The day before the Ondo governorship election, I sat in my room staring at an empty jerrycan. There was no fuel in town. My phone battery was at 17%. My editor hadn’t sent any allowance. But I knew I had to go.
Because elections in Nigeria are more than just ballots — they are battles for power. And sometimes, the people with the most to lose are not the politicians, but the reporters.
No Fuel, No Transport, No Excuses
By 6:00 a.m. on election day, I was on a borrowed motorcycle — one I had fueled with money meant for my food that week. My polling unit assignments spanned two towns. There was no guarantee of internet, no press jacket, and definitely no safety assurance.
Other reporters had backed out. Some were told, “We’re still expecting funding.”
Me? I had only my phone, my pen, and grit
The Tension in the Air
The first polling station I visited in Oka was calm — too calm. Voters were quiet. Armed policemen stood at a distance, pretending to observe.
Suddenly, a group of young men stormed in, accusing the presiding officer of “working for the opposition.” A scuffle broke out. I raised my phone to take a photo — big mistake.
One of them pointed at me. “That journalist dey snap us! Seize him!”
I ran.
Not like a professional. Not like a hero. I ran like a man who knew that dying for a byline wouldn’t change the result.
Fear and Courage on the Field
At the next town, Akungba, election materials arrived late. Tempers flared. I interviewed an elderly woman who had been waiting since 7:30 a.m. “I will wait till night if I must,” she said. “They’ve been cheating us for too long.”
Her voice steadied me.
Despite the chaos, despite the threats, I kept recording, kept asking questions, kept tweeting updates. Not because I was brave — but because I believed that even one honest account mattered.
The Worst Part? The Silence After
I filed my story by candlelight that night — no power, no mobile data, just grit and a borrowed generator for 30 minutes.
I submitted it.
No response.
No “thank you.” No payment. Just silence.
That was the part that cut deepest.
Why Do We Still Do It?
Because someone must.
Because elections are not just about who wins — they’re about how the people are treated. Because the woman who waited all day deserves to be seen. Because the rigging, the violence, the fake figures — they must be documented.
Because if we stop writing, the lies become truth.
The Life of a Local Reporter
We don’t wear bulletproof vests. We don’t have media vans. We’re not flown in by global networks. We are on the ground — dusty, broke, afraid, and still reporting.
We go unpaid. We get threatened. But we tell the truth anyway.
“I risked my life to tell the truth. The least I expect is for someone to read it.”
If you’re a journalist in Nigeria, I see you. If you’ve ever covered a story with nothing but willpower, this one’s for you.
