September 9 2025
Yusuf Abubakar Onumoh
If life were a long and winding novel, then Rahaman Ichanyi—Ichanyiman to his beloved conspirators in the art of survival—would be the chapter that stubbornly refuses to close. The kind of chapter where the writer keeps adding footnotes, references, and appendices until the book bulges like the swollen belly of a Fulani cow after the first rains. And yet, here I stand, as both reader and co-author, compelled to admit that this very chapter has kept me entertained, nourished, and sometimes bewildered for nearly three decades.
Let us rewind, shall we, to the era when squatting was not merely a condition of housing but a philosophy of existence. Year 2000, in the rustic old Idu-Karmo, the two of us were professional squatters—tenants to fortune, landlords to hunger, and inheritors of every vagary that campus life had to offer. Our worldly possessions could be counted on one hand, and still, the hand would have fingers to spare. We were men-in-training, patriots-in-the-making, and fathers unborn, all rolled into the lean bodies of bachelors who thought Indomie noodles was a balanced diet endorsed by the United Nations.
But before the millennium squatterdom, there was Lokoja, circa 1995. I was in my final year at Kogi State Polytechnic, a student dancing precariously on the edge of penury and academic fatigue. Then came Ichanyiman, en route to Bida Polytechnic to polish his final-year project. He stopped over, and like a prophet with a miracle tucked in his wallet, handed me fifty naira. Ah, fifty naira! A princely ransom in those days, enough to ransom a starving student from the bondage of hunger. To the casual onlooker, it was a folded note. To me, it was life insurance, economic bailout, and IMF loan rolled into one. That fifty naira did not just save me; it engraved Ichanyiman into the tablets of my heart. From that moment, I knew this man was no ordinary mortal but a dependable comrade in the turbulent trenches of youth.
Fast forward five years later: fate, in her twisted humour, conspired to make us squatters again, this time together. What a glorious season! Two men bound not by walls but by the endless conversations of bachelorhood, by laughter, by hunger, and by the strange optimism that tomorrow’s meat pepper soup would surely be thicker than today’s.
Ah yes, meat pepper soup—the Achilles’ heel of Ichanyiman. If life is a buffet, he has sworn an oath never to let any delectable morsel pass him by. “Not my fault,” he always says when I mock him for this unyielding streak, “society stampedes me.” And how can I argue? For in this world, where opportunities vanish quicker than the last piece of goat meat in a pepper soup bowl, Ichanyiman’s vigilance is nothing short of survival artistry.
But do not mistake his appetite for recklessness. This is a man who hoards not only pepper soup but professional certificates with the zeal of a collector. If academic bodies were a market, then Ichanyiman has bought every stall, collected every receipt, and still lingers to haggle for discounts. From membership to associate, from fellow to grand patriarch of every professional body known to man, he has spared no effort. And as if these weren’t enough, he has set his eyes on the doctoral summit, clawing his way toward a PhD, the Everest of academic ambition. I sometimes wonder if the man will not one day wake up as “Professor Doctor Fellow Associate Sir Ichanyiman (Esq., OFR, JP).” At this rate, even Google may not have enough storage space for all his titles.
Yet, in spite of this avalanche of accolades, he remains a quiet man, one who weighs his words like gold dust. While I, ever the extrovert, spill my thoughts as freely as palm wine at a village feast, Ichanyiman is the still water that runs deep, holding secrets like a vault. He once told me he admired my openness but could never imitate it. And perhaps that is why our friendship works—one noisy gong paired with one silent drum, producing the perfect rhythm of comradeship.
Today, we are no longer the squatting greenhorns of Idu-Karmo. We are fathers, patriarchs, men who have wrestled with life and lived to tell the tale. We carry our scars with pride and our laughter with ease. Through it all, Ichanyiman has remained a dependable man, a custodian of memories, a friend whose loyalty has never been dented by distance or time.
And so, my dear Ichanyiman, in this literary mischief laced with sarcasm and admiration, I must prophesy: the Accountant General’s seat shall not escape you. Mark my words, for they are not borne of idle chatter but of conviction. The same fate that once made us squatters will one day sit you on that exalted chair, where your obsession with certificates will finally find its truest expression. And when that day comes, I will remind you of this tribute—and perhaps also of the fifty naira that first sealed our brotherhood.
Until then, let us continue to laugh at meat pepper soup metaphors, mock the society that stampedes us, and cherish the comradeship that has weathered decades. For in you, Ichanyiman, I have found more than a friend; I have found a dependable archive of loyalty, a companion of history, and a brother of destiny.
Yusuf Abubakar Onumoh PhD, is a Policy and Development Practitioner and Public Affairs Enthusiast
