The Death of Our Memories
Femi Akintunde-Johnson
You could almost hear the anguish in Taiwo Obe’s voice as he narrated the tragic comedy of Nigeria’s forgotten memory houses – those dusty chambers once known as libraries, museums, and archives. What was meant to be a nostalgic celebration of our media heritage almost turned instead into a requiem for what we once valued but have since abandoned. The revelation that old newspapers, magazines, and records – our collective footprints in ink and paper – now rot under leaking roofs or end up as wrapping sheets in suya joints is not just depressing; it’s scandalous.
The story of a young researcher weeping inside a supposed “national institution” because rain had destroyed decades of priceless media records is the sort of scene that should make any self-respecting country recoil in shame. When the Daily Times library was left to the mercy of the wind, and Newswatch’s materials were sold off to recyclers, we didn’t just lose old papers – we lost memory, context, and continuity. Without archives, a nation suffers cultural amnesia. Without a living record of where we’ve been, how can we know where we’re going?
Ironically, it is not the British Museum or the Smithsonian that should be blamed for hoarding our history. They merely kept what we carelessly threw away. Today, the complete digital archive of the Daily Times of Nigeria is not in Abuja or Lagos – but sitting comfortably in the servers of Stanford University, under the care of the Hoover Institution. Another collection rests quietly in Boston University’s Mugar Library. Even Iwe Irohin, the first newspaper published on this soil, is better preserved in a British library than in any Nigerian institution. How did we become a people allergic to remembrance?
Beyond the lazy explanation of “paucity of funds,” our tragedy is cultural and systemic. We do not value continuity; we glorify immediacy. We celebrate the “new” and discard the “old” with frightening enthusiasm. Every new regime wants to start afresh, building monuments on the ruins of yesterday’s dreams. The idea that history or archives could serve as a compass for governance or national pride is alien to our political psychology. We are a country of short memories and shorter attention spans.
The absence of a maintenance culture, often mocked as a Nigerian cliché, is actually a symptom of deeper dysfunction: a failure to understand that preservation is progress. A leaking roof over an archive is not just negligence; it is contempt for knowledge. How can a people who treat their records like refuse ever hope to build institutions that endure?
Then there is the leadership malaise. Those in charge of our cultural and educational institutions see their roles as ceremonial rather than custodial. Directors, ministers, and commissioners prefer to cut ribbons at “digitisation launches” than to fund the quiet, meticulous work of conservation. Bureaucrats who should be ensuring preservation are instead compiling memos about “renovation contracts.” Every time a budget is slashed, the first casualties are always libraries, research institutes, and museums – as if knowledge were a luxury we can do without.
Our universities are not exempt. Many departmental libraries have become storage rooms for obsolete equipment or dumping grounds for broken furniture and discarded “projects”. Students in mass communication or history faculties graduate without ever seeing a proper microfilm, newspaper index, or archival catalogue. We have succeeded in producing journalists who have never handled a newspaper older than themselves. The past has become irrelevant – until, of course, we need to quote it for nostalgia.
Contrast this with countries that understand the power of memory. In the United Kingdom, the British Library preserves copies of every newspaper ever printed within its shores – from the Times of 1785 to the Sun of today. In the United States, the Library of Congress digitises millions of pages annually, ensuring that even the smallest county paper in 1901 Iowa is accessible online. In France, heritage preservation is not a favour; it’s a duty protected by law. Even South Africa maintains digital and physical archives of its press history, available for scholars and citizens alike.
So what can be done to rescue Nigeria’s fading memory? For one, the private sector must no longer leave the burden to underfunded ministries. Corporate Nigeria, which gleefully spends billions sponsoring reality shows and football leagues, should invest a fraction of that in media preservation and heritage digitisation. It’s good for brand legacy, corporate social responsibility, and national pride.
Secondly, our media houses must rediscover the discipline of record-keeping. ThisDay, The Punch, Guardian, Tribune, Vanguard, and others should not wait for foreign universities to digitise their history. Collaboration with platforms like ARCHIVI.NG and Centre for Research, Information Management and Media Development (CRIMMD) could create centralised national repositories, accessible to researchers, schools, and citizens. Technology has simplified the process – all that’s needed is intent and coordination.
Government, for its part, must enact an Archives and Records Preservation Act – one that mandates all public institutions to maintain and periodically digitise their records. This should not be another “policy statement” destined for dustbins; it must carry enforceable penalties for neglect. The National Library, the National Archives, and the Nigerian Press Council should be empowered, and funded, to work collaboratively.
Education plays a critical role too. From primary schools to universities, students should be exposed to the importance of record preservation. Let them understand that newspapers are not just wrapping papers, but historical documents; that every photograph, every editorial, every advert, captures a moment in our shared journey. When young Nigerians begin to see archives not as old junk but as living stories, we might yet raise a generation of custodians instead of consumers.
Incentives also matter. Grants and fellowships should be established for researchers, archivists, and historians to document and digitise Nigeria’s press and broadcast heritage. We need public campaigns that celebrate those who preserve – not only those who “break news.” Perhaps one day, an “Archival Day” will sit proudly on our national calendar, reminding us that a country without memory is a country without meaning.
As Obe asked, with pain and disbelief: “What is wrong with us?” The answer is complex, but not irredeemable. What is wrong is that we have mistaken progress for perpetual novelty. We build skyscrapers while our foundations crumble. We celebrate influencers but forget inventors. We idolise today’s headlines, while yesterday’s lessons dissolve in damp rooms under leaking ceilings.
If Nigeria is to reclaim its soul, it must begin by rescuing its memory. The archives must rise again – not as museums of decay but as monuments of identity. It will take money, yes, but more importantly, it will take mindfulness. Leadership that understands that no nation becomes great by forgetting itself.
Until then, we shall keep asking, like the founder of CRIMMD, Raphael James did – and like Obe echoed – that haunting, perennial question that refuses to die: What is wrong with us?
