Journalists take so much pride in promoting themselves as societal watchdogs, the fourth estate of the realm etc. As far as I am concerned, these journalists can only be dismissed as “Otimkpu”, that is noisemakers indulging themselves in praise-singing.

The otimkpu parlance is of Igbo derivation and gained much ascendancy during the General Ibrahim Babangida regime when 419 and sundry vices were openly promoted. The music of the excited praise-singer, Oliver de Coque, gave the word all the promotion needed on earth when the music man lived.

Truth to tell, journalists are as partisan as the politicians: they are either singing the praise songs of the ruling party or the opposition. There is no middle ground or what the ancient teachers in journalism schools call objectivity.

Most journalists always rise in the stakes of life once they are appointed as press secretaries to some principalities and powers. No journalist goes to Abuja and comes back sane. One of the journalists recently appointed to a post as media aide in Abuja has suddenly grown a pot belly and gleefully told me: “You are not expected to eat caviar in opposition!”

This way, a journalist may get an initial appointment as special adviser on media. Then he is demoted to special assistant but he would not resign his post because he is already stuck like a rat to the perks of office. Someday you may even see him serving as a special assistant to the special adviser or, come to think of it, a special assistant to a special assistant! They are never ashamed once they can find a space, even in the boot of a car, in a convoy!

Back in time, Sonala Olumhense was scandalized that Duro Onabule left his post as editor of National Concord to serve as chief press secretary to Babangida. I wonder what Sonala, whom we popularly address as Ess Oh, would be saying in this day and age when even journalists who have founded titles have been known to abandon ship to serve as some politician’s foot mat!

For all I care, journalists can continue to dress themselves in borrowed robes by claiming all sorts of titles. As far as I am concerned, they are all court jesters, palace wags, ill-assorted praise-singers, in short, otimkpus!

“But are you not a journalist?” asks the young girl eavesdropping on my writing. Well, she is too young to know that I am a poet, in fact, “The Poet!”