By Shu’aibu Usman LemanNot long ago, we mourned Kani Ben. We spoke then of the heavy price of documenting power—of the quiet risks borne by those who stand behind the camera so that others may stand before it. We observed that the ink had bled into loss.
Today, the lens falls silent once more.
Kabiru Ahmed Ilelah, a cameraman with Bauchi State Television (BATV), has passed away just as he reached the threshold of retirement. This month was meant to mark the conclusion of his formal service—a transition from decades of steadfast documentation into a well-earned period of rest. Instead, we gather in grief.
Both men died from injuries sustained in a road accident while covering an official assignment for the North East Development Commission (NEDC). What should have been a routine professional engagement became a tragedy. The risks were not in the rhetoric of power, but on the road taken in service of duty.
There is something profoundly unsettling about this repetition. When Kani Ben passed, it felt like a warning fulfilled. With Kabiru’s death, it feels as though a pattern is forming before our very eyes.
Kabiru belonged to that enduring generation of broadcasting professionals who built institutions without fanfare. He did not chase prominence; he sought clarity of frame. Through his lens, the people of Bauchi State watched their history unfold—state functions, community milestones, political transitions, and those moments of ordinary significance that only later reveal their true weight.
Cameramen are the invisible architects of public memory. They capture the handshake, the address, the cutting of the ribbon, and the tear wiped discreetly from a cheek. They freeze time so that a society may look back and understand itself. Yet, all too often, they do so without the recognition, insurance, logistical planning, and structural protection their vocation demands.
Following Kani Ben’s passing, we insisted that no story is worth a life. We argued that professionalism must encompass a duty of care, and we urged institutions to move beyond mere condolences towards genuine reform.
Now, confronted with another loss—again in the course of official duty—we must ask ourselves: have we truly heeded our own warnings? Are field assignments planned with adequate safety protocols? Are vehicles roadworthy? Are contingencies in place for those sent to document the work of others?
Kabiru Ahmed Ilelah was not merely counting down the days to retirement; he was completing a lifetime of service. He had carried his equipment through searing heat and Harmattan dust, framed leaders and citizens alike, and mentored younger hands in the discipline of steady focus. Retirement should have been a season of dignity, reflection, and peace.
Instead, his family and colleagues must navigate his absence.
There is a silence following the death of a cameraman that feels uniquely heavy. The equipment remains. The newsroom carries on. Assignments are scheduled. But something irreplaceable is missing—the practised eye, the instinctive adjustment of light, and the quiet professionalism that no manual can ever teach.
If the loss of Kani Ben was a warning fulfilled, let the passing of Kabiru Ahmed Ilelah be a warning repeated. We cannot afford to normalise deaths from preventable accidents as mere occupational hazards. Those who document our collective story deserve more than posthumous praise; they deserve protection in life.
The lens has fallen silent again.
May we not allow this silence to become routine. May we honour them not only with words, but with concrete commitments to safety, welfare, and dignity—so that when journalists finally lay down their cameras, it is in rest, and not in loss.
And may the ink not bleed again.
- Shu’aibu Usman Leman is a former National Secretary of Nigeria Union of Journalists- NUJ
