Illustration by Kevwe Ogini / THE REPUBLIC.
THE MINISTRY OF CULTURAL AFFAIRS
The Nigerian Heart of Joop Berkhout
Illustration by Kevwe Ogini / THE REPUBLIC.
THE MINISTRY OF CULTURAL AFFAIRS
The Nigerian Heart of Joop Berkhout
Ooni Olubuse II began to cough, and the people around him in the palace beat their chest, including the Dutchman by my side, dressed in a white agbádá and wearing a string of red coral beads around his neck. Everyone but me, the Dutch writer visiting Nigeria for the first time and still oblivious to Yoruba traditions. It was 2009. The Dutchman in traditional attire who had invited me to see his friend, the now late Ooni of Ife, Oba Okunade Sijuwade Olubuse II, was Chief Joop Berkhout. Earlier this year, on 10 February 2025, he passed away aged 94 in Ibadan, where he’d lived for over half a century.
WINTER OF HUNGER
In the Netherlands, his country of birth, not many knew of Berkhout, but his passing made headlines and TV news in Nigeria. Even President Bola Tinubu sent a letter of condolence. ‘Though he hailed from the Netherlands, his heart belonged wholly to Nigeria,’ it read. And yet how could this salesman from the low countries with only a high school diploma become the ‘doyen of Nigerian publishing’, as some of his obituaries claimed?
Berkhout was born in Amsterdam in 1930. He was ten years old when the Second World War reached the Netherlands. The German occupation made a lasting impression on the boy. The last winter before its liberation, the Dutch North experienced a famine that became known as the winter of hunger, which killed over 20,000 people. His mother would send little Joop (pronounced ‘yope’) to the soup kitchen with a bucket to fetch food for the family, and with his siblings he used to go out to steal fence wood to burn in the stove when temperatures went below zero.
‘You couldn’t trust anyone,’ Berkhout said of those years of German occupation. His country of birth would forever be connected to that feeling of distrust, he once told his granddaughter. Maybe that is why he hardly looked back once he had the opportunity to emigrate, even becoming a Nigerian citizen in 1992. Like so many during that post-war era of reconstruction in Europe, Berkhout went abroad looking for a brighter future.
A LIFELONG AFFAIR WITH BOOKS
Initially, Nigeria was not on Berkhout’s radar. Nor were books, for that matter. In 1955 Berkhout moved to Bahrain to work as a clerk for a shipping company. From Bahrain he went to Tanzania, then Tanganyika. There he was offered a job in a bookshop. It turned out to be the beginning of a lifelong love affair with books. ‘Joop was married to the book business,’ remarked Bookcraft publisher Bankole Olayebi, who started his career under Berkhout. ‘That’s where he got his kicks from.’
Berkhout’s high book sales in East Africa got noticed at Oxford University Press all the way in the United Kingdom. They head-hunted the Dutchman to come work for them, first in Zambia, which he enjoyed, and then in rainy Oxford, which he hated. Being back in the European cold was not his idea of a promotion. So when British publisher Evans Brothers offered Berkhout a job as managing director of their newly incorporated Nigerian arm, he jumped at the opportunity and moved to Ibadan, back then the centre of the country’s academic and schoolbook business. This is how, in 1966, Joop Berkhout landed in the sunny country he never left.
‘Joop Berkhout was to the Nigerian publishing world what penicillin was to healthcare,’ Dotun Oyelade proclaimed at Berkhout’s memorial service in Ibadan. The Oyo State commissioner of information had worked for Berkhout for three years in the late eighties. By that time, the Dutchman had left Evans Brothers and started his own publishing company, Spectrum Books.
Spectrum quickly grew to become a well-known publisher in Nigeria, and many schoolchildren over those years saw the company logo on their textbooks. Apart from money-spinning academic titles, Berkhout also published literary lights such as Wole Soyinka and Kole Omotoso, whose 1988 historical novel, Just Before Dawn, made a splash in Nigeria upon its release. Berkhout also referred to former Nigerian presidents Olusegun Obasanjo and Muhammadu Buhari as ‘my authors’, because they had both, at one time or the other, published their autobiographies with Spectrum.
In 1998, from his Ibadan base, Berkhout published Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s second book, at a time when she still went by the name Amanda N. Adichie. The play was called For the Love of Biafra. Years later, Adichie would deem it ‘awfully melodramatic’, but her Spectrum publication did already focus on the theme of the later novel that would become her international breakthrough, Half of a Yellow Sun.
A shrewd businessman with a passion for books, Berkhout was said by many to be one of those who introduced the phenomenon of lavish book launches in Nigeria, where the author’s cronies—often political allies and business partners—would buy piles of books in an effort to outdo each other in support of their friend. It made for guaranteed publisher’s profits, but not necessarily for great literature or even enjoyable reading. ‘A big man does not have to be a great author,’ as Berkhout once told me after such an event in Ibadan in 2016. ‘Oga just has to have a lot of sycophants.’
