DESTINED AIRWAVES

• The Prologue
Introducing “Destined Airwaves: My Journey to Becoming a Radio Broadcaster”
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FROM THE moment I began to navigate the world on all fours as a curious baby crawler, destiny had already woven its intricate threads into the tapestry of my life. As I grew older, each step I took, each experience I encountered, carried me along a path that would eventually lead me to where I stand today—Head of Programmes at Salama FM, Kafanchan, Kaduna state, Nigeria.

In “Destined Airwaves,” I invite you to embark on a journey through the chapters of my life, where the ordinary and the extraordinary intertwine to shape a narrative of perseverance, passion, and the guiding hand of destiny. From the early days of my premature birth, through the halls of school, the tunes of music, and the twists of fate, this is the story of how a child’s dreams evolved into the reality of a radio broadcaster.

As we journey together through the pages of my life, you’ll witness the moments that shaped my character, the people who left indelible marks on my journey, and the vibrant cultural landscape of Nigeria that provided the backdrop to my experiences. Through the laughter, the tears, the challenges, and the triumphs, you’ll discover how the symphony of life’s melodies ultimately led me to find my voice on the airwaves.

“Destined Airwaves” is not just my story—it’s a testament to the power of embracing one’s dreams, navigating the unpredictable currents of life, and discovering the beauty in the synchronicity of events. So join me as we embark on a journey that unveils the chapters of my life, from the earliest memories of crawling on the floor to the present day, where the airwaves have become my canvas for sharing stories, touching hearts, and embracing the destiny that has guided me all along.

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SEASON 1
“Humble Beginnings”

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• Episode 1: Crawling Into Destiny

AT A mere seven months old, I entered this world ahead of schedule, susceptible to all sorts of ailments. I spent my early days in an incubator, waiting until I was strong enough to face the world outside. You know, that contraption wasn’t exactly a playground.

“Look at this little fighter,” a nurse cooed, as I squirmed within the glass confines. “You’re too eager to explore, aren’t you?”

Fast forward eight months and my recollections blur. But picture this: me, a tiny explorer, craning my neck as if conversing with an invisible guide. That guide, my mother’s best friend, Maman Rose, was my beacon during those crawling escapades.

“Where are you going, young man?” she would tease, her eyes twinkling. “You have a whole world to discover!”

And oh, did I ever discover. My father, a TV Transmitter Engineer at NTV Kaduna, became my idol. At two, my sister Grace was born, a whirlwind of energy. We were a dynamic duo, navigating the tapestry of life with youthful enthusiasm.

Then, the winds of change swept us to Mangun in Plateau State. My father’s career led us to build our world around the Transmitter Room, the imposing TV Antenna Mast, the local school, and of course, the church.

One unforgettable day, I vanished, sending the community into a panic. Frantic whispers filled the air as people scoured the neighborhood. Eventually, my father’s driver looked up and shouted, “Up there! Look!”

High atop the TV Antenna Mast, I clung tightly, battling the elements. The strong winds whirled around me, making my head spin, but I couldn’t let go.

“Are you insane?” my father exclaimed, his voice a mix of awe and exasperation. “You’ve got to come down, son!”

And there I was, a tiny speck against the vast sky, refusing to back down. I felt like an acrobat on a tightrope, a daring explorer on a quest to touch the heavens.

The community’s laughter echoed in the aftermath. “Of course, the Engineer’s son would pull a stunt like this!” they chuckled. The search party’s concern transformed into camaraderie, a shared tale that would be recounted for years to come.

But it wasn’t all antics and bravado. My father had another role—a Choir Master at COCIN, our denomination of the Christian church. His direction of the choir was nothing short of mesmerizing, and as I watched their harmonies blend, I made a vow.
Little did I know that this desire, this dream, would set the course for a journey that would lead me down a path I could never have imagined.
At that tender age of five, I embraced a conviction that whispered through my soul: I would become a reflection of the man who not only engineered waves of communication but also conjured harmonies that resonated through the very fabric of life itself.
I said to myself,
“I want to sing like this man—my father.”
As I grew older, the allure of my father’s world at the TV station tugged at me with irresistible force. Those days turned into an endless parade of hours as I stood there—eyes wide and soul captivated—watching the tech wizards work their magic. Their nimble fingers danced across switches, buttons and dials, orchestrating a symphony of technology that fascinated me to no end. The machinery hummed around me—a mesmerizing backdrop to their craft. Amidst the hum, I couldn’t help but wonder—what would it be like to play a part in shaping the waves that carried voices and stories across the airwaves?

But hey! Life in Mangun was never a one-sided affair. My old man’s devotion to football was contagious and I was hooked on the action. At the community field, I’d watch him and his band of cronies clash in epic battles—the echoes of their laughter mingling with the cheers. These weren’t just games; they were battles of honor and the camaraderie shared amongst them was nothing short of a spectacle.

“Kick it Bawa! Show them who’s boss!” I’d hear my dad’s friends yell, rallying him on. Bawa is his middle name.

He’d nod and sprint towards the goal, dodging defenders left and right before sliding the ball into the net.

And there was Dad, drenched in sweat, a smile as wide as the goalposts. “You’re watching, Andy Kim? One day, you’ll be down here with us,” he’d call out, his voice a mix of pride and challenge.
I remained silent, harboring my own inspirations, aspirations…thoughts.

But the football field wasn’t the only arena where tales unfolded. At home, my mother and her posse formed a formidable council of women, their voices alive with fervor and humor. Conversations swirled, secrets were swapped, and laughter echoed through our walls.

“So kawa, how’s Baban Andrew?” one of Mum’s friends would inquire, a sly smile playing on her lips.

Mum would lean in conspiratorially, her eyes twinkling. “Oh, you won’t believe the tales! He thinks he’s the king of the world, but I’ve got my ways of bringing him down to earth.”

The room erupted in laughter, each woman sharing their own tale of marital maneuvering. And as I sat in a corner, a silent witness to their wisdom and wit, I pondered on the mysteries of adulthood that were just beyond my grasp.

