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 why.

We had worked together at Newsstar years back. I was an Assistant News Editor under Afolabi Odeyemi, who was the editor then. Laaro was our correspondent in Ilorin. He had been frustrated that his reports rarely made it to print. Odeyemi, knowing my roots in Ilorin despite my Igbo heritage, asked me to handle his stories personally. “Maybe he’ll listen to you,” Odeyemi had said.

Laaro recalled this clearly. “My stories stopped suffering delays after we spoke on the phone,” he told me that day. I was stunned. My byline back then was a shortened version of my name—how did he even know it was me?

He didn’t answer. Just laughed, that same warm, knowing laugh.

That was Saka Laaro—gentle, unassuming, yet mysterious in a way that only truly wise people can be. When he told me this story, I never got the chance to say what I should have: what I did wasn’t a favour. If anything, he did Newsstar a favour. His reports were pure gold—clear, rich in detail, always compelling. Any editor worth their salt would jump at the chance to publish his work. With Laaro’s stories, you never had to second-guess. They spoke with the authority of someone who knew not just the facts but the people, the places, the soul of the city.

Now he’s gone. At 73, he has filed his final report—this time, to a higher Editor-in-Chief.

I find myself compelled to write this, not just in remembrance but as a kind of open letter to him. To say what we, his colleagues, might never have said enough. That we knew his worth. That journalism in Kwara—and indeed Nigeria—was richer because of his voice. And that we will miss him deeply.

So, permit me this indulgence: Saka Laaro, can you write for me one last time? From the other side, perhaps. Tell us what it’s like. Tell us if peace finally reigns. Tell us if there's still a newsroom there—and whether they appreciate good writing as much as we did here.

If anyone can file such a story, it’s you.