By Seun Akioye
In 2002, I was a heck of a smart reporter. I could get inside any building, interview anyone I liked whether I had an appointment or not. I was very street smart.
So to complement a story on drug addiction I was doing, I had to interview a psychiatrist, I went to Yaba left.
I didn’t know anyone, didn’t have any appointment but I was determined to get an interview.
I managed to talk my way into the compound, then I went to the Notice Board. I saw the name of a doctor who signed one of the notices, crammed it and demanded to see him.
Now those days I looked very small and rugged. The lady looked at me and asked if I had an interview.
“Please tell him Seun Akioye from The Source wants to see him,” I replied impatiently.
She looked at me again, called someone and whispered. The other fellow came and asked if I knew the person.
“Heheheheh, I clapped my hands together. So you think I came all the way to meet someone I didn’t know? What an insult.”
“Please wait sir,” the fellow said and returned with another woman.
“Sir why do you want to see him?”
Now I was very angry, I told them I am a journalist in pursuit of a story of human interest and they had better stop their prank before I report to the Minister.
“Can we see your ID card?”
Now that’s the worst question to ask a Journalist, an arrogant one like me. I refused to show them. This time many people had gathered and they were urging me to show the ID.
Some were gigling, others talking without speaking. Then it dawned on me, they thought I was a patient.
“So you people think i am mad abi?” I yelled. I shouldn’t have because I saw the twinkle in their eyes, a confirmation of my insanity.
I pulled up my bag and began to look for the ID. It usually was in my bag but that day i didn’t find it. Now they were taunting me: “Ògá look for it, find it, show us,” they cried.
I was desperate. I emptied the content of my bag, note book, several Biro, some half eaten, junks, corn cobs, chinchin sachet, everything a mad man would have in his bag.
They asked me to stand up and suddenly pushed me inside an empty room. I began to shout more out of fear than anger.
I then learnt the man I asked for left the place some months back. If I claimed to have an appointment with him, I should have known he wasn’t there anymore.
I begged, I cried. Then I calmed down. I called the lady- I always appeal to the ladies – told her my job and the truth. I had no appointment, I was trying to be smart.
“Check my notebook, see my interviews. Please my dear help me.”
She did. I was let off and a doctor volunteered to answer my questions. That was the last drug story I would ever do.
• Akioye is a senior journalist.