I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been great at expressing appreciation to those who taught, mentored, or inspired me. It’s something I carry quietly—and sometimes with regret. I’m especially ashamed that I’ve lost touch with some teachers who helped shape the person I’ve become. The current pattern of waiting to scream, “Eayeah, O’ my God, she was a nice woman, he was a great teacher,” and then type RIP whenever the news of a teacher’s transition reaches me is agonising, for lack of a better word. It always feels like an insufficient gesture of apology for sheer ingratitude.

As I grow older, navigating the world of public service and reflecting on its often “thankless” nature, I’ve become more introspective. I now understand the true value of those who poured their time, energy, and wisdom into me.

Every now and then, I remember to pause and say, “Thank you.” This is one of those moments.

This one is for Mike Awoyinfa—a mentor, an inspiration, and someone whose influence still echoes through my journey. Thank you.

If not for Mike Awoyinfa, I’d probably be an ageing agricultural engineer somewhere on a farm in Zaria, Kaduna State—crawling under a sun-baked tractor, reeking of diesel, my face creased like a topographic map, and my skin tattooed by the wrath of corn stalks and millet leaves. (Not that there is anything wrong with that career path.)

What am I even saying? If not for Mike, I might not have survived the intellectual torture chamber that was Agricultural Engineering at the Federal University of Technology, Akure (FUTA).

Mike’s column in Weekend Concord was my escape hatch from the mechanics of machines. While my professors lobbed quadratic and trigonometric equations and thermodynamic puzzles at me like grenades, Mike delivered witty wordplay and soulful satire—my weekly dose of literary oxygen.

Pardon me if I call him Mike from here on. I felt we were on a first-name basis—spiritually, if not physically. We’ve never met, but Mike and I were tight in the world of bylines and imagination.

When Mike invited May Ellen Ezekiel (MEE) to bring her Quality magazine column to Weekend Concord, it felt like Mariah Carey and Boyz II Men teaming up for “One Sweet Day.” Only this time, it was one sweet page—every weekend.

Besides what he wrote in his own column, Mike’s decision to give MEE a column in Weekend Concord after the Newswatch management fired her as editor of Quality magazine was transformational in ways both profound and sublime. In the columns MEE later wrote for Weekend Concord, she explained two things that have stayed with me ever since.

One: When starting out in any career, you owe the greatest gratitude to the person who gave you your first real chance—not those who rush to claim credit for your success once you reach the peak.

Two: After Newswatch fired her, invitations to social events abruptly stopped. Then, she realised something sobering—the invitations were never meant for her as a person. They were meant for the editor of Quality. That revelation taught me a lasting lesson: always separate yourself from the position you hold. Without Mike giving her that platform, I probably would never have read that, and I certainly wouldn’t have carried that wisdom with me all these years.

At FUTA Press, my transformation began. I wanted to be like Mike. The day I read his column titled “Tai Solarin: May Your Days Be Rough,” everything changed. That piece—a paradox wrapped in satire, sprinkled with reverence—sealed my fate. I signed a lifelong contract with satire. The ultimate confirmation was the outrage it provoked from readers who missed the point entirely. If they were angry, Mike had clearly done something right.

Mike’s writing breathed life into Dr. Damages. While others knelt before the altar of Dele Giwa, my journalistic pantheon featured Mike, MEE, Ndaeyo Uko, JK Randle—the merry band of jesters who held up a 6D carnival mirror to society’s absurdities.

I’ve tried to stay true to the tradition Mike embodied. Sometimes I succeed. Other times… well, let’s just say I once wrote a column titled “Mike Awoyinfa’s Funeral.” What was meant to be a love letter read more like the diary of a heartbroken teenager who got ghosted on Valentine’s Day.

I worked for MEE at Classique magazine. Still, I never met Mike—not even during my days loitering around Weekend Concord, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man who made words do gymnastics.

Mike wrote about his health challenges in his 73rd birthday column in the Sun newspaper, Press Clips—something I didn’t know about while pestering him to come on the show as a guest. In his characteristic way of crafting the most irresistible headline, he asked his readers living without a gallbladder to share their stories with him. That signature ability to connect with his readers, elevate the profound to something mundane, and at other times, elevate the mundane to something profound made me smile.

And if it makes you smile, Mike—I am living without a gallbladder. It’s another thing I have in common with you.

I refuse to retire from journalism until I host him on 90MinutesAfrica. That’s non-negotiable.

I owe a big part of who I am today to Mike Awoyinfa.

Happy birthday, Mike. I appreciate you—deeply and endlessly.

Rudolf Ogoo Okonkwo teaches Post-Colonial African History, Afrodiasporic Literature, and African Folktales at the School of Visual Arts in New York City. He is also the host of Dr. Damages Show. His books include “This American Life Sef” and “Children of a Retired God.” among others. His upcoming book is called “Why I’m Disappointed in Jesus.”