UNCLE SAM AT 90: THE LAST GENTLEMAN OF NIGERIAN JOURNALISM
Before journalism became hashtags and hot takes, there was Sam Amuka—pen in hand, truth on his tongue, and humour sharp enough to cut through the noise. Few names in Nigerian journalism command as much reverence as Prince Sam AmukaPemu, affectionately known as Uncle Sam or Sad Sam. At 90 years old, he remains the nation’s oldest practicing media professional, a living legend, a conscience in ink, and a man whose dedication to truth and storytelling has defined the very fabric of Nigerian media for over six decades.
Born on June 13, 1935, in Sapele, Delta State, Sam Amuka’s life has been a study in longevity, resilience, and cultural commitment. The son of Pa AmukaPemu and Madam TeshomaAmukaPemu, his roots are deeply embedded in a proud heritage, but it was his fierce intellect, his gift with words, and his unshakeable ideals that would eventually propel him to the top of Nigeria’s press establishment.
Sam’s earliest foray into journalism was nothing short of remarkable. He joined the Daily Times of Nigeria in its heyday, quickly rising through the ranks to become one of the most celebrated columnists of his era. His pen name, Sad Sam, became synonymous with sharp wit and nuanced satire. In his widely read column This Nigeria, he dissected society with empathy and acumen, his humour never cruel, his observations always grounded in the realities of everyday Nigerians. His writing was never loud, but always powerful. He could make readers laugh, reflect, and squirm in the same paragraph. In one legendary column, he recounted his encounters with a beggar to whom he often gave loose change. One day, when he told the beggar he had no coins, the man replied that he did, effectively outgiving his benefactor. Sad Sam, ever the craftsman, ended the piece with the punchline: “It’s clear who’s really rich between us.”
This was Amuka’s genius, storytelling that was simple, layered, and always human. His columns weren’t mere opinion pieces, they were moral compasses, guiding a society through tumultuous times with humour, humility, and honesty.
By the early 1970s, Sam had become not just a columnist but a force. Alongside his friend, the late OluAboderin, he co-founded The Punch in 1971. With Amuka’s editorial finesse and Aboderin’s business acumen, the paper quickly rose to prominence. Sam brought flair, credibility, and a kind of stylish authenticity that distinguished Punch from its competitors. It wasn’t just a newspaper, it was a statement. Under his editorial leadership, the paper dared to tread where others feared, including bold coverage of the now-infamous raid on FelaKuti’sKalakuta Republic by military men. It wasn’t just reportage, it was defiance wrapped in journalistic principle.
But behind the scenes, Amuka’s trusting nature was exploited. His deep belief in people, once his strength, left him vulnerable in the world of business. He was slowly edged out of the paper he helped build. Disillusioned and heartbroken, he left Punch, a painful exit that almost ended his media career. He told close friends that he was retreating to his village in the old Bendel State. He’d farm, he said. Maybe try fish trading. “I’m a bushman now,” he reportedly joked. But the joke never landed. To those who knew him, it was clear: a national treasure was in danger of fading out.
Of course, Sam couldn’t stay away for long. Journalism wasn’t just a career for him, it was calling, culture, and service. By late 1983, the idea of a new paper began to take root. With a few trusted colleagues, Sam began working on what would become Vanguard newspaper. On July 15, 1984, it hit the stands.
If Punch was audacious, Vanguard was deliberate. From the very start, it embodied Amuka’s values: editorial excellence, fearless journalism, and a deep respect for the reader. It quickly grew into one of Nigeria’s leading newspapers. Women were given space and voice in unprecedented ways. Young talents were nurtured with patience and precision. The culture was one of respect and rigour. Amuka’s newsroom was known to be demanding, but never cruel. Mediocrity was not entertained. Egos were irrelevant. What mattered was the work.
Sam’s ability to spot and nurture talent is the stuff of legend. Many of today’s top editors, publishers, and media entrepreneurs passed through his hands. He never withheld opportunities. He believed that leadership was about creating space, not taking it up. He listened always, whether you were a senior editor or a greenhorn trying to figure out headline formats. That humility, that generosity, set him apart.
Even now, decades later, that same spirit remains. His presence still carries weight in the newsroom. When he speaks, people don’t interrupt. He isn’t a man of many words, but when he does talk, people listen and remember.
The impact of his leadership ripples far beyond the pages of Vanguard. In 2015, President Muhammadu Buhari called him “a gentleman of the press,” a tribute not just to his professionalism but to his personal integrity. Nduka Obaigbena, publisher of ThisDay, referred to him as a “leading light in Nigerian journalism,” a phrase that seems almost too modest for a man who has shaped the industry’s very foundation.
Yet for all his achievements, Sam Amuka remains astonishingly self-effacing. He has never sought titles, never traded on his influence, never placed himself above the work. His love for journalism is pure and uncorrupted, even after betrayal, even after loss. He doesn’t believe in shortcuts. He despises laziness. He prizes curiosity, resilience, and clean copy. He is, quite simply, the standard.
His journey is not just a timeline of accolades and accomplishments. It is the story of a man who gave his life to an ideal that the press, when done right, is public service at its most potent. And for decades, he embodied that ideal with uncommon grace.
Even as the media terrain has shifted from radio to TV to digital, Sam has remained committed to the fundamentals: fact, fairness, and form. His voice is quieter now, but it still rings with the kind of clarity that editors pray for and readers trust. He has watched generations of journalists come and go, trends rise and fall, governments roar and tumble, and through it all, he has kept writing, kept mentoring, kept believing.
At 90, Uncle Sam is not just a veteran, he is an institution. But perhaps more importantly, he is a reminder of a time when journalism was principled, when writers were craftsmen, and when the truth was sacred. He reminds us that it’s still possible to do things the right way, even if it’s the hard way.
He is, in every sense, the heartbeat of Nigerian journalism.
As we celebrate his remarkable journey, we’re not just honouring a man, we’re honouring a mindset, a commitment, a legacy inked in sacrifice and soaked in principle. Journalism today is in desperate need of role models. Luckily, we don’t have to look far. Uncle Sam is right here, still standing, still editing, still smiling. And to that, we say: he deserves a bow.
