By Abdullahi O Haruna Haruspice
There are moments when journalism merely reports history. There are rarer moments when it quietly rearranges it.
One of those moments may have unfolded on ARISE Television when Sumner Shagari Sambo steered a conversation with former Director of Defence Information, Major General John Enenche (rtd). It was not a spectacle of raised voices or partisan grandstanding. It was journalism at its most consequential: asking the uncomfortable question that many had grown too accustomed to ignoring.
Why should the men and women entrusted with defending Africa’s largest democracy continue to earn wages that barely defend them from inflation?
General Enenche’s response—that no Nigerian soldier should earn less than ₦250,000 monthly—did more than produce a memorable television soundbite. It crystallised a national argument. It provided a measurable benchmark against which public policy could be judged. When government later announced a significant upward review of soldiers’ remuneration, many understandably traced the intellectual genealogy of the debate back to that televised exchange.
To attribute the salary review solely to one interview would oversimplify the machinery of government. Public policy emerges from budgets, lobbying, military assessments, executive deliberations and fiscal realities. Yet ideas require ignition. Journalism often provides that spark. In democracies, governments frequently act not merely because facts exist, but because those facts become impossible to ignore.
That is journalism in its highest form—not manufacturing events, but forcing society to confront truths it has postponed.
History offers abundant parallels. When Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein of The Washington Post persisted with the Watergate investigation, they did more than expose political burglary; they redefined accountability in the American presidency. Their reporting demonstrated that persistent questioning could compel the world’s most powerful office to answer to ordinary citizens.
In Britain, investigative reporting by The Sunday Times on the Thalidomide tragedy transformed public understanding of pharmaceutical responsibility and accelerated demands for justice for thousands of affected children. Journalism became the conscience that bureaucracy had misplaced.
Across the Atlantic, Ghanaian investigative journalist Anas Aremeyaw Anas exposed entrenched judicial corruption through painstaking undercover reporting. Courts were shaken. Judges were removed. Institutions that had appeared untouchable suddenly became accountable.
South Africa witnessed a similar reckoning when investigative journalists relentlessly uncovered the architecture of “state capture.” Their work helped trigger commissions of inquiry, prosecutions and a profound national conversation about corruption and governance.
These examples share a common denominator. None of those journalists wrote laws. None signed executive orders. None appropriated public funds. They simply illuminated realities so clearly that power found it increasingly difficult to pretend otherwise.
That is precisely why societies that weaken journalism often weaken themselves. A muted press produces comfortable governments but vulnerable citizens.
Nigeria’s security challenges have repeatedly exposed the gap between patriotic rhetoric and institutional welfare. Soldiers are expected to confront insurgents, terrorists, bandits and kidnappers with extraordinary courage. Yet courage cannot indefinitely substitute for decent remuneration, adequate housing, quality healthcare and dignified retirement. Morale is not built by medals alone; it is sustained by fairness.
By bringing this contradiction into living rooms across the country, Sumner Shagari Sambo performed journalism’s oldest civic duty: holding a mirror before power and refusing to lower it until someone looked.
The significance of that interview lies less in whether it single-handedly produced a salary increase than in what it revealed about journalism’s democratic utility. It demonstrated that informed questioning can elevate neglected issues above the noise of daily politics. It showed that television, when guided by substance rather than sensation, remains capable of influencing national priorities.
Modern journalism is increasingly seduced by clicks, outrage and fleeting viral moments. The economics of attention reward spectacle more generously than substance. Yet history rarely remembers the loudest interviewer. It remembers the journalist whose questions altered public consciousness.
If the eventual improvement in soldiers’ welfare drew momentum from that national conversation, then every Nigerian serviceman who receives a better pay cheque carries, however indirectly, a reminder of what responsible journalism can accomplish.
A free press is often described as the Fourth Estate. That phrase understates its role. At its finest, journalism is not merely another institution of democracy; it is democracy’s early-warning system, its institutional memory and, occasionally, its moral compass.
In an era where information is abundant but wisdom scarce, journalists like Sumner Shagari Sambo deserve recognition not because they seek applause, but because they exemplify the enduring purpose of the profession: to ask the question that changes the conversation—and sometimes, in changing the conversation, changes the country.
Impressively musing
