Some people come into this world and quietly pass through it, content to mark their presence. Others write their own chapters. But then there is Doyin Abiola – who don’t just write chapters, she wrote new volumes. She cleared a path through the darkness and made space for generations of African women journalists to shine. She held up a light and dared the world to follow it.
I don’t like phone calls from Nigeria in the middle of the night. Nothing good ever comes out of the Nigerian night. They are hardly ever social calls. They rarely carry laughter or warmth. It’s almost always a buffet of needs crying to be met – survival needs, medical emergencies, tuition troubles and more.
So, when my phone lit up last Tuesday under the blistering Californian summer sun and I saw a familiar Nigerian number, I picked it up gladly. Calls from home, when the sun is still high, usually bring lighter fare – nostalgia, gossip, or simply a shared laugh across time zones.
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But the voice that greeted me was heavy, hollowed by grief. A voice that belonged unmistakably to the night. And, in that single breath before the words landed, I realised it was night in Nigeria.
“Mama Doyin is gone,” the voice said.
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There is only one Mama Doyin in my universe. And she was not merely a woman. She was a force. A woman who looked at the skies and thought that is just the baseline for professional beginnings. A woman never content to follow footsteps. She created her own path, and in doing so blew the door of opportunities open for Nigerian female journalists and a generation of men too. She didn’t rise by jumping through hoops. She soared over them.
Doyinsola Hamidat Abiola. Not merely a name, but a monument. Not just a woman, but a whirlwind. Not a story told, but a life lived in distinction.
Before her, newsrooms were largely male spaces. Women were often relegated to the sidelines – as typists, secretaries, low-level reporters. Not senior reporters and never editors. But when she arrived, she didn’t wait for a chair to be pulled out. She took a seat at the table. She became the first female editor of a Nigerian national newspaper, topped it up by becoming the first editor-in-chief of a national newspaper. And not just any paper – the mighty Concord Press.
In a profession once walled off to women, she didn’t just break the wall, she rebuilt the architecture. When others stopped at success, she aimed for significance. Where others settled, she started anew. She didn’t wait for tomorrow to arrive. She picked up a torch and lit the way for it. She was fearless. When the military bared its teeth, she did not flinch.
I first met her at Concord. I was a young intern surviving on the weekly ₦50 transport stipend. My editor, Mike Awoyinfa, believed I deserved more and argued that I should be paid per article like a freelancer. She said “yes.” Not just to me, but to every intern. A little over a year later, after my national youth service, she approved Mike’s recommendation that I should be hired five ranks higher than a typical graduate. I had no connections, no pedigree, just words and work. Mike gave me my first break and Mrs Doyin Abiola allowed him to give me the wings to fly.
Concord Press was a dream like Nigeria. It was built to be great, to change the way journalists worked and lived. It was the dream of MKO Abiola and Doyin Abiola was the overseer. Then the skies over Nigeria got poisoned by the dictators’ gunpowder. They crippled Concord and left it to die. They didn’t just disable journalism – they killed the hope of a nation too.
We reconnected almost two decades later when I started the long journey working on a documentary film about MKO and the June 12 election. And that was when I really got to know her. We would visit and talk. In London and Lagos. For hours and hours. She proudly called me her younger brother and I called her Aunty Doyin. She was caring and doting. Because I travel a lot for work, she once instructed me to bring my wife over to London for a visit, so she could thank her for accommodating my schedule in her busy life.
When she learnt that I had helped man the Nigerian desk at Amnesty International USA during parts of the Abacha years, another connection formed. She shared stories rarely heard, battle scars unseen, strategies never published. Stories that still makes my heart ache for what Nigeria could have become.
She never stopped honouring the memory of MKO. Speak to her for five minutes and his name would come up. Not out of grief but pride, and regret for what Nigeria could have become if the only man they’ve ever freely voted for to lead them was allowed to rule. She spoke of the global lobbying. The nights of strategy. The grand deceptions. The conversations with Mandela and the world’s other moral giants. She carried all of it with grace and fire.
And she spoke of how MKO chased her and won her heart. How the man who always got what his heart desired conquered the heart of Nigeria’s preeminent female journalist. But the biggest gift she shared with MKO was their daughter, Doyinsola – the Doyin in Mama Doyin.
She loved Doyinsola with every breath in her. There’s this twinkle in her eyes whenever she speaks about her and there’s a magical connection between them when they share a space. Her grandkids always seem to energise her, even as age slowed her down. Watching her play with them, I often wondered how she managed to balance so much love and legacy. But that was her secret: she knew that the future must be nurtured – both in boardrooms and family rooms.
Some people come into this world and quietly pass through it, content to mark their presence. Others write their own chapters. But then there is Doyin Abiola – who don’t just write chapters, she wrote new volumes. She cleared a path through the darkness and made space for generations of African women journalists to shine. She held up a light and dared the world to follow it.
You ran a great race, Aunty Doyin. Knowing you was a privilege. Walking in the glow of your light was an honour. Now, you can rest in heavenly peace.
Ose Oyamendan is a filmmaker based in Hollywood.
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