It was not a typical day in Idoani, a small, quiet town tucked away at the edge of one of Nigeria’s southern states, just beyond hills that seemed to serve no other purpose than to announce the proximity of the school to approaching visitors and students of Federal Government College, Idoani.
On this day in 1991, the school played host to visitors who came bearing gifts. Whatever the gifts were, every student knew they were special because as soon as the vehicle made its way through the school gate, the principal walked the entire 200m stretch as the minivan negotiated the right turn towards the administrative block.
It wasn’t long before the news spread around the school that we were now proud owners of two computers! While they technically belonged to everyone, the school’s cool new shiny gifts found a home in the second half of the principal’s office, a space specially reserved for this gift that was more important than the most feared man in the school. At that time, an invitation to the principal’s office was not something any student hoped for, but the more secure half of the office—the computer room—instantly became a pilgrimage destination.
A few days later, I left my class to go on the coveted journey to the computer room because rumour had it that some students had been there to play games and do magical things while the principal was within earshot! But the teacher in charge literally looked down at me and said, with an air of arrogance about him: “Computers are not for people like you; you can’t understand how to use them.”
Those words almost crushed my 13-year-old spirit because a classmate and his brothers, whose father was a professor of mathematics at the University of Benin, had been to the same computer room and even said they had access to one at home.
I don’t remember anything beyond crying and wiping my tears as I returned to the junior secondary three block. I must have forgotten all about it almost as soon as the tears dried up. Still, I believe that the distance between the administrative block and my class laid a foundation for my career and what eventually became Paradigm Initiative. I was made to feel small, and as a way of avenging that terrible experience, I decided to learn how to use computers and to teach every young person so they could also go to any computer room without being turned back.
Three years later, in 1994, I graduated from secondary school and noticed that everywhere you turned, people were talking about this new kind of literacy that was neither reading nor writing, and that was not taught in regular schools—computer literacy. “I would have been one of them if that teacher didn’t keep me out,” I thought, remembering my promise to myself in what turned out to be one of my lowest moments in secondary school.
I was an intelligent child who others respected for his mathematical prowess and I had my way with subjects others considered to be tough but the one thing I was unable to do was to lay my hands on a computer. It didn’t help that a few months after the gifts were housed in the most secure office on campus, gun-toting thieves visited our school and carted them away.
I fulfilled the first part of my dream by enrolling at Newlight Computers Limited in Akure, where I lived with my family at the time. I was shocked when I saw typewriters, and not computers, on our tables, but it was the stage of our learning where we would have to learn how to type by picking out the keys that were next to each other—ASDF to the left, LKJ to the right, in reverse—and no one was going to trust us with computers just yet.
As I toured the facility, peeping through slightly open doors and transparent window curtains, I saw computers and heard confident-looking teachers say things that made no sense to me at the time—BASIC, programming, shut down, DOS, etc. One of those days, after thumping away at the typewriter for what seemed like an eternity, I heard about three powerful buttons that could help restart a computer: Control, Alternate and Delete.
Before long, I had gained enough confidence to touch one of the computers that lay idle in the lobby, but things went downhill so fast. The computer started with a high-pitched noise and I froze for a moment and then remembered the Ctrl + Alt + Del combination. As I stood up to leave, basking in the glory of taming a crying machine, I realised one of the school’s owners was right behind me. In that moment, I would have preferred the rejection I experienced in 1991 to what I thought would happen next. But he took me into his office, and when he realised I was one of the students who were still confined to typewriters, he decided to spend weekends teaching me how to use computers properly to prevent me from destroying all the computers at the institute.
I remember my excitement as I arrived at the Obafemi Awolowo University campus on a rainy Sunday afternoon in October 1995. I arrived just in time for the establishment of the university’s Information Technology and Communication Unit (INTECU) that set up multiple networks of computers that were connected to the internet. Even though the vice chancellor did not walk the entire 2.5km connecting the school’s gate to the senate building, just as it happened in my secondary school, the aptly named computer building became a popular destination among students who wanted just to get online and do the many things that were now possible: send emails, browse the web, search for any information using a search engine, and more.
