OPINION | Saka Laaro, Can You Write for Me One Last Time?
By Nicholas Uwerunonye He probably knew the end was near. Saka Laaro had survived two collapses—once at the University of Ilorin during a convocation ceremony, and another time at a law chamber in Ilorin while trying to mediate in the crisis plaguing the state’s NUJ Council. At 73, such episodes are more than just medical events; they are ominous signals, whispers from the edge. So when he called me aside at the NUJ Secretariat in Ilorin one afternoon to share a story—his story—I listened carefully. It felt like a man tidying up the last lines of a long, well-written article. But before that, let me say something that used to unsettle me. Laaro, old enough to be my father, would always greet me with a warm, “Oga mi o!”—Yoruba for “my boss.” I would plead with him not to call me that. It made me uncomfortable, especially given our cultural norms around age and respect. He would just laugh in that unforgettable, affectionate way of his. That day at the NUJ, he finally told me...
