‘I am sorry Editor, there was no story’
By Samuel Kamugisha
It’s
a Saturday and being a weekend, I didn’t have to go to RHU for internship. No
outreach. No nothing. Even if it were there, I would have flouted the rules,
not because I’m a law breaker who deserves Afande Omara’s iron hand but because
I could not miss Ngugi Wa Thiong’o whose books I’d read since I disobeyed my
teachers to offer Literature in English yet many saw a scientist in me. I
wonder what kind of doctor or engineer I’d have made. By the way, I’ve not
broken many rules save for rules of engagement but on this day I could break
all the rules.
At the entrance, I signed in not as an
intern but as a journalist working with the best University newspaper in
Africa. I said the truth. I didn’t want to break the rule like one man who
bragged, “God gave us ten, we broke them, Metternich has given us his, let’s
see”. My friend Michael was busy enjoying with his camera. He must be having
albums of pictures to present in his report. The guy’s camera flashed 1000 per
second. He must have taken 1000s of trillions of pictures.
 |
| One fails to figure out what they will say when they reach the newsroom without the story |
Luck is very selective. Sitting in the
gallery, I saw Loyce, an intern with UBC. Maaaama! Editorial policies suck.
Loyce saw nothing sensible in what was said for over five hours, including what
the author of ‘Devil on The Cross’ had said. One can run such a story by such
an author whose writings entail words that hide bombs of meanings in them, at
their own risk. Prof. Kamuntu, the minister of water, as if he’s the one who
created it, had represented the president. Loyce had to wait for whatever the
minister said in his master’s name. The minister read this boring script as Loyce
took notes. She threw the gallery into prolonged laughter when she shouted,
“Pardon!” Owing to the boredom that the
speech had plunged me into, I decided to take a nap. It’s Loyce’s laughter that
woke me up. I’d already filed and sent my story to Africa’s most authoritative
University news paper, THE MAKEREREAN and my story had begun trending like a
hot chapatti on our blog as my sister struggled.
As I rose to walk out, I saw Viola, an
intern for a certain business weekly. There was absolutely nothing
business-like about Ngugi, Nyerere, or the University Of East Africa that were
immensely referred to that day. At least, nothing for the budding business
paper. For more than five hours, there was no story. Her editor wanted the
story to run the next two days. Thank God she’d time to attend other functions
where she could luckily land on a juicy story. Wait, she’d not been parsimonious
with her spending. I’ve actually known her for spending her money like a fisherman
who has no idea whether the sea plans to swallow him the next day as he goes
swiping through its waters for more fish.
As Loyce struggled to jot down her story, Viola’s
editor and field supervisor called to inquire how far she’d gone. The intern
brazenly replied, “There was no story”.
Is that not story enough?
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