In the era of Nigeria’s military rule, when freedom of speech was limited, Berkhout’s Spectrum Books introduced its streamlined vision of vanity publishing, author-financed books. He developed this line of publishing as a business plan B, an alternative to its academic titles. The book-flogging Dutchman convinced many in his extensive Nigerian network of the rich and mighty to publish with him. In fact, almost every person at the memorial service whom I spoke with and who was close to Chief, as they called him, would recount how he would always greet them by asking: ‘When are you writing your memoirs?’
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THE BERKHOUT EFFECT
Ironically, the publisher who convinced so many to write their autobiographies never got around to putting his own life on paper. This was partly because he could not write well enough to satisfy his own literary standards. Berkhout was a businessman, not a wordsmith, and language and grammar were not his forte. His Dutch had withered over the years abroad and conversation in his native tongue was peppered with Nigerian English, but he never fully mastered the English language either. The man who venerated writers was not proficient in any language himself.
Berkhout was aware of his linguistic shortcomings. When he finally took up the challenge to write his own autobiography in 2016, he went looking for a ghost writer. He found one in Habiba Balogun, former columnist of NEXT, the quality newspaper that shook up the Nigerian media world between 2009 and 2011. Balogun sat down with him for several recording sessions, she says: ‘He was very open and told me fantastic anecdotes and snippets of encounters. Always with himself in the leading role.’
But their cooperation never made it past a first draft. Berkhout fell ill and stayed in the UK for a while to recover. ‘By the time he came back, I was fully booked, and so was he,’ says Balogun, who then lost touch with Berkhout. That he did not make out time for his memoirs was no surprise to anyone who knew him. The man was a workaholic: when he sold Spectrum in 2008, planning to retire aged 78, it only took him about two years to get back into the publishing game by breathing new life into Safari Books Limited, a publishing company he had set up on the side in 1991. He was its executive chairman until he passed away.
The way Balogun had been conscripted as a ghost writer was exemplary of the Berkhout recruitment method. He got in touch with her through friends and simply said, ‘I like your columns, I want you to write my memoirs.’ When she objected that she had never done anything like it, he responded that he knew she could do it. It was a pattern, Balogun realized as she started interviewing people about him: ‘So many told me a similar story. He could smell talent. He groomed a lot of people into the business.’
Berkhout’s recognition of writing and editorial talent, and his willingness to offer them a platform at a time when so few publishers in Nigeria were doing so, might be his biggest contribution to the literary scene of his adopted country. The role he played for over half a century in the publishing world has now been taken over, and superseded, by the likes of Kachifo Limited, Cassava Republic Press, Ouida Books, Parrésia Publishers, Masobe Books and other exciting new initiatives in the Nigerian literary space.
A CERTAIN PRIVILEGE
At the memorial service held in Ibadan on 19 February 2025, a week and a half after Berkhout’s passing, two chiefs dressed in all-white were seated in the front row. Next to them was the Emese, a palace servant of the Ooni of Ife, holding a staff glittering with rhinestones. The text on the blue cap on top of the sceptre spelled out the word OONI. The monarch of the kingdom of Ifẹ̀ and one of the highest traditional leaders of the Yoruba nation had sent two of his chiefs to bid farewell to the Okun-Borode of Ifẹ̀, which was Berkhout’s official title. Apart from these dignitaries, many of the attendees had in some way or the other been introduced to the publishing industry by the Dutchman. Whether you were a neighbour in Ibadan or a literature student he bumped into at a book fair, or even a journalist who interviewed him at the Spectrum office, if he got the impression you had some talent he could use in his business, he would head-hunt you for the book trade.
But Berkhout wasn’t an easy boss. His former employees agree that he was extremely demanding. ‘Since he was married to his publishing house, he expected the same from his employees,’ remembers Olayebi, who had worked for him in the 1980s. Your family and your weekends meant nothing to him, he says: ‘He could call in the middle of the night about work and assumed that you would be there for him.’ Olayebi stuck with Berkhout for about four years, and then left to start his own publishing house, now called Bookcraft Africa, the current publisher of Nobel laureate Soyinka and the late Kole Omotoso, two celebrated names who had once published with Spectrum Books. ‘Berkhout always reminded me that he made me. And he was right. He was my mentor and a friend.’
Berkhout enjoyed, and tapped into, the privileged position he had as a white man in Nigeria. He flaunted his chieftaincy title, which he had received from his friend the Ooni in 1990—even though he did not speak a word of Yoruba, or any other Nigerian language. ‘As an oyibo man he had influential friends throughout the country, partly because of his warmth, but also because of his skin colour,’ said Commissioner Oyelade.
He did not use his privilege solely for his own gain as a publisher. It was in Berkhout’s house in Ibadan that the leaders of the two sides in the Nigerian Civil War, Yakubu Gowon and Chukwuemeka Odumegwu Ojukwu, shook hands for the first time many years after the end of hostilities. And when in 2014 the ministry of finance announced an import duty of 35 per cent on books, which would almost certainly have been the death knell for the struggling Nigerian publishing industry, it was the Dutchman and another major Nigerian publisher who successfully mobilized the national outcry against it. He was perhaps uniquely placed to give back to an industry he had done much to mould since his arrival on Nigerian shores in 1966. As Oyelade remembers, Berkhout would often get to speak to ministers and other grandees without an appointment by walking calmly into their midst and pretending that he belonged there: ‘He was sometimes insufferable. But he did make things happen.’
