The Fading Pages of Yakubu Gowon University: A Call to Read

I’ve seen trends come and go in my years chronicling the pulse of this nation, but few are as troubling as the one unfolding before us at Yakubu Gowon University. Our library—proudly bearing the name of Samuel Osaigbovo Ogbemudia—is gathering dust, both figuratively and literally. The numbers don’t lie: new book uploads have trickled to a near standstill, and the once-vibrant hum of students flipping pages has faded into an eerie silence. We’re not just losing books; we’re losing ourselves. And it’s time we faced it head-on.

This isn’t just a logistical hiccup—it’s a crisis of curiosity. The Samuel Osaigbovo Ogbemudia Library isn’t some arbitrary namesake; it’s a tribute to a titan of Nigerian history. Ogbemudia, the former governor of the Midwest Region and later Bendel State, was a man of vision—a builder of infrastructure, education, and progress. During his tenure in the late ’60s and ’70s, he transformed Benin City into a modern hub, laying foundations that still stand today. Naming our library after him was no accident—it’s a call to emulate his relentless pursuit of knowledge and excellence. Yet here we are, letting that legacy languish.

There’s an old saying, often attributed to the colonial playbook: “If you want to hide something from the Black man, put it in a book.” It’s a bitter pill, a jab at our supposed aversion to reading, born from a time when the powerful sought to keep the powerless in the dark. Whether it’s true or not, the sting lingers because too many of us have let it become a self-fulfilling prophecy. At Yakubu Gowon University, we’ve got no excuse. This institution, rechristened just months ago on December 16, 2024, stands as a beacon of national unity and intellectual might. But what good is a beacon if its light dims from neglect?

The decline in reading isn’t just about fewer books on the shelves—it’s about fewer minds ignited. Our library’s upload logs show a steep drop in new acquisitions over the past year, a symptom of budget cuts, apathy, or both. Meanwhile, students pass by those shelves, heads buried in phones, chasing fleeting distractions instead of timeless truths. I get it—life’s fast, and TikTok’s faster. But here’s the rub: the beautiful ones, as Ayi Kwei Armah once wrote, are not yet born. And they won’t be, not unless we dig into the pages where ideas gestate and discoveries await.

To every Gowonite reading this (and I hope that’s all of you): there’s a universe of things yet to be uncovered—secrets of science, history, and self that no algorithm can spoon-feed you. Ogbemudia didn’t build roads and schools by scrolling; he studied, he questioned, he acted. Gowon didn’t stitch a fractured nation back together by skimming headlines—he understood the weight of ideas. You’re heirs to that legacy, but only if you claim it.

Brace up. Walk into the Samuel Osaigbovo Ogbemudia Library not as a chore, but as a mission. Demand new books—flood the administration with your voices until those shelves groan under fresh weight. Read not just to pass exams, but to prove the cynics wrong. The white man’s taunt only holds if we let it. Let’s bury it under a mountain of cracked spines and dog-eared pages.

This university isn’t just a name—it’s a promise. Unity and excellence don’t come cheap, and they don’t come from ignorance. The beautiful ones are waiting to be born, and they’re counting on you to read them into existence.