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• Episode 2: A Dream Takes Root

A new chapter unfolded as we made our way to Jos—a city that felt like a vibrant tapestry woven with colors and cultures.
Jos came into being in the year 1915 as a tin transportation camp and had blossomed into a city where colonial past met contemporary life. Its early history became closely intertwined with the flourishing tin mining industry and in 1967, it assumed the role of the capital city for the former Benue-Plateau State.
In the year 1975, as we set foot in Jos, it underwent a transformation and emerged as the capital city of Plateau State

Streets teemed with life, vendors hawking their wares, and the aroma of tantalizing street food filled the air. As we settled into our new home on Ibrahim Taiwo Street, where the huge black lawyer, friend and kinsman of my father, Mr. Paulinus, invited us to share with him, I found myself in a world where history whispered through the creaking floors and shadows danced to forgotten tunes. Our new home was an ode to history—a colonial beauty, decked in mango trees that cast elongated shadows over its story-soaked façade.

“Can you believe the stories this house could tell?” my sister would whisper, her eyes wide like saucers. And in a hushed voice, I’d agree. Those walls held secrets, secrets that fueled the imagination and sent shivers down our spines.

Amidst the city’s urban beauty, I couldn’t shake the enchantment of broadcasting that had taken hold of my thoughts. But it wasn’t just technology that stirred my dreams. My father’s legacy was imprinted on my heart, his voice carrying the power to command attention as he conducted the choir as COCIN’s Choir Master. Their harmonies soared, like ethereal messengers carrying music to the heavens.

“Imagine standing there, son, leading the choir,” Dad would muse, a glint of anticipation in his eyes.

“I will, Baba. One day, I’ll be up there, just like you,” I’d respond, my voice carrying the conviction of a young dreamer.

As technology and artistry intertwined, I stood on the precipice of my own odyssey, every heartbeat a brushstroke in the grand canvas of “Destined Airwaves.” Unbeknownst to me, destiny was quietly weaving the threads of my future, ready to usher me into paths I could hardly fathom. Suspense hung in the air, like the tension before a storm, as the foundations of my journey were solidified against the backdrop of that enigmatic colonial house.
Our stay there was brief.

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• Episode 3: Embracing Diversity

Leaving the grandeur of Ibrahim Taiwo Street behind, our family embarked on a new chapter.
We moved on to Apata Street and that marked the turning of a new leaf for our family, the Chindabas. It was the year 1976, a time of transition and change that would shape our lives in ways we could hardly fathom. As the streets changed, so did the rhythm of our days, and I found myself stepping into a world of discovery.

It was as if destiny had guided us to a neighborhood where languages danced in the air – Berom, Izere, Rigwe, Angas and others – a symphony of traditions and stories.

As we settled into Apata Street, the streets came alive with barbers wielding old metal clippers, transforming boys into gentlemen and keeping bald heads pristine with razors. Laughter echoed as children raced Boris cars, a creation of local ingenuity that carried friendships on wooden wheels.

Amidst this lively scene, the heart of Jos beat strong. The cool breeze, a gift from the plateau’s embrace, carried echoes of the city’s history as a tin mining hub. The hotels and recording studios held stories of their own, while the streets buzzed with the universal language of camaraderie.

The Urhobos and Igbos, drawn by the promise of tin mining and business opportunities, became integral to Jos’s success story. Alongside other communities, their contributions were etched into the very fabric of the city. Their footsteps marked the paths of progress, and their endeavors laid the foundation for missionary activities, churches, and schools that enriched the cultural tapestry.

The journey to Apata Street was a journey into a community that embraced diversity, where cultures and languages wove tales that painted the landscape in vibrant hues.

I DISTINCTLY remember the hushed conversations that filled the air one afternoon in February 1976, although I later learned in Class 4 that it happened on the 13th. My father’s voice, mingled with the hushed tones of our neighbors, carried a weight that made my curious ears perk up. It was a conversation that painted a somber picture, as they discussed the shocking assassination of our Nigerian Head of State, General Murtala Mohammed and the ripple effects it had on our nation.

That fateful day, Mama Musiliu, a Yoruba friend of my mother’s, couldn’t find her first son, Musiliu. Panic gripped her heart, and her screams pierced the air, reverberating like the cries of a wounded soul.

“Musiliu…Musiliu. Ibo lo wa?”, she screamed hysterically in Yoruba dialect, meaning ‘where are you?’

The reasons behind her distress were of course manifold. The tragedy of the day hung heavy in the air.

Seated in the living room, the adults exchanged words that seemed heavy with a mix of grief and concern. My father, being connected to the world through his work at NTV Jos, had a unique perspective to share. As the glow of the television flickered on their faces, I could sense the gravity of the situation through their expressions.

And on that day, as Mama Musiliu’s desperate cries echoed through Apata Street, her pain and fear were a reflection of the nation’s collective wounds. The streets, once bustling with the joys of life, stood witness to the somber realities that gripped the nation’s soul. In the midst of this turmoil, communities united, offering support to one another, and lending a helping hand to Mama Musiliu in her time of need.

“It’s a tragedy, no doubt about that,” my father’s voice carried a solemn tone. “The assassination of General Murtala Mohammed, and the subsequent events, have left us all in a state of shock. The nation is reeling from the loss, and there’s an air of uncertainty.”

Our neighbor, Baban Pam, nodded in agreement. “Indeed, these are trying times. This rebellion led by Lt. Colonel Dimka and the confusion that followed—hmmm…it’s a sad part of our history.”

My mother’s voice added to the conversation, her words laced with concern and searching for my father’s eyes. “It’s not just the loss of a leader, but the impact on the nation as a whole. People are anxious, wondering about the direction our country will take.”

As the discussions continued, their words painted a vivid picture of the tense atmosphere that gripped the country in the aftermath of the assassination. The TV news reports my father had watched at work were now dissected in our living room, as the adults tried to make sense of the unfolding events.

The news of General Murtala Mohammed’s assassination by Lt. Col. Buka Suka Dimka and Major-General Bisalla hit close to home for my father. The fact that they were our kinsmen from Angas land, hailing from the same Local Government Area in Plateau State, left him deeply uncomfortable.
And there, amidst the shared fears and unanswered questions, the incident cast a shadow that stretched beyond the confines of our living room.

