There’s something profoundly moving about watching a 90-year-old man receive recognition for a lifetime spent fighting for truth. When President Bola Tinubu announced that veteran journalist Sam Amuka-Pemu would receive the Commander of the Order of the Niger (CON), the applause that filled the National Assembly wasn’t just polite ceremony, it was the sound of a nation acknowledging one of its unsung heroes.
“Uncle Sam,” as everyone calls him, turned 90 on June 13, a day after the honour was announced. It feels almost poetic that a man who has spent decades chronicling Nigeria’s story would receive this recognition on his milestone birthday, during a Democracy Day address no less.
What strikes you most about Sam Amuka isn’t the accolades or the titles, it’s how he’s managed to remain so remarkably himself through decades of change. Former President Buhari called him a “Gentleman of the Press,” and you understand why when you hear stories about him. While other media moguls might surround themselves with protocol and fanfare, Uncle Sam walks through his newsroom like any other colleague, stopping to chat, asking about stories, treating everyone with the same quiet respect.
Media entrepreneur Nduka Obaigbena describes him as an “icon and leading light,” but those who work with him speak of something deeper, a man whose principles aren’t just professional standards but deeply held beliefs about what journalism should be. As one columnist put it years ago, “there just cannot be two Sam Amukas.” It’s true. In an industry where personalities often overshadow purpose, he’s managed to be both influential and humble, powerful yet approachable.
His writing, particularly under pseudonyms like “Sad Sam” and “Off Beat Sam,” revealed a wit sharp enough to cut through political pretense while remaining fundamentally decent. These weren’t just clever columns, they were conversations with the Nigerian people, written by someone who genuinely cared about their welfare.
Perhaps the most telling story about Uncle Sam happened on a day most Nigerians would rather forget, April 22, 1990. After a failed military coup, 13 journalists and media workers found themselves arrested, facing the terrifying possibility of being tried alongside the coup plotters. The shadow of Abdulkarim Zakari, a media worker executed in 1976 for alleged coup involvement, hung heavy over the entire industry.
While fear gripped newsrooms across the country, something remarkable happened at Vanguard headquarters. Uncle Sam quietly opened his doors to a crucial but unpublicised meeting between media leaders and security operatives. It wasn’t a public confrontation or a dramatic protest, it was the kind of behind-the-scenes diplomacy that Uncle Sam has always preferred. Through patient dialogue and careful negotiation, that meeting led to the gradual release of all detained journalists.
Mohammed Sani Zorro, who was NUJ President at the time, remembers Uncle Sam’s approach: “He pushes for dialogue as a way of finding less rancorous way to settle disputes.” It’s a philosophy that has served him—and Nigerian journalism—well over the decades.
Walk into any newsroom where Uncle Sam has worked, from the old Daily Times to Punch to Vanguard, and you’ll notice something different. There’s a seriousness about the work, but also a warmth in how people interact. Former colleagues speak of him not just as a boss but as a mentor who genuinely cared about their development.
When he was at Punch in its early days, he didn’t just manage, he also taught. Young journalists would receive careful guidance about fairness, accuracy, and balance, particularly during the delicate transition back to civilian rule in 1978. His brief speeches weren’t lectures but conversations about what journalism could be when done right.
At Vanguard, this philosophy became institutional culture. Publishing untruths or unfair reporting isn’t just discouraged, it’s considered a “heinous professional sin.” It sounds strict, but those who work there understand it differently. It’s about holding yourself to a standard that makes the work meaningful.
Here’s something that might surprise you: the man who just received a national honour for his contribution to press freedom played a crucial but largely unknown role in establishing World Press Freedom Day itself.
In 1991, when African journalists gathered in Windhoek, Namibia, for a UNESCO conference on media freedom, Uncle Sam was there as part of Nigeria’s delegation. This wasn’t a ceremonial role, he was chosen specifically because of his professional reputation and his understanding of what press freedom really means.
The conference produced the Windhoek Declaration, which became the foundation for World Press Freedom Day, celebrated every May 3rd around the world. Uncle Sam’s contributions to those discussions, his articulation of how “if the media is chained, the society too is chained,” helped shape a global conversation about press freedom that continues today.
Characteristically, he’s never made much of this role. No press releases, no anniversary speeches, no claiming credit. It’s just another example of how he’s preferred to let the work speak for itself.
What makes Uncle Sam’s story remarkable isn’t just his professional achievements, it’s how he’s managed to remain fundamentally decent in a profession that can be harsh and unforgiving. When 11 reporters were retrenched from Vanguard in 1992, including some union officials, he didn’t hide behind corporate speak or lengthy processes. In a 10-minute meeting, he simply ordered everyone reinstated. No drama, no conditions, just a recognition that these were people whose livelihoods mattered.
His approach to staff reflects a broader philosophy: journalism isn’t just about publishing newspapers or chasing stories. It’s about building something that serves the community, that holds power accountable while remaining fair, that informs without sensationalizing.
President Tinubu’s recognition of Uncle Sam came alongside honours for other figures who shaped Nigeria’s democratic journey—Nobel Laureate Wole Soyinka, activist Femi Falana, journalists like Kunle Ajibade and Nosa Igiebor. It’s fitting company for someone who has spent decades fighting the same fights, often from behind the scenes.
But perhaps the real measure of Uncle Sam’s impact isn’t in the honours or the headlines. It’s in the countless journalists who learned their craft under his guidance, the stories that got told because he created space for them, the conversations that happened because he believed dialogue was better than confrontation.
At 90, he’s still showing up to work, still asking the right questions, still believing that journalism can make a difference. In a world where cynicism often masquerades as sophistication, there’s something powerful about that kind of sustained optimism.
The applause in the National Assembly that day wasn’t just about recognising the past, it was about celebrating someone who has consistently chosen to believe in journalism’s better angels. In Uncle Sam’s quiet, persistent way, he’s shown that you don’t have to be the loudest voice in the room to be the most influential.
And maybe that’s the most important lesson of all: that real change often comes not from grand gestures but from showing up every day, doing the work with integrity, and trusting that good journalism, practiced consistently and fairly, can indeed make a difference.
That’s a legacy worth celebrating, and a life well lived.