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When the legendary talent hunter Opa Williams remarked that the former Governor of Delta State, Dr. Emmanuel Uduaghan, could easily hold his own as a stand-up act at one of his numerous “Night of a Thousand Laughs,” series, I thought it was just the usual hype that was meant to just massage his ego because of the support he gave to the Nigeria entertainment industry then. However, after my own encounter with him years ago, I realized Opa was very right with his assessment of the former governor. To Opa Williams, the spontaneous ways of delivering jokes effortlessly was what made him arrive at that conclusion.
Interestingly, the medical doctor turned politician showed his humorous side to me the very moment my path crossed with his over the phone.
Reflecting on it today, it is almost surreal how I once blatantly disrespected Uduaghan, a sitting governor that time. Yes, you heard me right—I was incredibly rude to him, though entirely by accident.
I can still recall that Saturday morning, when I was still dead to the world, recovering from a heavy night of “club-hopping.” As any veteran of the Lagos nightlife knows, after a night fueled by music and a fair share of intoxicating waters, your body doesn’t just ask for rest—it commands it. In the middle of this deep slumber, my phone rang. Being an unsaved number, I was reluctant in picking it but somehow , I picked up, and a man’s voice on the other end initially startled me when he declared he was a governor.
As a top journalist, I’ve always known that while we may not be financially wealthy, we are “influence-rich.” We move in circles with the society’s elite, and this is not because most love us, but because they see us as essential tools and partners in nation-building—or, more accurately, in perception management. Whether they want us to highlight their achievements or “sell ice to Eskimos,” on their behalf, they keep us close.
At the time, I was a society columnist for The Nation Newspaper, long before every other newspaper began copying the format. I handled the “Whispers” page which later metamorphosed into “Happenstances” a two page ‘society gist’ column on the Saturday desk under the editorship of Bolaji Tunji that still runs till this moment. Now, let me blow my trumpet a little to say that I was a pioneer of that brand of journalism in the modern media space. This is a verifiable fact.
That year, I had written a “gist” in that column about the Governor giving special preference to his wife’s catering outfit for all state functions. As the Yoruba saying goes, “Bi iku ile o pani, t’ode o le pa’ni” (If the death within doesn’t kill you, the one outside cannot). The tip had come from his inner circle who gave all the details of some of the contracts that was awarded to the wife’s outfit. In my signature style, I had balanced the story by praising his developmental strides before “chipping in” the bit about the favoritism toward his wife’s business.
The paper hit the stands early Saturday. By 11:00 AM, while I was still nursing my hangover, his call came.
As soon as I picked up, I heard a voice saying:
“I was just reading your paper, and I saw what you wrote about my wife… and I laughed,” .
Groggy but eager to ease off the caller, I asked politely, “Who I’m I on to sir?”
The reply that came through my phone caught me off guard, but not in the way you’d expect. “My name is Uduaghan,” he said. Now, the only Uduaghan I knew was the Governor of Delta, but the voice on the other end had a thick, raw Warri accent. He sounded more like an agbero from downtown Sapele than a refined medical doctor.
“Yes o! I am the Governor o!” he reiterated in that heavy Pidgin-inflected tone.
I put on my “big man” garb and replied dismissively, “Look, I am a very busy person. I have things to do, so be quick about whatever you want to say.”
Undeterred by my rudeness, he calmly asked if I would like to be his guest in Asaba so I could see the projects I’d written about—including the wife’s catering outfit—for myself.
Thinking the “prank” was going too far, I blurted out, “My friend, I just told you I’m a busy man! I can’t come to Asaba or anywhere else right now. My schedule is tight!”
He didn’t even flinch. He just asked calmly if the following week would be better. I almost shouted, “I told you, I’m busy!”
Finally, he said, “Okay o, anytime you are ready o.” That settled it for me. No Governor, I reasoned, would talk like a “Warri boy” on the streets. I hung up.
Once I was fully awake, I called Josiah Abiola (my late Political Desk Editor) to confirm the Governor’s number, just to prove I was right. I told Josiah someone was prank-calling me using Uduaghan’s name.
Josiah called back a minute later, his voice trembling. “Kunle, that is the Governor’s number.”
My blood ran hot and cold at the same time. I was caught between shock and total embarrassment. I had not only hung up on a Governor; I had been outright hostile to him. I couldn’t reconcile the sophisticated doctor I imagined with the man who spoke with such a gritty Delta flair.
As I write this, I still feel the sting of shame for how I “disgraced not only myself but also my family” when I finally tried to fix things.
I immediately called the number back. No answer. I called again. Still nothing. The “proud” Kunle Rasheed vanished instantly. I began frantically composing a text message, inserting “Sir” into every single line:
“Your Excellency Sir! This is Kunle Rasheed of The Nation, Sir. I spoke with you earlier today, Sir…”
Silence was the only answer I got. The man didn’t reply to that text or the many others that followed.
Two weeks passed and it was still the same situation. However, one Saturday evening around 8:00 PM, I was home watching the news. A report on Governor Uduaghan came on, and on a whim, I decided to try his number again, certain he wouldn’t pick up.
It rang once. Twice. Then, that bold voice: “Hello, Mr. Kunle Rasheed.”
That was the moment I truly lost my composure. I practically screamed into the phone, “Your Excellency, Sir!” I was talking so fast I was tripping over my own tongue.
“Calm down, calm down, Kunle,” he chuckled. “Are you ready to come to Asaba now?”
“Yes, Sir!” I answered like a programmed robot.
He told me he’d expect me the next day, Sunday. By 7:00 AM, I was at the Jibowu motor park in Lagos, texting him that I was on my way. He replied immediately that he was waiting.
The journey to Delta was smooth, but the moment I arrived at the Government House in Asaba, a new round of trouble began.
To be concluded next week…
Key Improvements Made:
This is still Kunle Rasheed reporting live from his inner mind
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