AND as for Mama Musiliu, she eventually located her son, after a frantic search. He had ventured to the riverside for fishing. She was relieved, quite alright but her emotions turned to stern reprimand as she gave him the well-deserved flogging of his life.
It was announced on TV the next day that Lt. General Olusegun Obasanjo had become the head of the Supreme Military Council.

AMIDST the shift in surroundings, I began my journey into education at Plateau Private School in Jos. It was here that I took my first steps into the realm of learning, starting with the nursery class, or as we fondly called it, “Pre-primary.” The school was under the stewardship of a remarkable woman named Mrs. Momoh, a black American married to a Nigerian. And oh, the tears that flowed when my mother first left me there!

“I don’t want to stay here,” I cried, my voice echoing in protest.

Mrs. Momoh tried to console me, but her soothing words met with an unexpected reaction. In a fit of frustration, my little hand struck her, and in response, another teacher’s hand struck me back. I spent the day weeping in school, a bundle of emotions that I struggled to comprehend.

Upon returning home, I declared my unwillingness to go back to that place of tears and unknown faces. Yet, slowly but surely, I learned to find solace in the egg sandwiches and juice my mother always prepared for me to go to school, a welcome treat that softened the edges of my resistance.

IN THE backdrop of my early schooling, a sorrowful tale unfolded within the family. My father’s younger brother, Iliya, a trailblazer who had emerged as the first graduate of Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria (ABU) from our village, had met a tragic end. With pride, he had acquired the first car in our village, a symbol of triumph and progress. Little did we know that his journey would culminate in tragedy, as the car tumbled off the high altitude, meandering and treacherous Kwanan Maciji road to today’s Kanke, leaving behind a life cut short.

The aftermath of this loss found a new chapter in our household. Uncle Iliya had a Muslim Zuru wife from Sokoto, Hajiya Aishatu Musa Zuru Tamba but their children, Zainab and Jemila, found themselves under our care, their lives entrusted to my father’s guidance. Despite the circumstances, a bond blossomed, and the walls of our home echoed with the laughter of playmates turned family.
It will interest you to know that Zainab was born in 1973 when Nigeria stopped using the Pounds sterling and changed to her indigenous Naira currency. So we all, including the neighborhood called her Naira. She and I were close in age, and the memories of our adventures still linger with a touch of nostalgia.

One such escapade had me on the receiving end of a precarious situation. A well-intentioned attempt by Naira to clean my ear with a broomstick ended in a mishap, leaving blood and panic in its wake. Rushed to the hospital, the incident left a mark not only on my ear but also on our shared history.

As time passed, a regular routine formed, and the walls of Township Primary School in Jos became a familiar place for Naira and my younger sister, Gracie.
Our days were filled with the thrill of childhood—playful, carefree and imbued with a sense of unity. Amidst our laughter and exploration, I embraced my studious nature, cherishing the role of the inquisitive learner.

But amidst the books and lessons, a different kind of magic beckoned. The allure of mimicry led me to imitate Michael Jackson’s voice on the song “Enjoy Yourself”—his soulful vocals as the lead singer of The Jacksons, resonating through my youthful renditions. It was their first single after leaving Motown records for Epic records. In those moments, I discovered the sheer joy of channeling a musical icon—a thrill that stirred my creative spirit.

As I look back on those days—the bittersweet memories wash over me—leaving traces of innocence and nostalgia. A chapter filled with laughter tears and the essence of discovery those early years stand as a testament to the beauty of growth and transformation.

Join me in the following chapter as life takes yet another turn, guiding us through the twists and turns of time, each moment etching a story that resonates with the heartbeat of the past.

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• Episode 4: A Spectacular Extravaganza – FESTAC ‘77

MOVING AWAY from the ambiance of Apata Street, our family embarked on a new chapter, setting foot on Elayo Street, off Busa Buji Street, Laranto, Jos. We had to adapt to another new setting…new people, new school. I was enrolled into the nursery session of Fatima Private School, Jos.
The next year was 1977. It was a time when Nigeria was undergoing a transformation, a metamorphosis fueled by newfound oil wealth and a desire to showcase its prowess to the world. Like I said, the year was 1977, and the air was electric with anticipation.

As we settled into our new abode, a wave of change swept through the nation. The Nigerian government invested an astounding $400 million (equivalent to $1.95 billion in 2022) to orchestrate a spectacle that would capture the world’s attention. The stage was set for an extravaganza like no other, a celebration that would transform Lagos and shine a spotlight on the entire nation.

The Tafawa Balewa Square became an urban masterpiece, streets were reborn with new roads and expressways, and a housing estate emerged as a testament to hospitality. Five-star hotels rose like monuments, and a racecourse beckoned to the adventurous. But it was the National Arts Theatre, that resplendent gem, that stood at the epicenter, replacing the swampland of Surulere, Lagos.

And then there was FESTAC—the Festival of Arts and Culture. The city of Lagos buzzed with a vibrant energy as this grand event unfolded. A convergence of nations, a reunion of cultures, it was a celebration of Pan-Africanism and the spirit of Négritude. The atmosphere was alive with the essence of Black unity, a chorus of voices singing the song of togetherness.

As the days unfolded, a constellation of luminaries graced the stage, their presence igniting the night sky. Musicians like Fela Kuti, Miriam Makeba, The Mighty Sparrow, and Gilberto Gil took their place, their melodies weaving a tapestry of rhythms that transcended borders.
It was during this moment, at age 5 that I first saw Miriam Makeba on TV, and her presence had me utterly captivated, igniting a deep admiration and a love for her music that would remain with me, infinitely.
Dance troupe Les Ballets Africains enchanted with their graceful movements, and the literary world was represented by Nigerian Nobel Laureate Wole Soyinka and poet Haki Madhubuti.

Meanwhile, in our cozy home on Elayo Street, the excitement was palpable. The air was charged with anticipation, our eyes glued to the television screen that brought the magic of FESTAC right into our living room. But it wasn’t just my family who shared in this fervor. Our neighbors, Mr. Dan Anjugu and his wife Olive, joined us on this journey of discovery.

