How Prof. Emmanuel Akpan gave me an opportunity to become a journalist

How Prof. Emmanuel Akpan gave me an opportunity to become a journalist

By Ibanga Isine

I got to know about my admission into the Department of Communication Arts late in 1993. I was still doing my okada hustle to gather money for my fees at the time.

One day, I went to drop a passenger at the School of Arts and Science (SAS). What is now Annex in the Town Campus was SAS at the time.

A student who knew me said he saw my name on the notice board at the Admissions Office. I immediately parked my motorcycle and rushed into the university with him to confirm.

Behold, my name was on the notice board. I had taken JAMB the previous year and indicated the Christian Radio Studio, Obot Idim, as my contact address. It was the only organisation close to where I lived that had a private mail bag (PMB) at the time.

Despite my repeated visists to the studio, no one told me they got my admission slip. Perhaps someone had seen the slip and put it away.

Back to the story…. After seeing my name on the notice board, I immediately dashed home to Obot Idim where I lived at that time, changed into my best clothes and a cutlass-looking tie. I went back to campus. I was shown to the Department of Communication Arts, where I met Dr. Des Wilson, the then interim HOD.

Dr. Wilson, now Emeritus Professor, actually confirmed I was admitted but argued that I wouldn’t be able to catch up with my classmates, having missed over one month of lectures.

I pleaded, and he insisted I should go take JAMB again. It was impossible to believe that I would catch up with my classmates, but I have never believed in impossibilities.

I went away devastated. But a student from the English Department who knew me from the village informed me that Theatre Arts Department was still admitting and encouraged me to go and meet the interim HOD. The interim HOD was not only from a neighbouring village to my mine, but also attended the same church with me. In fact, we belonged to the same district at the time.

Instead of getting admission, I was introduced to drama. To my utmost surprise, the HOD said he could not admit me because of what my uncle did to one of his siblings at the TTC, Ibakachi, many years before I was born.

According to him, my uncle, who was a lecturer at the college, had punished his sister for something she did and refused to waive the punishment even when his dad personally went to the college to beg. He vowed never to give me a place.

You know the biblical case of visiting the iniquities of the father on the children? But it was my uncle who did whatever was alleged and not my father who had died just when I started secondary school. I pleaded in vain.

I was again advised to take my case to the Dean, Faculty of Arts. I was also told he was from my area and was shown to his office on the block close to Room 49/50. When I got to the outer office, I met a very beautiful and compassionate woman who served as his secretary. She was very busy and didn’t see when I walked in. My mouth was dry, and I was sweating on my palms and the other places I am unable to mention here.

Not really knowing what to do, I stood patiently as lecturers and students went in and out of the Dean’s office. I waited for close to two hours until the good-natured secretary noticed and asked about how she could help me.

With a broken voice, I said I came to see the Dean. My hands were shaking terribly.

“What do you want to see the Dean for,” she asked calmly while punching the keyboard on her typewriter.

“I want to plead with him to give me admission to the Communication Arts Department,” I responded, still shaking.

She asked why I came so late, and I told her that I was busy riding okada to raise money for my fees and oblivious of the fact I had gained admission and the lectures had even started.

She assured me that Ette (that was what many called Prof at the time) will help me. She stood up from her chair and walked me to the door to wait for the person inside the Dean’s office to come out so I could go in.

As soon as the person stepped out, she pushed me inside, and I was standing face to face with an imposing dark-complexioned man with an afro hair style. He commanded an uncommon presence, sitting down there on his swivel chair.

“Young man, how can I help you,” he said in a cracking baritone voice while looking straight into my eyes with his big round eyeballs.

I felt like disappearing into the ground, and my mouth failed to produce sound. I struggled to start a conversation, but my throat went as dry as the ground during harmattan.

Finally, I picked a familiar line I learned in the high school debating club on how to introduce oneself during an interview. “My name is Ibanga Wilson Smith Isine Udeng. I had taken JAMB to study Communication Arts and was busy trying to raise money for my fees. I didn’t know I got admitted untill today. Please, Sir, help me,” I said, visibly shaking and sweating profusely.

The Dean didn’t allow me to end my lamentation when he walked away from his chair and hugged me, saying, “Udeng. I knew your father. He was my classmate at the TTC Ibakachi. I learnt he died. How’s your mum and siblings?”

That was the first time I heard the word “sibling,” and I intuitively said they were fine.

He asked me to take a seat and hand him my admission slip and other credentials, which I did. He rang the bell on his large table and the secretary came in. He asked her to bring the Com Arts admission file, and she did.

Prof went through the file, moving his red pen down the page until he got to my name and paused.

“You did very well in your matriculation examination, ” he said, picking up a prepared document from another file and filling it out.

He signed, stamped, and asked the secretary to put it in a file and take me to the HOD, Communication Arts.

“Congratulations, Udeng. Go to your HOD and register your courses. Your father was a very intelligent and disciplined person. I hope you’ll take after him. Come and see me whenever you have a problem,” he said, shaking my hand and walking me to the door to join his secretary, who was already waiting for me.

That was how God used Prof. Akpan to give me an opportunity to become what I’m today after I was turned down twice in the same institution.

Today, on the anniversary of his passing, I am reminded of his compassion, his fatherly disposition, his intellect, and the power of his booming voice during lectures.

I am also reminded that I might not have considered taking another JAMB if I had missed that first admission.

With a heart full of gratitude, I pray God to continue to keep the soul of Prof Emmanuel Akpan safe across the bridge on the other side of the Jordan. I also pray to God to reward his children and children’s children for the good he did for people like me.

Continue to rest in peace, Prof.