By Etebong Akpan
Prologue
When a good man dies, a rhythm is lost. A familiar laughter vanishes. The sun still rises, but with less conviction. And those who knew him walk slower, wondering if virtue can outlive its vessel.
I have asked myself a thousand times since the passing of my editor, mentor, and friend, Mr Charles Etimette. He calls me Bandit, and I return the same, though humously; Papa Bandit. Why does the sun set on those who carry the light for others? The heavens offer no explanations.
If death were fair, it would have spared him more years to enjoy the twilight of a life spent so selflessly. But death is an ancient debt collector; it comes without warning or negotiation. One moment you are chuckling over a headline; the next, you are a headline yourself.
He was a jolly good fellow, the kind who found humour in a dull newsroom and music in the monotony of deadlines. His laughter rolled like distant thunder before a calm rain;—generously disarming.
I met him in 2004, a restless young reporter on the Sports Desk, bruised by newsroom politics. I went to him wounded in spirit, complaining of victimisation. He listened not with the perfunctory nod of a superior, but with the patience of a teacher. When I finished, he said:
“Do not quarrel with anyone, my boy. Just write — and I’ll publish you.”
That simple sentence altered my life. True to his word, he published me in the Off Beat Column, a sanctuary for the eccentric and bold. That was my baptism. From that day, I wrote with confidence, and I have not looked back.
To many, he was Mr Charles Etimette, the Feature Editor. To me, he was Papa Bandit—a man whose pen could duel with hypocrisy and dance with humour in the same sentence. He embodied a journalism of grace: firm in principle, soft in delivery, sharp enough to pierce pretence.
He nurtured talent without making you feel small. In a world where editors often behave like mini-gods, Charles remained gloriously mortal—approachable, witty, human. He believed the newsroom was not a battlefield of egos, but a classroom of ideas.
The irony is cruel. The world he served with diligence could not grant him a long, quiet retirement. Barely a few years after leaving the civil service, he took his final bow. A man who spent his life helping others find their voice is now silent.
His life signified something luminous. He showed that within the farce of existence, one can find meaning; that amid human ambition, kindness still counts.
He could laugh at life’s contradictions. After a chaotic newsroom quarrel, he quipped, “If journalists were saints, who would write about sinners?” That was Charles—wisdom wrapped in humour, irony delivered with a wink.
In an era of vanity, he was the calm in the tempest. His office was a sanctuary. He never raised his voice, never sought to humiliate, never used his position as a whip. He led by quiet example, the way good men do—unnoticed until they are gone.
He will be laid to rest this weekend in Uyo, the city he served, loved, and chronicled. Death does not merely take people; it steals stories, laughter, unfinished jokes. But it cannot erase the imprint of a good life.
Mr Etimette left behind not monuments of marble, but monuments of memory—the writers he inspired, the laughter he shared, the simple wisdom he dispensed.
Sometimes I wonder: Does heaven have a newsroom? I can picture Papa Bandit at the editor’s desk, red pen in hand, smiling at our earthly struggles. Perhaps he’s editing the angels for grammar, or suggesting a better headline for the pearly gates.
In that divine newsroom, deadlines are eternal and every story ends with redemption. I hope he is happy there—free from the weight of deadlines, the politics of bylines, the mortal fatigue that claims good men too soon.
For those of us left behind, we must continue his legacy. We must write—fearlessly, truthfully, with compassion. We must remember his counsel: “Just write.” In those two words lie the essence of purpose, the discipline of craft, and the courage to stand tall.
As I bid farewell to my editor, my mentor, my friend, I recall Shakespeare’s line: “The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.”
But not Papa Bandit. His goodness refuses to be buried. It lives in every sentence we craft, in every young journalist who dares to write against the odds.
Farewell, dear editor. You taught us that journalism is not merely a profession, but a calling—a sacred duty to truth, to humour, to humanity.
Sleep well, Papa Bandit. The presses may stop, but your story runs on—unedited, unending, unforgettable.
Epilogue
And so he departs, the ink still wet upon his soul. The newsroom hums in quiet tribute. He came, he wrote, he laughed. Farewell, Papa Bandit—until the final edition.
Discussion about this post