“Can you believe this?” Uncle Dan exclaimed, his eyes wide with awe. “Look at what our country is hosting! It’s like a dream come true!”

Aunty Olive nodded in agreement, her face reflecting a mixture of excitement and disbelief. “Who would’ve thought we’d witness something of this magnitude right from our homes?”

And there we were, two families united by the flickering images on the screen, witnesses to a cultural phenomenon that extended far beyond the boundaries of our city. As Somali singers and performers graced the stage, Aunty Olive’s eyes shone with delight.

“You know,” she mused, “the wife of Group Captain Dan Suleiman, our Plateau State governor is Somali. This is a tribute to her heritage, and they’ve come to honour her.”

As the performances unfurled, our living room became a theater of shared wonderment, an arena where cultures merged and dreams took flight. The stage radiated with artistry, a symphony of voices and movements that transcended the limitations of time and space.

But amidst the brilliance and euphoria, fate cast its shadow. Those Somali performers who had brought so much joy met a tragic end on their journey back to Lagos. The news pierced our hearts, a stark reminder that even in moments of celebration, life’s fragility lingered in the background.

As the dust settled on FESTAC, our conversations turned reflective. The memories of those mesmerizing performances lingered, intermingling with the solemnity of a collective loss. The chapter of FESTAC came to a close, leaving us to ponder on the tapestry of experiences that life so unceremoniously weaves.

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• Episode 5: A Joyful Jos Christmas

THE YEAR was 1978, and as the days grew shorter and the air crisper, the spirit of Christmas began to fill the air in Jos, Nigeria. The city came alive with a palpable sense of excitement and anticipation, heralding the arrival of a beloved celebration that would paint the town in vibrant hues of joy and togetherness.

“Hey Andy Kim!”, (that’s the nickname my parents gave me and extended to our neighborhood, referring to the famous Canadian pop rock singer they loved), “Can you believe it’s Christmas again?” our neighbor, Uncle Dan, exclaimed with a wide grin as he ruffled my hair. My mother is Tiv, and abundance of hair is part of their genetic makeup. “Time flies, doesn’t it?”

I nodded eagerly, my eyes dancing with anticipation. “Yes, Uncle Dan! I can’t wait for all the fun and food!”

He chuckled heartily, his eyes twinkling. “You and your love for food, just like your Angas people!” he said, casting a playful glance towards my father, who stood nearby, a smile playing on his lips.

“Oh, come on, Dan,” my mother chimed in with a laugh. “Who can resist the festive feasting? It’s the time to indulge!”

As the days inched closer to the grand celebration, our home became a hub of activity. A Christmas tree adorned our living room, its twinkling lights casting a warm and inviting glow. The scent of freshly baked treats mingled with the aroma of seasoned meats, creating an olfactory symphony that hinted at the delights to come.

“Dad, are we going to eat dog meat and pork this Christmas too?” I asked curiously, my eyes wide with curiosity.

My father chuckled softly, his eyes kind as he responded, “Yes, Andy, we will. Just like we do every year. It’s a time to enjoy all the flavors our culture has to offer.”

“Dog meat?” I repeated, my intrigue undeniable.

“Yes, Andy Kim. In our Angas culture, it’s a delicacy enjoyed during special occasions like Christmas,” my father explained, his voice carrying the weight of tradition.

As Christmas Eve arrived, the air seemed to crackle with magic. Our hearts raced with excitement as we set out to meet Father Christmas himself. The sight of his red and white attire was both thrilling and intimidating, his beard and jovial demeanor capturing our imagination.

“He’s so big!” I whispered to my cousin Naira, a mixture of awe and nervousness in my voice.

Naira giggled, her eyes shining. “Don’t worry, Andy. He’s here to give us gifts, not to scare us!”

Christmas morning dawned, ushering in a day of joy and celebration. Our family, adorned in our finest attire, made our way to church, our hearts filled with gratitude for the season’s blessings. The refrain of Christmas carols echoed through the air, weaving a sense of unity that transcended language and culture.

“Mom, why can’t we eat the rice before going to church?” I asked, my confusion evident in my tone.

My mother smiled, her eyes gentle. “It’s a tradition, my dear. We wait until we return from church to share the festive meal together. It’s a way of giving thanks for all the blessings of the season.”

Throughout the day, our home and the homes of our neighbors became a tapestry of laughter, camaraderie, and shared experiences. Christmas trees stood tall, dressed in ornaments that told stories of years past. Plates were heaped with a variety of tasty dishes—turkey, beef, goat, sheep, chicken, pounded yam, jollof rice, fried rice, and vegetable salad—all embodying the rich tapestry of Nigerian cuisine.

As the celebrations continued, the boundaries of faith were effortlessly transcended. Muslim friends and neighbors joined in the festivities, sharing in the joyous revelry and the bounty of flavors that graced our tables.

Christabel Bentu, the TV broadcaster, who’s elder sister Alice lived just opposite us, brought her usual gifts. “Thank you, Aunty Chris. I love these flavoured sweets!” I exclaimed as I received a handful of Bazooka Joe bubble gums, Goodie-goodie chocolates, and Nasco biscuits from her.

She winked, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Well, my dear, a little sweetness is necessary amidst all the feasting and merriment, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Aunty Chris”, I responded. “You know, I’ve always told you that I wish to be like you. Casting the news and presenting an entertainment show on the airwaves, someday.”

She looked at me encouragingly. “I believe in you, and I can already see that happening. Your determination and passion will definitely lead you there.”
I smiled.

As the day gave way to evening, the community resonated with the sounds of knockouts and firecrackers as well as the chorus of laughter. We danced from house to house, our hearts lighter than air, the echoes of our joy reaching the heavens themselves.

This was Christmas in Jos, Nigeria—a time when the echoes of laughter, the embrace of tradition, and the warmth of community came together in a symphony of celebration. Amidst the flavors, the songs, and the laughter, we found ourselves united in the spirit of the season, a reminder that joy and togetherness were the greatest gifts of all.

As the year drew to a close, and a new one beckoned, we carried these memories with us, etched in our hearts as a reminder of the magic that unfolded under the Jos sky that Christmas of 1978.

