Sam Nda-Isaiah: The chairman who believed nothing was impossible

NNAA KALU NTO

It was about 10pm on that quiet, uneasy Friday night, December 11, 2020, when my phone rang. The call came from Emmanuel, my friend and colleague, and the Chairman’s younger brother, whom I fondly called Bob, or sometimes Bobrisky, whenever I wanted to tease him. His voice was low, strained, and heavy with something I couldn’t quite place until he said the words that have never left me since: “Kalu, I have bad news… the Chairman is dead.”

I froze. For a moment, time lost its rhythm. I was in my living room, watching the 10 o’clock news, when that call came in. I remember dropping the remote, staring blankly at the television screen, and whispering to myself, “No, not the Chairman.” It felt surreal. The news hit like a heavy blow: unexpected, unbelievable, unbearable. That night was one of the longest in my life. Very early the next morning, I drove to his residence, partly hoping that I was misinformed. The sheer number of cars parked along his street, confirmed my worst fear. I couldn’t see or speak to his wife, Aunty Zainab, because she and some of their children had tested positive for  Covid and as such, had to isolate themselves.

He had died at the Gwagwalada Specialist Hospital from complications related to COVID-19. He had only just returned from Lagos a few days earlier, completely drained. His protocol officer, Wale, later told me they had spent almost four hours in traffic from Ikoyi to the airport that day. Yet, despite his exhaustion, he still drove straight to the Leadership office for the inauguration of a new publication. The National Economy. That was typical of him. Even fatigue bowed before his sense of duty.

To those who only read or heard about him, Sam Nda-Isaiah was a publisher, a businessman, a columnist, and a political figure. But to those of us who worked with him, who saw him up close, who listened to his laughter, who endured his fiery rebukes, and who shared in his dreams, he was something more profound. He was a movement of ideas clothed in the body of one man. Sam Nda-Isaiah was not just a publisher or businessman. He was a force; one of those rare human beings whose energy filled a room before his words did. He had a presence that was just short of intimidating; the kind that made you sit straighter and choose your words carefully. But behind that commanding aura was a kind heart, an unshakable faith in people, and an unrelenting love for Nigeria.

His love for this country ran deep, almost to the point of obsession. He believed Nigeria could be great, and he didn’t just say it; he acted it. That same conviction drove him to contest for the highest office in the land under the All Progressives Congress (APC). And before death snatched him away, he was already making plans to try again, to offer Nigeria the kind of leadership he had always preached about: visionary, disciplined, and pragmatic.

Sam was disciplined to the core. He believed structure was the soul of success. He hated excuses and detested mediocrity. If you ever worked with him, you knew there were no gray areas; things were either done well or not done at all. His famous line, “Don’t tell me what can’t be done,” still rings in my ears. He had an almost divine confidence that any goal could be achieved with the right focus, strategy, and willpower.

He was focused. Once his mind locked onto an idea, it became a living thing. I saw him transform notes on notepads into full-fledged companies, ideas whispered in passing into nationwide conversations. He built Leadership Newspapers from scratch, not with luck, but with sheer audacity and sweat. He was tenacious; in fact, tenacity was his oxygen. Even when others gave up, Sam doubled down.

But behind the hard-driving businessman was an incredibly generous soul. He was a philanthropist in the truest sense of the word, not because he wanted recognition, but because giving was woven into his nature. There were widows, several of them, who were quietly on his personal payroll. He paid school fees, sponsored families, and extended help to people who never expected it. He also had slots in some of his companies for employment on humanitarian grounds. He gave like it was second nature, smiling as though he was the one receiving.

He was the proper definition of a cheerful giver.

Working with him changed me forever. Sam’s ideas, his restless mind, his vivid outlook on life, they moulded my thinking, sharpened my discipline, and expanded my sense of what’s possible. He taught me that success is not stumbled upon but built intentionally, one deliberate decision at a time. He often said, “Kalu, there’s no problem without a solution. You just haven’t thought long enough.” Some of our conversations were usually quite late at night. Part of my schedule was to report to him after the close of work. On an early day, I got home around 9pm. The chairman had a daily routine  – he didn’t sleep at night! He usually went to bed just when others were waking up. I never got around to asking him why he chose this particular routine.

And yet, beyond all his intellect and ambition, he was human: warm, witty, occasionally stubborn, hot-tempered, but always inspiring. When he laughed, the whole room caught it. When he spoke, you listened. When he believed in you, he made you believe in yourself too.

Sometimes, when I think about the many conversations we had, about politics, innovation, ethics, and destiny, I realise how much of who I am today was moulded in those moments. He had a way of stretching your mind until you saw things differently. Sam wasn’t content with followers; he wanted thinkers, doers, believers.

His passing was not just a personal loss; it was a national tragedy. Nigeria lost one of her finest minds, a man who refused to be ordinary, who dared to dream in a time when many had stopped believing.

Every December 11 since that night, five years ago, I pause to remember that call from Bob: the silence before he spoke, the ache in his voice, the heaviness that filled the room afterwards, and then I remember the Chairman himself – charismatic, driven, focused, sometimes impatient, but always inspiring. Everyone, including top politicians and top-tier CEOs all called him, “Chairman”, and rightly so because Sam Nda-Isaiah lived with intensity and purpose. He left behind not just a publishing and business legacy, but a philosophy: that nothing is impossible.

And that, I believe, is the greatest inheritance a mentor could ever leave behind.

Nnaa Kalu Nto, a former staff member of The Leadership Group, is a good governance advocate based in Abuja.