By AKIN OLANIYAN
As the ongoing debate about guerilla journalism suggests, there probably is no other subject in the annals of Nigerian journalism that provokes reverence and reproach in equal measure. While some believe that the phenomenon was the brave, underground response to and heartbeat of a nation choking under military rule, others think it was an unprincipled descent into activism masquerading as reportage. Like the wise will counsel, when there is a fierce debate like this one, it is better to remember that the truth does not wear a uniform; but is always dressed in the context of its time. So, in a time that the Nigerian system is showing its most fragile nature since 1999, bogged down by insecurity, corruption, and divisive politics, maybe the ghost of guerrilla journalism demands more than a nostalgic glance – it requires a clear-eyed interrogation.
The concept itself evokes the imagery of the hit-and-run tactics favoured by revolutionaries in irregular warfare, with hidden bases, and a defiant, resourceful spirit. Guerilla journalism is a crude metaphor for media practice by a section of the press in the Nigeria of the military era – especially under Generals Ibrahim Babangida and Sani Abacha – when state and press relations was at its poorest. That era, marked by proscription of newspapers, sealing newsrooms, arrest of and jailing of editors under military decrees meant that journalism faced a stark choice: adapt or die. It is in this context that we should see The News, Tell, and Tempo, publications which responded to state repression by finding ways to operate from shadows, using pseudonyms, smuggling stories, and printing in safe houses. They were, in the words of media scholar, Professor Ayo Olukotun, an “alternative media and counter-hegemonic forum” that refused to let tyranny silence the public square.
Regardless, the practice has its critics as the recent tribute by veteran journalist, Ray Ekpu, reminds us. In a moving tribute to his departed friend and colleague, Dan Agbese, Ekpu paid homage to a legacy of graceful, principled journalism. Yet, within his eulogy, Ekpu issued a sharp, unapologetic condemnation that would ignite a revealing debate about guerrilla journalism, describing it as “vile propaganda… not fit to be touched by any self-respecting journalist.” This was no casual aside. It was a pointed dismissal of an entire tradition of the radical press that flourished under military rule. A tradition that another veteran, Babafemi Ojudu, would soon feel compelled to defend vigorously. This exchange between two icons is more than a historical spat; it is the core of a fundamental interrogation of journalism’s soul in times of tyranny. What is the duty of the press when the state criminalises truth? Is survival through adaptation a mark of courage or a compromise of ethics?
Ray Ekpu’s position, framed within his admiration for Agbese’s decency, draws a clear line in the sand. For him, journalism’s nobility is inextricably linked to its method and bearing. He praised Agbese for practising a journalism of “graceful writing,” free from “sensationalism” and “unguarded extremism,” a craft that “expressed rather than impressed.” In Ekpu’s professional theology, the journalist must maintain a disciplined distance, serving as a beacon of integrity, fairness, and clarity. Guerrilla journalism, operating mostly underground and relying on opposition forces for leaks crossed that fine line between journalism and activism and, therefore, transformed the journalist from a truth-teller into a combatant. We understand his disdain – that the transformation undermined the very credibility and moral authority that makes the press what it is. Ekpu’s critique is thus a purist’s defence of the profession’s core tenets, reminding us that its value lies in steadfast principles, not in tactical alliances born of desperation.
The defence of guerilla journalism is powerful and, in many ways, morally compelling as we see in the response from another veteran journalist, Babafemi Ojudu, a key figure in the very guerrilla press tradition Ekpu derided. His response offers us what looks like a sober, contextual rebuttal. He frames guerrilla journalism was not a philosophy of propaganda but a strategy of survival. When the military government “arrogated to itself the sole right to define reality,” these journalists became the couriers of truth, he argues. Confirming what we already know, he argued that this section of the press cultivated sources within the very corridors of power, not for access to canapés, but for leaks that exposed the rot. Their credibility, Ojudu argues, was rooted in a stark refusal to “trade truth for access.” Their impact was real enough to give a sitting head of state sleepless nights, a fact Babangida himself later conceded.
The debate cannot stand in isolation. True, media scholars like Professor Wale Adebanwi, who practised in that generation, notes that these journalists indeed saw themselves more as activists in a battle to “reclaim Nigeria from military marauders,” and that in that existential fight, the “canons of objectivity and impartiality were sacrificed.” The methods were unorthodox: secret tape-recordings, disguised identities, and the use of classified leaks but their assessment of the press at the time are mostly positive and understandably so. I can relate with that viewpoint myself, working for a critical newspaper in Abuja in the time when Abacha was Head of State, when you had to avoid your office if you wrote anything negative. Notwithstanding, the ethical fault line cannot be disguised. Does extreme repression justify extreme methods? If the state has criminalised the very act of truthful reporting, does journalism not have a right, even a duty, to fight back with whatever tools keep the information flowing?
So, it is obvious that critics like Ekpu cannot be waved away because we know that activist journalism has the tendency to sometimes colours content. Activist journalists could cross the line by replacing the complex pursuit of truth with the cleaner, more compelling narrative of a “struggle.” Adebanwi acknowledges this transformative shift in identity. Furthermore, some other participants have noted the aggressive, oppositional stance sometimes “bordered on the unethical,” blurring lines that a functioning society needs its fourth estate to keep sharply defined.
The most poignant lesson from this era may be that both traditions were necessary for the same republic. The guerrilla press was the clenched fist, keeping the space for dissent from being completely sealed shut. The mainstream, ethical press was the steady hand, preserving the template for what a responsible, enduring institution should look like in peacetime. One provided the urgent defiance; the other safeguarded the professional soul.
Today, the echoes are unmistakable. As political actors deploy social media influencers in a “dark art” of paid disinformation – a modern, cynical cousin to state propaganda – the public sphere is again under sophisticated assault. How does journalism respond to new forms of repression and manipulation? If there is anything we learn from the guerrilla journalists, it is that the media must be courageous and adaptable when the need arises – like when the fight is for the nation’s soul. However, this must not compromise the commitment to the strong ethical foundation that have sustained the media since the first newspaper was established in 1859.
So, how should we see guerrilla journalism? Contextually, and to the extent that it defines a period in the Nigerian press history where practitioners were forced to respond to repression, maybe it is better to see it not as relic but a mirror. One which reflects that morally ambiguous chapter where the press was forced to become what it beheld. In this context, it would seem that its legacy is a double-edged sword: on one side, strong proof of the audacity that preserved light in darkness, and on the other, the danger signal of the potential damage when the journalists become activists. To honour that legacy is not to romanticise or demonise guerilla journalism but to understand its contextual inevitability while focusing on building a Nigeria where such desperate measures is never again required.
Dr. Olaniyan, Convener, Centre for Social Media Research, Lagos writes on Digital Culture.
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