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SEASON 1
“Humble Beginnings”
THE END
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And so, the episodes of Season 1 come to a close, each episode a glimpse into the tapestry of my past. As we pause to reflect on the journey so far, we eagerly anticipate the tales that await in the next season. Stay tuned for more stories, more laughter, and more moments that define the twists and turns of my life.

Thank you for joining me on this adventure. Until we meet again next week Wednesday in
Season 2…”

DESTINED AIRWAVES

• The Prologue
Introducing “Destined Airwaves: My Journey to Becoming a Radio Broadcaster”
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From the moment I began to navigate the world on all fours as a curious baby crawler, destiny had already woven its intricate threads into the tapestry of my life. As I grew older, each step I took, each experience I encountered, carried me along a path that would eventually lead me to where I stand today—Head of Programmes at Salama FM, Kafanchan, Kaduna state, Nigeria.

In “Destined Airwaves,” I invite you to embark on a journey through the chapters of my life, where the ordinary and the extraordinary intertwine to shape a narrative of perseverance, passion, and the guiding hand of destiny. From the early days of my premature birth, through the halls of school, the tunes of music, and the twists of fate, this is the story of how a child’s dreams evolved into the reality of a radio broadcaster.

As we journey together through the pages of my life, you’ll witness the moments that shaped my character, the people who left indelible marks on my journey, and the vibrant cultural landscape of Nigeria that provided the backdrop to my experiences. Through the laughter, the tears, the challenges, and the triumphs, you’ll discover how the symphony of life’s melodies ultimately led me to find my voice on the airwaves.

“Destined Airwaves” is not just my story—it’s a testament to the power of embracing one’s dreams, navigating the unpredictable currents of life, and discovering the beauty in the synchronicity of events. So join me as we embark on a journey that unveils the chapters of my life, from the earliest memories of crawling on the floor to the present day, where the airwaves have become my canvas for sharing stories, touching hearts, and embracing the destiny that has guided me all along.

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SEASON 1
“Humble Beginnings”

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• Episode 1: Crawling Into Destiny

AT A mere seven months old, I entered this world ahead of schedule, susceptible to all sorts of ailments. I spent my early days in an incubator, waiting until I was strong enough to face the world outside. You know, that contraption wasn’t exactly a playground.

“Look at this little fighter,” a nurse cooed, as I squirmed within the glass confines. “You’re too eager to explore, aren’t you?”

Fast forward eight months and my recollections blur. But picture this: me, a tiny explorer, craning my neck as if conversing with an invisible guide. That guide, my mother’s best friend, Maman Rose, was my beacon during those crawling escapades.

“Where are you going, young man?” she would tease, her eyes twinkling. “You have a whole world to discover!”

And oh, did I ever discover. My father, a TV Transmitter Engineer at NTV Kaduna, became my idol. At two, my sister Grace was born, a whirlwind of energy. We were a dynamic duo, navigating the tapestry of life with youthful enthusiasm.

Then, the winds of change swept us to Mangun in Plateau State. My father’s career led us to build our world around the Transmitter Room, the imposing TV Antenna Mast, the local school, and of course, the church.

One unforgettable day, I vanished, sending the community into a panic. Frantic whispers filled the air as people scoured the neighborhood. Eventually, my father’s driver looked up and shouted, “Up there! Look!”

High atop the TV Antenna Mast, I clung tightly, battling the elements. The strong winds whirled around me, making my head spin, but I couldn’t let go.

“Are you insane?” my father exclaimed, his voice a mix of awe and exasperation. “You’ve got to come down, son!”

And there I was, a tiny speck against the vast sky, refusing to back down. I felt like an acrobat on a tightrope, a daring explorer on a quest to touch the heavens.

The community’s laughter echoed in the aftermath. “Of course, the Engineer’s son would pull a stunt like this!” they chuckled. The search party’s concern transformed into camaraderie, a shared tale that would be recounted for years to come.

But it wasn’t all antics and bravado. My father had another role—a Choir Master at COCIN, our denomination of the Christian church. His direction of the choir was nothing short of mesmerizing, and as I watched their harmonies blend, I made a vow.
Little did I know that this desire, this dream, would set the course for a journey that would lead me down a path I could never have imagined.
At that tender age of three and a half, I embraced a conviction that whispered through my soul: I would become a reflection of the man who not only engineered waves of communication but also conjured harmonies that resonated through the very fabric of life itself.
I said to myself,
“I want to sing like this man—my father.”
As I grew older, the allure of my father’s world at the TV station tugged at me with irresistible force. Those days turned into an endless parade of hours as I stood there—eyes wide and soul captivated—watching the tech wizards work their magic. Their nimble fingers danced across switches, buttons and dials, orchestrating a symphony of technology that fascinated me to no end. The machinery hummed around me—a mesmerizing backdrop to their craft. Amidst the hum, I couldn’t help but wonder—what would it be like to play a part in shaping the waves that carried voices and stories across the airwaves?

But hey! Life in Mangun was never a one-sided affair. My old man’s devotion to football was contagious and I was hooked on the action. At the community field, I’d watch him and his band of cronies clash in epic battles—the echoes of their laughter mingling with the cheers. These weren’t just games; they were battles of honor and the camaraderie shared amongst them was nothing short of a spectacle.

“Kick it Bawa! Show them who’s boss!” I’d hear my dad’s friends yell, rallying him on. Bawa is his middle name.

He’d nod and sprint towards the goal, dodging defenders left and right before sliding the ball into the net.

And there was Dad, drenched in sweat, a smile as wide as the goalposts. “You’re watching, Andy Kim? One day, you’ll be down here with us,” he’d call out, his voice a mix of pride and challenge.
I remained silent, harboring my own inspirations, aspirations…thoughts.

But the football field wasn’t the only arena where tales unfolded. At home, my mother and her posse formed a formidable council of women, their voices alive with fervor and humor. Conversations swirled, secrets were swapped, and laughter echoed through our walls.

“So kawa, how’s Baban Andrew?” one of Mum’s friends would inquire, a sly smile playing on her lips.

