walked

In an African media landscape often praised from afar but punished up close, the real story of leading an independent newsroom rarely makes the headlines. People romanticise the adrenaline of the newsroom, the thrill of the scoop, the excitement of breaking news. But leadership in accountability journalism—in a country where truth does not trend—is a different story entirely. It is a story of hidden battles, bruised spirits, and a vision stretched thin by a society that prioritises entertainment gossip over existential truths.

This reflection is a continuation of my thoughts from June 3, 2025 – The Unseen Struggle of Leading a Media Platform in a Turbulent Environment.

In Nigeria, where insecurity is the biggest factor shaping daily life, the public’s attention is captured instead by comedy skits, celebrity feuds, gossip threads, political gaffes, and Premier League debates. This is the ecosystem in which independent journalism is expected to survive.

And so, every morning, I walked into the HumAngle building, feeling the weight of a mission at odds with its environment—carrying not just the hopes of nearly 40 staff members, but also the invisible pressure to prove that public-interest journalism can exist in a society that has never been structured to sustain it.

Across Africa, there is no real culture of donations, subscriptions, or even crowdfunding. Journalism is consumed as if it should be free, but demanded as if it should be perfect. Donors are inconsistent, and local philanthropy often fails to acknowledge the media as a public good. Here, running a newsroom is not merely difficult—it is punishing.

Leadership in this terrain? It is an unending battle.

The weight no one talks about

There is no handbook for running a mission-driven newsroom in Africa. No manual for balancing editorial courage with collapsing revenue. No chapter explaining the emotional labour required when staff look to you for stability, even as you drown quietly inside.

Personal and organisational debts blur. Health suffers. Nights become battlegrounds of fear and self-doubt. To the world, you remain the unshakeable face of the mission. Inside, you are a flickering candle refusing to die out.

And then comes the perpetual churn of young talent. Some join the newsroom committed; others see it as a stepping stone to something more glamorous or better-paying. Training becomes constant. Expectations clash with reality. The hunger to build a long-term institution is met with the short-term ambitions of individuals trying to survive.

These are the unseen struggles—never spoken, barely acknowledged. But none of these internal pressures compares to the most suffocating question of all: How do you keep the lights on in a continent that does not invest in the truth?

Here, many media outlets pay little or nothing, causing many workers to moonlight. The public expects reliable news for free. Donor funding becomes increasingly precarious year after year, and local businesses view journalism as little more than an expense.

Yet the expectation is always that we must remain fair, independent, ethical, and unbroken.

It is a war fought alone.

The year the floor gave in

At the start of 2025, HumAngle lost nearly 90 per cent of its income. Years of careful building felt undone in a single moment. By mid-year, we had clawed back a small fraction of that loss, but over 60 per cent of what sustained us in 2023–2024 never returned. The ground under our feet cracked open. 

I drafted a resignation letter twice. But who would I send it to? To the staff who trusted me beyond the title? To the public, would my exit be seen as a surrender? To the displaced communities whose stories depend on our presence? I stayed—not because I felt strong, but because leaving felt weaker.

And yet somehow, we built more

The cruel irony is that even in our most challenging year, we produced some of our most important work. We published roughly 450 written stories and over 70 video reports in the forms of:

• Deep investigations.
• Ground reporting from places others avoid.
• Explainers, data stories, GIS maps.
• Cartoons and motion graphics.
• VR documentaries.
• Stories of insurgency, displacement, bureaucracy, climate vulnerability, abductions, disappearances, corruption, and the human will to survive.

We created an animated series. We mapped conflict. We exposed truths hidden in plain sight. While our budget shrank, our creativity expanded and our resolve sharpened. 

In-between the nonstop cycle of proposals, investor pitches, and fundraising, I managed to write about 20 articles; one ended up HumAngle’s number one most-read story of 2025.

If leadership is measured by scars, 2025 carved its initials into my spirit.

A break in the clouds

Then, in November—when the exhaustion in my bones felt older than the year—I received the news that I had been selected as a 2026 Yale Peace Fellow.

It felt like the universe placing a hand on my back, whispering, “I see your sacrifices. Keep going.”

It was both validation and oxygen. A reminder that the mission is still worthy. For the first time in months, I exhaled.

Gratitude

To the team members who witnessed the storm’s impact on me yet never wavered in their confidence—thank you. Your presence gave me the strength to keep fighting and to ensure the wheels of HumAngle continued to turn.

And to myself, I owe a whisper of recognition:
I stood when it made no sense to stand.
I held the line when hope dimmed to a shadow.
I carried HumAngle through a year that nearly broke me.

Abandoning the communities we serve would have been a more profound betrayal than any financial strain.

This is Ahmad Salkida saying: Thank you—and I see you—to Ahmad Salkida.

Why we must continue

Our reporting led to the release of over 1,000 men who had been arbitrarily detained for years by the military. It also strengthened accountability in the management of IDP camps and contributed to several rescues as well as improved humanitarian response efforts. There is so much more that our reporting and advocacy have achieved.

If we stop, who documents the disappeared? Who tracks the terrorists expanding violently across borders? Who exposes the illicit financial networks funding terrorism? Who tells the stories of those the state has forgotten? Who protects truth in a time when truth is expendable?

Looking toward 2026

I do not know what the coming year holds. But I hope— stubbornly—that it will be kinder. Kinder to those who witness suffering so others may understand. Kinder to organisations like HumAngle that stand between injustice and oblivion. Kinder to the idea that journalism still matters.

The year 2025 almost broke us. It almost broke me. But ‘almost’ is not the same as ‘did’.

HumAngle stands—scarred, stretched, humbled—but standing. And in 2026, we continue, more determined than ever to continue to bear witness.