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WHEN IN NIGERIA…
Berkhout fit seamlessly into the big-man culture of his adopted country, which reveres those on top and lets them get away with almost everything. As a fellow Dutch person this puzzled me. Coming from a less hierarchical society, I did not always feel comfortable with the way Berkhout embraced his ogahood. My discomfort led to the only dispute we ever had in 16 years, after I witnessed him berating an employee who had made a minor mistake. When I expressed my shock at his behaviour and pointed out that with a Dutch employee he would have never gotten away with such bullying, he shrugged it off. ‘’s Lands wijs, ’s lands eer,’ he responded, using a Dutch expression that loosely translates as ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do’.
At the same time, he had such an outgoing persona that it was difficult to dislike him. ‘Joop collected people,’ Olayebi said of his late friend at his memorial service. And Funso Adegbola-Ige—daughter of the lawyer and politician Bola Ige—also attending the memorial service, said with deep emotion of the man she saw as family: ‘Uncle Joop showed genuine interest in your life.’
Berkhout used to be close friends with her father, who lived in the same city. Bola Ige was shot dead in his home in 2001, a stunning political assassination for which no one was ever held accountable. ‘My father and he were agemates. Uncle Joop saw it as his job to keep an eye on us after his death,’ Adegbola-Ige said. While the Ibadan City Chorale started an English hymn in between two speeches, she took out her mobile phone and scrolled through dozens of pictures of herself with Berkhout. ‘We are family, he said to me, and I am going to look after you. He was like a father to me.’
THE UNOFFICIAL DUTCH AMBASSADOR TO NIGERIA
One of the last speakers at the farewell ceremony was Dutch consul general, Michel Deelen, who has been in diplomatic service in Nigeria on and off since 1999. He called Berkhout a good friend and the ‘best ambassador the Netherlands ever had in Nigeria.’ Until a couple of years ago, Berkhout religiously attended the Dutch Consulate’s New Year’s receptions in Lagos, always staying at Deelen’s official residence. ‘He did not like paying for a hotel,’ Deelen remembered with a smile a couple of days after the passing of his friend. ‘He was a Dutchman, after all.’
At those consular get-togethers, it was almost like Berkhout was holding his own reception, holding court like a chief, as so many would approach him to pay their respects. ‘He was well connected and widely appreciated,’ Deelen said. Berkhout may have carried a Nigerian passport, but he was not blind to the country’s shortcomings, the consul continued: ‘He always spoke out against corruption. If necessary, he would raise the issue with the president.’ It was said that he did so without regard to a person’s public stature, and with a directness bordering on bluntness, perhaps even the rudeness that I had witnessed for myself when he castigated subordinates.
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‘A KING WITHOUT A SUCCESSOR’
As the Ibadan memorial of their father’s life drew to an end, Berkhout’s eldest sons, Frans and Ernest, thanked those present. As the hosts, they were dressed in moss-green and beige ankara outfits, for which a tailor had come to measure their sizes just the night before. Frans was 63, Ernest 62, and they both grew up in England. They had flown down from Europe to bury their father in the country he had refused to leave, even in death. As gregarious as their father was, the subject of his private life used to be off-limits even to his closest friends.
Berkhout had gotten married in 1960, but his wife never managed to settle in Africa. She was relieved when he got transferred to London and the family could move back to Europe. But Nigeria attracted her husband more. When Berkhout left his family behind in the UK to go back to work in Ibadan, it was a departure that would eventually lead to a divorce. His four children grew up with a largely absent father. According to Frans: ‘When we saw him, he was mainly the man with the beautiful stories. For the grandchildren, he was the special grandfather who was a traditional chief in Nigeria.’
As the memorial service staff was dismantling the screens with the larger-than-life portraits of Chief Berkhout from the event hall, a few remaining guests were still chatting. And then the lights went out in the glitzy hall, a fifteen-minute drive from Joop Berkhout Crescent, the street the chief had lived on for many decades. The house that Berkhout bought and proudly preserved had once served as a residence for the towering poet Christopher Okigbo in the 1960s, before he died fighting for Biafra in the civil war. In 1994, Berkhout had a plaque installed in the house commemorating this little-known fact, a testimony to his deep-felt connection to Nigeria’s literature and history.
It remains to be seen what will become of the Dutch-Nigerian’s legacy. His son, Frans, described his father as ‘a king without a successor.’ Berkhout worked hard to have someone next in line to hand his company over to, but none of his children showed an interest and he never succeeded in his attempts to groom a Nigerian for the role of sustaining his business legacy. But the more than two thousand books he published over the tempestuous course of his 59 years in Nigeria, and the countless Nigerians he inspired to write their stories and to become publishers, may stand as the beating heart of his own story⎈
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