Mum would lean in conspiratorially, her eyes twinkling. “Oh, you won’t believe the tales! He thinks he’s the king of the world, but I’ve got my ways of bringing him down to earth.”

The room erupted in laughter, each woman sharing their own tale of marital maneuvering. And as I sat in a corner, a silent witness to their wisdom and wit, I pondered on the mysteries of adulthood that were just beyond my grasp.

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• Episode 2: A Dream Takes Root

A NEW chapter unfolded as we made our way to Jos—a city that felt like a vibrant tapestry woven with colors and cultures.
Jos came into being in the year 1915 as a tin transportation camp and had blossomed into a city where colonial past met contemporary life. Its early history became closely intertwined with the flourishing tin mining industry and in 1967, it assumed the role of the capital city for the former Benue-Plateau State.
In the year 1975, as we set foot in Jos, it underwent a transformation and emerged as the capital city of Plateau State

Streets teemed with life, vendors hawking their wares, and the aroma of tantalizing street food filled the air. As we settled into our new home on Ibrahim Taiwo Street, where the huge black lawyer, friend and kinsman of my father, Mr. Paulinus, invited us to share with him, I found myself in a world where history whispered through the creaking floors and shadows danced to forgotten tunes. Our new home was an ode to history—a colonial beauty, decked in mango trees that cast elongated shadows over its story-soaked façade.

“Can you believe the stories this house could tell?” my sister would whisper, her eyes wide like saucers. And in a hushed voice, I’d agree. Those walls held secrets, secrets that fueled the imagination and sent shivers down our spines.

Amidst the city’s urban beauty, I couldn’t shake the enchantment of broadcasting that had taken hold of my thoughts. But it wasn’t just technology that stirred my dreams. My father’s legacy was imprinted on my heart, his voice carrying the power to command attention as he conducted the choir as COCIN’s Choir Master. Their harmonies soared, like ethereal messengers carrying music to the heavens.

“Imagine standing there, son, leading the choir,” Dad would muse, a glint of anticipation in his eyes.

“I will, Baba. One day, I’ll be up there, just like you,” I’d respond, my voice carrying the conviction of a young dreamer.

As technology and artistry intertwined, I stood on the precipice of my own odyssey, every heartbeat a brushstroke in the grand canvas of “Destined Airwaves.” Unbeknownst to me, destiny was quietly weaving the threads of my future, ready to usher me into paths I could hardly fathom. Suspense hung in the air, like the tension before a storm, as the foundations of my journey were solidified against the backdrop of that enigmatic colonial house.
Our stay there was brief.

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• Episode 3: Embracing Diversity

leaving the grandeur of Ibrahim Taiwo Street behind, our family embarked on a new chapter.
We moved on to Apata Street and that marked the turning of a new leaf for our family, the Chindabas. It was the year 1976, a time of transition and change that would shape our lives in ways we could hardly fathom. As the streets changed, so did the rhythm of our days, and I found myself stepping into a world of discovery.

It was as if destiny had guided us to a neighborhood where languages danced in the air – Berom, Izere, Rigwe, Angas and others – a symphony of traditions and stories.

As we settled into Apata Street, the streets came alive with barbers wielding old metal clippers, transforming boys into gentlemen and keeping bald heads pristine with razors. Laughter echoed as children raced Boris cars, a creation of local ingenuity that carried friendships on wooden wheels.

Amidst this lively scene, the heart of Jos beat strong. The cool breeze, a gift from the plateau’s embrace, carried echoes of the city’s history as a tin mining hub. The hotels and recording studios held stories of their own, while the streets buzzed with the universal language of camaraderie.

The Urhobos and Igbos, drawn by the promise of tin mining and business opportunities, became integral to Jos’s success story. Alongside other communities, their contributions were etched into the very fabric of the city. Their footsteps marked the paths of progress, and their endeavors laid the foundation for missionary activities, churches, and schools that enriched the cultural tapestry.

The journey to Apata Street was a journey into a community that embraced diversity, where cultures and languages wove tales that painted the landscape in vibrant hues.

I DISTINCTLY remember the hushed conversations that filled the air one evening on Apata Street. My father’s voice, mingled with the hushed tones of our neighbors, carried a weight that made my curious ears perk up. It was a conversation that painted a somber picture, as they discussed the shocking assassination of our Nigerian Head of State, General Murtala Mohammed and the ripple effects it had on our nation.

Seated in the living room, the adults exchanged words that seemed heavy with a mix of grief and concern. My father, being connected to the world through his work at NTV Jos, had a unique perspective to share. As the glow of the television flickered on their faces, I could sense the gravity of the situation through their expressions.

“It’s a tragedy, no doubt about that,” my father’s voice carried a solemn tone. “The assassination of General Murtala Mohammed, and the subsequent events, have left us all in a state of shock. The nation is reeling from the loss, and there’s an air of uncertainty.”

Our neighbor, Baban Pam, nodded in agreement. “Indeed, these are trying times. This rebellion led by Lt. Colonel Dimka and the confusion that followed—hmmm…it’s a sad part of our history.”

My mother’s voice added to the conversation, her words laced with concern and searching for my father’s eyes. “It’s not just the loss of a leader, but the impact on the nation as a whole. People are anxious, wondering about the direction our country will take.”

As the discussions continued, their words painted a vivid picture of the tense atmosphere that gripped the country in the aftermath of the assassination. The TV news reports my father had watched at work were now dissected in our living room, as the adults tried to make sense of the unfolding events.

The news of General Murtala Mohammed’s assassination by Lt. Col. Buka Suka Dimka and Major-General Bisalla hit close to home for my father. The fact that they were our kinsmen from Angas land, hailing from the same LGA in Plateau State, left him deeply uncomfortable.
And there, amidst the shared fears and unanswered questions, the incident cast a shadow that stretched beyond the confines of our living room.

AND as for Mama Musiliu, she eventually located her son, after a frantic search. He had ventured to the riverside for fishing. She was relieved, quite alright but her emotions turned to stern reprimand as she gave him the well-deserved flogging of his life.
It was announced on TV the next day that Lt. General Olusegun Obasanjo had become the head of the Supreme Military Council.

