Last Saturday, I attended the 13th Awards Night of the Ghana Journalists Association (GJA). The bonus for attending such an event was that I dressed up and looked gorgeous, fully accessorized with ‘bling bling’. The other bonus was that I met people from my long-distant past, as if I was meeting ghosts.
As a member of the GJA Awards Committee, the event was also to bring closure to the arduous task of selecting the best from the entries received. Against the backdrop of the scandal that characterized the recent insurance awards, I was nervous as I dressed up for the night.
The event was fun. The event was tense. The company was good. The music was good. I’m told the food was also good but I had nothing of substance to eat because I’m a “fishtarian” (I don’t eat meat). There were lengthy speeches which were tiring to listen to.
And, there were awards! First, to those from journalism’s past who held up the banner to set the example for some of us. GJA used this opportunity to say a fitting thank you to our past heroes. Someone once said that ‘Life is just like a tin of sardine. We’re all looking for the key.’ GJA must therefore continue to fish out those former journalists who found ‘the key’ before they step into the dark of the night. What’s the point in waiting until people die so we pour out our tears and means to mourn them? It is better to let them know that we treasure them while they still have breathe.
When one of my mentors, Benjamin Entwi, formerly of the Ghana News Agency and the Highway Authority was called to go up for his honorary award, a few tears dropped from my tender eyes. There was Uncle Ben, in his early 70s, tall and handsome, yet frail, struggling to stay on his feet. He was held up by his wife Margaret as he wobbled up the stage. I was so enveloped in an odd mixture of joy and sorrow. I felt as if I was witnessing the peeling off of a layer of juicy onion. Lesson: this life is not a dress rehearsal.
Before I could pull myself together over Uncle Ben, Harry Mouzalas was called for a posthumous award. There was a creepy absence followed by an equally eerie silence. Harry was my colleague on the Awards Committee. The previous week, he went down-under at Osu. He died as we waited to submit our report. For purely idiotic reasons, his eldest son did not show up to receive the award. So awkwardly, his name was repeated three times before someone clumsily hurried up-stage. Then it hit me – like a candle in the wind, Harry’s light had extinguished – he was really dead. He loved life, completely. He lived, deeply. He wrote, passionately. He danced, like there was no tomorrow. He sang, loving it. He was like a miracle of a flower. But yet, he was gone.
My colleague Alomele won the Best Columnist award. As we exchanged text messages thanking God for his life after his near death experience less than two years ago, I wrote to him, “You deserve this award even more so after recovering from a life-threatening sickness and returning to the profession you love.” He replied: “On my hospital bed, I never dreamt I could ever write again! I wanted to die! Why I didn’t die, I still do not know. This award means a lot to me after my ordeal. We shall celebrate. Thank you, Mom.” My tender heart melted, my eyes wet.
But as is usually the case, at the climax of this year’s event, the audience waited for the announcement. The hall was tense. It was a bit awkward as the Vice President of the GJA prefaced the announcement with a description of the standard of excellence expected of the Journalist of the Year. Then, he dropped the bombshell. The award for the Journalist of the Year goes to …… NO ONE! "Better luck next year,” he said. As if rehearsed, the audience clapped, apparently in suspended disbelief.
Then, instead of the scheduled dance at the end of the event, people quietly headed to the door. With the early departures, I lost the opportunity to dance like there would be no tomorrow. The night was far spent. Old bones must be rested. But the news got out, as it should. Questions, outrage, speculations and theories are still being propounded about why there was no winner.
Must there always be a winner? A no-win situation provides a unique opportunity for soul-searching to fire journalists up, to challenge us to put our house in order and equip us to play a fitting role in the development of Ghana.
Clearly, the GJA has work to do to improve the overall credibility of the awards. The process is crying for review. For instance, the award event receives more publicity, support and excitement than the award processes. Individuals who are uncomfortable with subjecting themselves to peer-review and/or to pursue honours and awards are not likely to submit entries. Such people are therefore automatically excluded for consideration. Since the process does not include sniffing around for good journalists, the choices of award committees are limited to individuals who take the initiative to submit entries. If a select number of people regularly send entries, one ends up recycling the same people year after year. Also, in this modern era, online journalists are excluded from the awards.
Not selecting a Journalist of the Year does not necessarily imply that there are no good journalists in Ghana. There are the good, the bad and the ridiculously ugly categories of journalists. Probably the good constitutes just a few good women and men. But they do exist. Good journalism hasn’t all gone to the dogs. The low-cost journalists may be in our faces too often, constituting a large band of quasi-journalists and journalist sound/look-alikes who parade our national corridors wielding celebrity status.
In the past decade or so, journalism appears to have come of age in Ghana. Everybody and their mamas want to get in, probably for the wrong reason – fame. They forget that journalism is about good writing. An enduring question: is a journalist who is a lousy writer worthy of being called a journalist? You decide. Granted, that the standard of journalism in Ghana has fallen. But it’s undeniable that the mediocrity and corruption in journalism today are only a reflection of the cankers that are eating Ghana up.
What is laughable is that some entries for GJA awards are of such low standard but yet, the individuals confidently submit them for awards anyway. I can’t help but suspect that mothers and grandmothers assure some journalists that they are superb and deserve awards. God bless mothers and grandmothers who find little or nothing wrong with the products of our wombs!
On a serious note, we shouldn’t forget that the awards are about upholding the integrity of a profession that needs to evolve alongside a fledgling democracy. Lessons are being learned along the way. This is only the 37th year of the GJA. Youthfulness is on our side. Our best is yet to come!
+233-208286817; dorisdartey@yahoo.com
No comments:
Post a Comment