Students were only allowed to use computers for 30 minutes at a time, maybe even per day, but it wasn’t long before those of us who had found a new home found a way around that—we would use variations of our names on the sign-in sheets. I was ‘Gbenga Sesan in the morning, Olabisi Sesan in the afternoon and Bisi Oluwagbenga when a night slot was up for grabs. I didn’t have to do that for long, thanks to a series of strike actions that led to a year-long interruption to our studies. There was a 6-month protest in 1996 by the Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASUU) against the Nigerian government’s violation of the agreement signed with the union and the dismissal of their colleagues by the Sani Abacha-led military regime. It was followed by other protests by students and other associations, such as the Non-Academics Staff Union (NASU).
While this meant an interruption to my pursuit of a degree in electronics and electrical engineering, it also meant there were fewer students on campus, which in turn meant there was no waiting list for the use of computers with internet access. My unhindered access to the internet during this long break and the hurt from being denied access to computers in my secondary school laid the foundation for the emergence of Paradigm Initiative. Two of my friends, Adeolu Ashaye and Titi Akinsanmi, also spent a lot of time on campus during the break, so we were regulars at the computer building. I remember deciding at some point to spend my nights with the lonely computers instead of making multiple long trips between where I enjoyed exploring the world and Angola Hall, my hall of residence 2.1km away.
The letter I wrote to my dad to inform him of my decision to stay back on campus and to promise that choosing computers over spending an indefinite amount of time at home with family would eventually make him proud of me was delivered by my friend, Bayo Olotu, who also lived in Akure at the time. My first trip out of Nigeria wouldn’t be until 2001, but spending that much time surfing the web was like travelling the world. It was a different person, a more global version of me, that resumed in H8 Angola Hall when school activities started again.
Naturally, at the end of my second year on campus, when other colleagues left to go complete their year two student work placement program in various cities across Nigeria, I stayed back on campus again. It wasn’t all computers and the internet this time, as my friend, Deolu Akinyemi, and I started and delivered a successful stage play project called “Akere” during that period. This flair for drama, which dates back to my secondary school years, led me to the drama unit of the Evangelical Christian Union (ECU) group on campus, where I met Dr. James Sotomi, an alumnus who had just returned to Nigeria to establish a computing firm, Neural Technologies Limited. My six months industrial attachment, a part of the compulsory Student Industrial Work Experience Scheme (SIWES) for fourth-year students, was completed at the firm.
Dr. Sotomi challenged me to learn the HyperText Markup Language (HTML) programming language. When I returned his manual after only three days, he immediately assigned me my first website design task. My friend, Tokunbo Fagbamigbe, who had just completed his Engineering Physics program and was also a member of the ECU Drama group, was tasked with writing more complex code using Java and C++. I can never forget the day Dr. Sotomi asked me to present a website project at Shell Nigeria Exploration and Production Company (SNEPCO) because while I walked into the room with impostor syndrome, I came out feeling like I was ready to take on the world. He bet on me so early in my career, and now, when I get a chance to do that with colleagues and proteges, I am honouring the memory of the Late Dr. James A. Sotomi.
At the end of my fourth year on campus, I was expected to complete my industrial attachment programme with Neural Technologies and return to school for the final year. I signed my SIWES logbook to demonstrate that I had completed the programme but also asked Dr. Sotomi to allow me to continue as an unpaid staff of the company so that I could continue to learn and implement projects for the company on campus. I also wanted to secure my employment future by adding at least a year of experience and locking a job opportunity in before my graduation. Once I got back to campus, armed with introductions from Neural Technologies, I pitched website design projects to Obafemi Awolowo University Press, the university’s printing company, and the Department of Dentistry.
The Electronics and Electrical Engineering Department of the university had an opening for a student to serve as the chairman of the electronic club which was in charge of the computers in the department, so I wanted to be the chairman of the club. At this time, I had returned to the idea of using my knowledge of computing to help other students so it would be an opportunity to prepare myself and my classmates for the challenges ahead of us after graduation.
On the day Musa Aibinu and I were asked to present our manifesto for the role of chairman of the electronic club, a classmate was tasked with reading my profile. “‘Gbenga Sesan went to Omolere Nursery and Primary School, Akure,” he started, and everybody clapped. He continued, “He was also a student of St. Peter’s Demonstration Primary School, Akure” and everybody clapped again, and started laughing. By the time he said, “He attended Federal Government College…” and everybody shouted “Akure!” for a school that is in Idoani, I had gotten the message. I needed to assure my classmates that this Akure boy had his sights firmly set on the whole world. I started introducing myself differently, assigning meaning to my initials. “Listen, I might be an Akure boy now, but I will be a global person in the future. My name is ‘Gbenga Sesan, GS—stands for Global Synergism.”