AMIDST the shift in surroundings, I began my journey into education at Plateau Private School in Jos. It was here that I took my first steps into the realm of learning, starting with the nursery class, or as we fondly called it, “Pre-primary.” The school was under the stewardship of a remarkable woman named Mrs. Momoh, a black American married to a Nigerian. And oh, the tears that flowed when my mother first left me there!

“I don’t want to stay here,” I cried, my voice echoing in protest.

Mrs. Momoh tried to console me, but her soothing words met with an unexpected reaction. In a fit of frustration, my little hand struck her, and in response, another teacher’s hand struck me back. I spent the day weeping in school, a bundle of emotions that I struggled to comprehend.

Upon returning home, I declared my unwillingness to go back to that place of tears and unknown faces. Yet, slowly but surely, I learned to find solace in the egg sandwiches and juice my mother always prepared for me to go to school, a welcome treat that softened the edges of my resistance.

IN THE backdrop of my early schooling, a sorrowful tale unfolded within the family. My father’s younger brother, Iliya, a trailblazer who had emerged as the first graduate of Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria (ABU) from our village, had met a tragic end. With pride, he had acquired the first car in our village, a symbol of triumph and progress. Little did we know that his journey would culminate in tragedy, as the car tumbled off the high altitude, meandering and treacherous Kwanan Maciji road to today’s Kanke, leaving behind a life cut short.

The aftermath of this loss found a new chapter in our household. Uncle Iliya had a Muslim Zuru wife from Sokoto, Hajiya Aishatu Musa Zuru Tamba but their children, Zainab and Jemila, found themselves under our care, their lives entrusted to my father’s guidance. Despite the circumstances, a bond blossomed, and the walls of our home echoed with the laughter of playmates turned family.
It will interest you to know that Zainab was born in 1973 when Nigeria stopped using the Pounds sterling and changed to her indigenous Naira currency. So we all, including the neighborhood called her Naira. She and I were close in age, and the memories of our adventures still linger with a touch of nostalgia.

One such escapade had me on the receiving end of a precarious situation. A well-intentioned attempt by Naira to clean my ear with a broomstick ended in a mishap, leaving blood and panic in its wake. Rushed to the hospital, the incident left a mark not only on my ear but also on our shared history.

As time passed, a regular routine formed, and the walls of Township Primary School in Jos became a familiar place for Naira and my younger sister, Gracie.
Our days were filled with the thrill of childhood—playful, carefree and imbued with a sense of unity. Amidst our laughter and exploration, I embraced my studious nature, cherishing the role of the inquisitive learner.

But amidst the books and lessons, a different kind of magic beckoned. The allure of mimicry led me to imitate Michael Jackson’s voice on the song “Enjoy Yourself”—his soulful vocals as the lead singer of The Jacksons, resonating through my youthful renditions. It was their first single after leaving Motown records for Epic records. In those moments, I discovered the sheer joy of channeling a musical icon—a thrill that stirred my creative spirit.

As I look back on those days—the bittersweet memories wash over me—leaving traces of innocence and nostalgia. A chapter filled with laughter tears and the essence of discovery those early years stand as a testament to the beauty of growth and transformation.

Join me in the following chapter as life takes yet another turn, guiding us through the twists and turns of time, each moment etching a story that resonates with the heartbeat of the past.

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• Episode 4: A Spectacular Extravaganza – FESTAC ‘77

MOVING AWAY from the ambiance of Apata Street, our family embarked on a new chapter, setting foot on Elayo Street, off Busa Buji Street, Laranto, Jos. We had to adapt to another new setting…new people, new school. I was enrolled into the nursery session of Fatima Private School, Jos.
The next year was 1977. It was a time when Nigeria was undergoing a transformation, a metamorphosis fueled by newfound oil wealth and a desire to showcase its prowess to the world. Like I said, the year was 1977, and the air was electric with anticipation.

As we settled into our new abode, a wave of change swept through the nation. The Nigerian government invested an astounding $400 million (equivalent to $1.95 billion in 2022) to orchestrate a spectacle that would capture the world’s attention. The stage was set for an extravaganza like no other, a celebration that would transform Lagos and shine a spotlight on the entire nation.

The Tafawa Balewa Square became an urban masterpiece, streets were reborn with new roads and expressways, and a housing estate emerged as a testament to hospitality. Five-star hotels rose like monuments, and a racecourse beckoned to the adventurous. But it was the National Arts Theatre, that resplendent gem, that stood at the epicenter, replacing the swampland of Surulere, Lagos.

And then there was FESTAC—the Festival of Arts and Culture. The city of Lagos buzzed with a vibrant energy as this grand event unfolded. A convergence of nations, a reunion of cultures, it was a celebration of Pan-Africanism and the spirit of Négritude. The atmosphere was alive with the essence of Black unity, a chorus of voices singing the song of togetherness.

As the days unfolded, a constellation of luminaries graced the stage, their presence igniting the night sky. Musicians like Fela Kuti, Miriam Makeba, The Mighty Sparrow, and Gilberto Gil took their place, their melodies weaving a tapestry of rhythms that transcended borders.
It was during this moment, at age 5 that I first saw Miriam Makeba on TV, and her presence had me utterly captivated, igniting a deep admiration and a love for her music that would remain with me, infinitely.
Dance troupe Les Ballets Africains enchanted with their graceful movements, and the literary world was represented by Nigerian Nobel Laureate Wole Soyinka and poet Haki Madhubuti.

Meanwhile, in our cozy home on Elayo Street, the excitement was palpable. The air was charged with anticipation, our eyes glued to the television screen that brought the magic of FESTAC right into our living room. But it wasn’t just my family who shared in this fervor. Our neighbors, Mr. Dan Anjugu and his wife Olive, joined us on this journey of discovery.

“Can you believe this?” Uncle Dan exclaimed, his eyes wide with awe. “Look at what our country is hosting! It’s like a dream come true!”

Aunty Olive nodded in agreement, her face reflecting a mixture of excitement and disbelief. “Who would’ve thought we’d witness something of this magnitude right from our homes?”

And there we were, two families united by the flickering images on the screen, witnesses to a cultural phenomenon that extended far beyond the boundaries of our city. As Somali singers and performers graced the stage, Aunty Olive’s eyes shone with delight.

