My first encounter with Abuja was on Sunday, June 1st, 2003. I had been assigned by Ovation International Magazine to cover the inauguration of the 5th National Assembly of the Federal Republic of Nigeria.
It was a momentous occasion, and beyond the journalistic assignment, I had also been commissioned to take the official portrait of the newly elected President of the Senate, Senator Adolphus Nduneweh Wabara, a man I had known personally from my time in the United Kingdom.
Senator Wabara, who would serve as the 10th President of the Nigerian Senate from 2003 to 2005, was more than a public figure to me; he was like a father. I had driven him several times during his visits to London, and reconnecting with him in such an official capacity was both personal and professionally affirming.
As I stepped out of the airport, the first taxi driver I met was Taiwo Babajide. Who would have thought that a chance meeting would blossom into a friendship that has endured over two decades? That moment, seemingly ordinary, marked the beginning of a lifelong bond.
Abuja was a revelation. I was struck by the serenity, the cleanliness, and most of all, the planned road networks, a far cry from the organised chaos I knew so well in Lagos.
Upon arrival at the hotel arranged by Ovation, I whispered to myself, “I will live in this city.” And so began my journey. I settled in and immediately immersed myself in documenting Abuja, capturing its essence through my lens.
For the next eleven years, Abuja was home. I witnessed its evolution, from a calm, sparsely populated civil service capital designed in the spirit of BrasÃlia and Brisbane, to a bustling city teeming with people, politics, and complexity.
It was never meant to carry such a demographic weight. The original plan was to have a modest, structured population with no major industries. But Nigeria defies predictability.
In the midst of this city's innocence, something deeply personal happened, I met my wife in Abuja. She had moved from Lagos for work, just as I had left Lagos seeking a city that reminded me of London, a place that offered the serenity I had grown to appreciate. Neither of us knew that destiny had other plans.
Within six months of meeting, we were married. It was a union written in the quiet whispers of divine timing. Our twins were born in Abuja, and so the city that had already become my muse also became the place where my family was born. It cradled not just my career but my heart, my love, and my legacy.
The rising tides of insecurity, first from the South-South's kidnapping crisis, then Boko Haram’s terror in the North-East, and later the IPOB agitation in the South-East, pushed more people toward the perceived safety and neutrality of Abuja.
The political elite also discovered the city's comfort and made it their own. Like me, they came and stayed. But unlike my artistic intentions, they brought with them an entirely new energy that began to reshape the city’s character.
I remember when Abuja used to empty out by Friday, a ghost town of sorts. Most residents would head back to their hometowns for the weekend, and the city would sleep until Monday. Getting a flight out of Abuja by Thursday was a herculean task; tickets were booked out days in advance.
The private wing of today’s Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport was then the local wing, and the international side had only Virgin Nigeria flying out.
Yet, it was a joy to live there. Abuja was one hour by air to almost any major city in the country. I still recall when Maiduguri Airport was shut down for runway renovations, I drove the 14-hour journey from Abuja three times. There was no fear, no talk of bandits or kidnappers. It was just me, the road, and my camera.
Weekend drives to Kaduna for a hangout, or spontaneous trips to Lokoja to capture scenic moments. Those were the rhythms of my life. Abuja was my muse, and I was its witness.
This morning, as I browsed through my old archives, I was flooded with memories. Images of Radio House, then the tallest building; Ceddi Plaza, the first shopping mall; the tree-lined old airport road from the Bill Clinton Avenue; the Farmers Market in Maitama; the Unity Fountain, standing proud before Nigeria’s largest hotel. And the roads, so empty then, so symbolic of the city’s early innocence.
In reflecting on those early days, I made a deliberate and deeply personal decision, I converted all my coloured photographs of Abuja into black and white. It was not just an artistic gesture; it was an act of engraving my memories, preserving a time that now feels almost mythical. The monochrome tones strip away the noise of time, allowing the soul of the city to emerge, its stillness, its promise, its purity.
Black and white photography, for me, is eternal. It is memory frozen in dignity. Every image I captured, from the solemnity of Unity Fountain to the quiet grace of tree-lined roads, now stands not just as a documentation, but as a testament to the Abuja I first fell in love with.
Eventually, we returned to Lagos, the city where our journeys began, and the city that continues to beat with the rhythm of our shared beginnings. But Abuja will always remain the place where our paths became one. A place that gave me peace, purpose, and people. A place that gave me love.
I will write again, a beautiful tribute to a city that once was. A prose that captures my first love for Abuja, its quiet elegance, and the nostalgic ache of watching it become something else entirely. I left Abuja not out of disillusionment, but with a heart full of gratitude for what those years gave me.
Abuja was never just a city. It was a chapter, vivid, visual, and unforgettable. And now, in black and white, it lives forever.
This reflection is just a glimpse into a much larger journey, one that will unfold in my forthcoming 1,000-page book on Nigeria, set for release in December.
The book will chronicle not just Abuja, but countless cities, towns, and villages across the vast geographical space called Nigeria. It will be rich in content, filled with never-before-seen images, and deeply rooted in the stories and soul of the nation.
For those who want to see Nigeria, not just as a country, but as a living, breathing narrative, this book is for you.
May Nigeria succeed.
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