By Amieyeofori Ibim
When the news drifted in on the quiet winds of October 17, 2025—that Mr. Fitzallen Albert-Briggs had taken his final bow from the stage of life—it felt as though an old, familiar lamp had been gently extinguished. Not violently, not abruptly, but with the solemn tenderness that attends the exit of a man whose presence had long illuminated the corridors of our profession. His passing broke through the day like a muted gong, resonating with the weight of remembered years.
My own journey to his world began in the innocence of youth, when my shoes were still new from journalism school and my mind filled with theories that had never yet collided with the ferocity of real newsroom life. At The Nigerian Tide, where the air throbbed with stories waiting to be birthed, he stood at the centre—News Editor, sentinel, and craftsman of the written word. His figure cast a long shadow, the kind that makes you straighten your back instantly.
Among reporters, he was a name whispered with a blend of admiration and trepidation. His reputation travelled ahead of him like thunder before rain. We knew that a poorly shaped script was not merely substandard—it was an invitation to a lesson taught with the sharp edge of truth. In those early days, I learned quickly that his desk was no place for careless storytelling.
For under deadline pressure, he was a tempest in full strength. His voice could slice through the newsroom hum, commanding, demanding, sometimes terrifying. A weak lead or a muddled paragraph would return to you airborne—flung back with the precision of a challenge. Then came the words, stern as a verdict: “Ten minutes. Bring it back properly written.” In those moments, time itself seemed to sprint, its footsteps echoing in the ticking clock that ruled our nights.
Yet, even in the storm, there was purpose. His fierceness was born from a sacred loyalty to the craft—a belief that newsprint carried the heartbeat of the society it served. He refused to let mediocrity contaminate it. Each rebuke, though fiery, was a forging. We were young metal in his hands, and he hammered us into shape with uncompromising devotion.
But when the newsroom frenzy subsided, another man emerged—one whose laughter rolled down the corridors like sunlight spilling across a darkened floor. Outside the tyranny of deadlines, he was gentle, soft-spoken, almost disarmingly calm. His humour warmed even the coldest evenings, and you could often hear his laughter drifting downstairs, unmistakable in its richness.
It was in those quieter hours that he became a mentor in the truest sense of the word. He would lean over your script with the patience of an elder gardener pruning a young plant. He did not merely correct; he explained. He taught the anatomy of a story—the breath of its opening line, the spine of its structure, the music of its rhythm. Through him, many of us learned to listen not just to words but to meaning.
His guidance shaped my own path more deeply than I understood at the time. It was his fire, his firmness, and his faith in the craft that pushed me beyond my hesitant beginnings, eventually guiding me to the honour of serving as Editor (Daily) of The Tide Newspapers. When I look back at that journey, I see his fingerprints on every milestone. He carved editors out of ordinary men and women.
Even after he retired from the service of the Rivers State Government, the flame of his relevance never dimmed. Retirement did not quiet his mind nor withdraw his warmth. He continued to advise, to inspire, to nudge younger colleagues toward excellence. He became a repository of wisdom, freely open to any who sought him.
Thus, when the Rivers State Council of the Nigerian Union of Journalists (NUJ) released its condolence message to his family, it echoed the sentiments of an entire profession. It was not merely formal sympathy; it was the collective exhale of those who had walked through his furnace and emerged stronger. His life had become part of the architecture of journalism in Rivers State.
As we await December 13, 2025—when he will be committed to the earth—we hold fast to the memory of a man who roared to awaken our best selves and laughed to remind us of our humanity. He leaves behind no monuments of stone, but something far greater: a lineage of journalists shaped by his discipline, strengthened by his fire, and warmed by his kindness. And so, we let him go, with gratitude and reverence, trusting that his soul now rests where deadlines do not loom and every story is already complete. Amieyeofori Ibim is a seasoned Journalist, Political Analyst and Public Affairs Commentator.