“You know,” she mused, “the wife of Group Captain Dan Suleiman, our Plateau State governor is Somali. This is a tribute to her heritage, and they’ve come to honour her.”

As the performances unfurled, our living room became a theater of shared wonderment, an arena where cultures merged and dreams took flight. The stage radiated with artistry, a symphony of voices and movements that transcended the limitations of time and space.

But amidst the brilliance and euphoria, fate cast its shadow. Those Somali performers who had brought so much joy met a tragic end on their journey back to Lagos. The news pierced our hearts, a stark reminder that even in moments of celebration, life’s fragility lingered in the background.

As the dust settled on FESTAC, our conversations turned reflective. The memories of those mesmerizing performances lingered, intermingling with the solemnity of a collective loss. The chapter of FESTAC came to a close, leaving us to ponder on the tapestry of experiences that life so unceremoniously weaves.

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• Episode 5: A Joyful Jos Christmas

THE YEAR was 1978, and as the days grew shorter and the air crisper, the spirit of Christmas began to fill the air in Jos, Nigeria. The city came alive with a palpable sense of excitement and anticipation, heralding the arrival of a beloved celebration that would paint the town in vibrant hues of joy and togetherness.

“Hey Andy Kim!”, (that’s the nickname my parents gave me and extended to our neighborhood, referring to the famous Canadian pop rock singer they loved), “Can you believe it’s Christmas again?” our neighbor, Uncle Dan, exclaimed with a wide grin as he ruffled my hair. My mother is Tiv, and abundance of hair is part of their genetic makeup. “Time flies, doesn’t it?”

I nodded eagerly, my eyes dancing with anticipation. “Yes, Uncle Dan! I can’t wait for all the fun and food!”

He chuckled heartily, his eyes twinkling. “You and your love for food, just like your Angas people!” he said, casting a playful glance towards my father, who stood nearby, a smile playing on his lips.

“Oh, come on, Dan,” my mother chimed in with a laugh. “Who can resist the festive feasting? It’s the time to indulge!”

As the days inched closer to the grand celebration, our home became a hub of activity. A Christmas tree adorned our living room, its twinkling lights casting a warm and inviting glow. The scent of freshly baked treats mingled with the aroma of seasoned meats, creating an olfactory symphony that hinted at the delights to come.

“Dad, are we going to eat dog meat and pork this Christmas too?” I asked curiously, my eyes wide with curiosity.

My father chuckled softly, his eyes kind as he responded, “Yes, Andy, we will. Just like we do every year. It’s a time to enjoy all the flavors our culture has to offer.”

“Dog meat?” I repeated, my intrigue undeniable.

“Yes, Andy Kim. In our Angas culture, it’s a delicacy enjoyed during special occasions like Christmas,” my father explained, his voice carrying the weight of tradition.

As Christmas Eve arrived, the air seemed to crackle with magic. Our hearts raced with excitement as we set out to meet Father Christmas himself. The sight of his red and white attire was both thrilling and intimidating, his beard and jovial demeanor capturing our imagination.

“He’s so big!” I whispered to my cousin Naira, a mixture of awe and nervousness in my voice.

Naira giggled, her eyes shining. “Don’t worry, Andy. He’s here to give us gifts, not to scare us!”

Christmas morning dawned, ushering in a day of joy and celebration. Our family, adorned in our finest attire, made our way to church, our hearts filled with gratitude for the season’s blessings. The refrain of Christmas carols echoed through the air, weaving a sense of unity that transcended language and culture.

“Mom, why can’t we eat the rice before going to church?” I asked, my confusion evident in my tone.

My mother smiled, her eyes gentle. “It’s a tradition, my dear. We wait until we return from church to share the festive meal together. It’s a way of giving thanks for all the blessings of the season.”

Throughout the day, our home and the homes of our neighbors became a tapestry of laughter, camaraderie, and shared experiences. Christmas trees stood tall, dressed in ornaments that told stories of years past. Plates were heaped with a variety of tasty dishes—turkey, beef, goat, sheep, chicken, pounded yam, jollof rice, fried rice, and vegetable salad—all embodying the rich tapestry of Nigerian cuisine.

As the celebrations continued, the boundaries of faith were effortlessly transcended. Muslim friends and neighbors joined in the festivities, sharing in the joyous revelry and the bounty of flavors that graced our tables.

Christabel Bentu, the TV broadcaster, who’s elder sister Alice lived just opposite us, brought her usual gifts. “Thank you, Aunty Chris. I love these flavoured sweets!” I exclaimed as I received a handful of Bazooka Joe bubble gums, Goodie-goodie chocolates, and Nasco biscuits from her.

She winked, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Well, my dear, a little sweetness is necessary amidst all the feasting and merriment, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Aunty Chris”, I responded. “You know, I’ve always told you that I wish to be like you. Casting the news and presenting an entertainment show on the airwaves, someday.”

She looked at me encouragingly. “I believe in you, and I can already see that happening. Your determination and passion will definitely lead you there.”
I smiled.

As the day gave way to evening, the community resonated with the sounds of knockouts and firecrackers as well as the chorus of laughter. We danced from house to house, our hearts lighter than air, the echoes of our joy reaching the heavens themselves.

This was Christmas in Jos, Nigeria—a time when the echoes of laughter, the embrace of tradition, and the warmth of community came together in a symphony of celebration. Amidst the flavors, the songs, and the laughter, we found ourselves united in the spirit of the season, a reminder that joy and togetherness were the greatest gifts of all.

As the year drew to a close, and a new one beckoned, we carried these memories with us, etched in our hearts as a reminder of the magic that unfolded under the Jos sky that Christmas of 1978.

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SEASON 1
“Humble Beginnings”
THE END
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And so, the episodes of Season 1 come to a close, each episode a glimpse into the tapestry of my past. As we pause to reflect on the journey so far, we eagerly anticipate the tales that await in the next season. Stay tuned for more stories, more laughter, and more moments that define the twists and turns of my life.

Thank you for joining me on this adventure. Until we meet again next week Wednesday in
Season 2…”

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