My competitor showed off his engineering skills and was hailed by many, but I won because I focused on the one thing no one knew much about—the future. I relied on my newfound love for website design, on computing and the internet as the future. I got to work immediately by contacting Philip Emeagwali, who was one of the most popular Nigerians at the time and had been referred to as one of the founders of the internet, and asking him to come to speak at our annual Electronic Week event. He replied and connected me with Chris Uwaje, who was then president of the Information Technology Association of Nigeria (ITAN).
In addition to my work at the department, one of the first things I did when I returned from my industrial attachment programme was a web page design training called Web Page Design (WPD) 2000. It was my first time training other people for a fee of 2000 naira each. My roommates, Ogemdi Ike and Tope Soremi, teamed up with me to advertise the training, sign up students, deliver the training and turn what we had into a small business. We used my knowledge of HTML, Ogemdi’s knowledge of computers and Tope’s people skills to digitise year books for student groups, departments and campus fellowships. The more we talked to our clients about how computers and the internet were changing everything, the more I gravitated towards creating a platform that could help me connect young people with Information and Communication Technology (ICT) skills.
The idea of digitising year books was not original to us; we were building on the work done by Kayode Ayodele and Isaac Inyang, who were a year ahead of me in the Electronics and Electrical Engineering department. When one of our lecturers, Professor GO Ajayi asked Kayode and Isaac’s class if they knew anyone who could write on the subject of “ICT, Youth and National Development,” they both came to see me in the hostel and said, “Prof. wants to see you.” I was always talking about how ICTs could be used for personal development, nation-building, regional cooperation and global participation. So even though my name hadn’t been explicitly mentioned, to them I was the obvious choice.
I wrote the essay and handed it to Prof. Ajayi, not knowing he was turning it in as an entry for a United Nations (UN) competition. After what seemed like a very long time, on July 16 2001, Prof. Ajayi responded to my email enquiry with: “Dear Gbenga, Congrats. You are successful and you have been selected. I advise you [to] obtain a Nigerian passport as soon as possible. As soon as I know the details you will be informed. GO Ajayi.”
At about the same time, I won the Most Promising Web Developer Contest sponsored by The Executive Cyberschool (TEC), whose CEO, Engr. Titi Omo-Ettu, was on a mission to provide young Nigerians with affordable ICT training. Apart from the N100,000 prize and being named Nigeria’s Information Technology Youth Ambassador, the company sponsored my ICT training campaign around Nigerian universities. That was the moment Paradigm Initiative Nigeria was born.
On October 30, 2001, I wrote to inform my volunteer group of friends and a few others of my announcement as Nigeria’s Information Technology Youth Ambassador. The email read, in part:
Hi everyone, I was on the bus on the way to work this morning… my mind was at work and I had to slow down a little. I picked my pen, opened my jotter and let go… your names came to my mind, your addresses to my jotter and… folks, I need you, Nigeria needs you…the Future of Nigeria beckons!…I have worked with you at one time or the other, on whatever small scale it might be, and I know that you are a worthy vessel when it comes to National assignments… Sometime in January 2002, I will be honoured as Nigeria’s I. T. Youth Ambassador. That is an open door that will help carry out some long-time dreams that I’m sure you share. Sometime earlier, I designed www.blackpioneers.htmlplanet.com in anticipation of change, and here is a door… Please save this mail… stay in touch and get ready… Nigeria will not be the same again!
Inspired by the ITU Fellowship convening that brought together about 108 fellows from all African countries, I started an online group, Black Pioneers, that morphed into the eNigeria mailing list that predated the first time I would use the name, Paradigm Initiative Nigeria (PIN), in 2001. At the time, PIN was a channel of expression that connected my various volunteer efforts and allowed me to work with other young people on various ICT projects. Before it became an organisation, PIN existed as a volunteer group that included my friends—Tope Soremi, Seun Olajide, Emmanuel Oluwatosin, Titi Akinsanmi and Edward Popoola—who all went on to build amazing careers for themselves. E
