at THE PUNCH. And for the years that I served as Information Commissioner in Edo State and had to cope with the choking pressure of office, he was my backroom booster, who would help deliver excellent papers rapidly, at no cost. I also did not have to worry much about any backstabbers in the often-treacherous media space. Azu had my back fully covered.
Maybe that has to do with his growing up in the rough and tumble of what used to be Lagos’ most iconic ghetto in the ‘70s and ‘80s — Ajegunle, where the sense of community was strong and loyalty was a religion. No wonder, one of Azu’s favourite songs is Akon’s folksy “Ghetto.”
Professionally, tomes have been written or said about his significant contributions to Nigerian letters, as a consistent public intellectual of more than three decades standing. For this particular purpose, I choose to bear testimony of a slightly different dimension of the Azu enigma: a deep commitment to family values. His professional accomplishments are arguably matched by the equal success in building an adorable home, with his kids turning out excellently well.
Suffice to add that as our friendship deepened over the years, so did our individual families become integrated. Before my own kids left home for university, “Big Mummy” (Rume) made it a point of duty to host them on weekends, from time to time, at their Magodo, Lagos, home.
By mid-2000s, frustration with ASUU’s prolonged strike eventually pushed the Ishiekwenes into pulling their first daughter, Ashioma, from University of Lagos (UNILAG) and enrolling her in a top university in the US, putting them under financial pressure. I should know. Azu and I have been involved in a lot of collaborations — both intellectual and entrepreneurial — yielding some money. Since I hadn’t started paying “serious school fees” as my kids were still in primary school in the 2000s, I invested mostly in properties. Azu’s share of whatever we made went almost entirely offshore into school fees and upkeep allowances in hard currencies. In fact, I used to tease him then as being Nigeria’s unacknowledged best authority on the black market, in terms of ascertaining the prevailing exchange rate of either the US dollar or British pound to the naira.
Happily, Ashioma earned both her first and second degrees in flying colours in Chemical Engineering from University of Texas at Austin, and later Cornell. The second child, Meke, the chubbier version of the dad, studied Law in the UK, while Nkechi earned her PhD specialising in trauma and child psychology from Georgia State University in 2024.
Before Ewan, Ese and Joshua too departed home for the university, the transition rite was never complete without a pep talk from Uncle Azu. Often mixing humour with a certain patriarchal sagacity, Azu would first praise them for excelling in their WAEC examinations and then admonish them to, when weary or tempted, always remember our sacrifices as parents and, above all, forever uphold the family’s good name, which we laboured hard to build.
From time to time, Azu never forgets to wire them money in continued expression of a shared commitment and affection. So much that his courier in the US inadvertently almost fell into bankruptcy on one occasion. The guy had mistakenly added an extra “0” to the dollar figure he sent my first son. Almost immediately, the poor guy dialled Ese’s number frantically, to no avail. Soon, I was contacted to quickly alert the boy not to assume that he had hit a jackpot.
While exchanging banters on the sidelines of the occasion that fateful day, the often-magisterial Chief Anenih chose to first blanch Azu literally, by giving him a condescending look from head to toe, before remarking with sardonic humour: “You already look so lean. By the time you people at PUNCH cough out damages to me at the court, I wonder if you’d have any flesh remaining on your bones.”
Curiously, after repeated dialling, I too could not reach Ese.
Which kind wahala be dis?!
Suspense.
It was not until after what seemed like an eternity that Azu eventually called back to announce that Ese had refunded the excess. The momentary “digital disappearance” was because Ese’s phone battery had gone flat.
God forbid bad thing!
That said, let it also be noted that Azu’s trademark smile however hides one thing: an immense capacity for mischief. Such that when victims of his caustic pen finally meet him in flesh, they are often left wondering if there is any pound of flesh to be exacted from him. I recall vividly a rather hilarious encounter we had with Chief Tony Anenih (of blessed memory) over two decades ago at a social event. The putative “Mr Fix It” of PDP had prior slammed a multi-billion naira libel suit on THE PUNCH over an unflattering news story. To worsen matters, all that while Azu never stopped peppering the PDP supremo in his column in SATURDAY PUNCH.
While exchanging banters on the sidelines of the occasion that fateful day, the often-magisterial Chief Anenih chose to first blanch Azu literally, by giving him a condescending look from head to toe, before remarking with sardonic humour: “You already look so lean. By the time you people at PUNCH cough out damages to me at the court, I wonder if you’d have any flesh remaining on your bones.”
We all laughed deliriously.
With Azu, it is always “yabis” unlimited, with him giving as much as he takes. In fact, he has a unique gift to make others laugh at his expense. A classic example is the recall, several years ago, of his experience during a trip to Thailand. On hearing Azu bemoan having severe body aches after a tortuous flight from Africa to Asia, his empathetic host (a fellow Nigerian) had recommended that he went for a body massage. Pronto, Azu jumped into a pair of jeans, T-shirt and sneakers, and headed for the parlour down the street.
Not until he was ushered into a dimly-lit room and a barely clothed damsel sashayed in, did Azu become conscious of the actual implication of a full body massage “with a happy ending.”
Of course, Thailand is notorious for sex tourism, which is insidiously executed through the ubiquity of “innocuous” massage parlours.
As a “Pastor”, Azu quickly did a cross sign for divine fortification against temptation on a foreign soil. Then, the young lady, scared of the prospect of losing revenue and a certain backlash from her Madam, broke down in tears.
Not to worry, Azu agreed to pay for services not rendered as a compromise that fateful night in Bangkok.
I laughed when he narrated this story to me, unwilling to be drawn into a debate as to my own possible response in the same circumstance.
Happy 60th birthday! Azu.
Louis Odion is a Fellow of the Nigerian Guild of Editors
