IT WAS late, long after the last production meeting should have ended. The newsroom lights were still on, but most desks were empty.
Phones vibrated occasionally, breaking the quiet. A reporter stood nearby, not speaking, pretending to scroll, waiting.
On my screen was a story that was solid, sourced, verified, double-checked.
It had been read twice already. What it was not, was safe.
The question, as always, was simple and never really is: do we publish, do we delay, or do we kill it?
This is the moment readers rarely see.
The moment when journalism stops being an idea and becomes consequence.
Editors are often described as gatekeepers of truth.
In reality, they are also gatekeepers of fallout.
One decision can invite lawsuits before dawn, put reporters on watchlists, or trigger calls that start politely and end with threats.
Another decision – silence – allows wrongdoing to continue quietly, uninterrupted.
That power sits uneasily on the desk.
There is also a comforting myth that ethical choices in journalism are obvious.
Right or wrong. Courage or cowardice.
About four decades in newsrooms have taught me otherwise.
Most editorial decisions are made late, tired, under pressure, with respondents not returning calls and publishers calculating risk in real time.
Ethics, in practice, often means choosing which harm you are prepared to live with.
I remember an editor agreeing to kill a story that met every professional standard.
The sources were credible.
The documents checked out.
The reporter had done everything right. But the risks were heavy as legal threats already hinted at, political interests involved, staff safety raised quietly in the room.
But discretion was wisdom.
The story never ran.
Nothing dramatic followed.
No confrontation. No explosion.
Just the dull discomfort of knowing something important had been left undone.
The wrongdoing the story exposed did not stop. It simply continued, unchallenged.
A victim remained unheard. The newsroom moved on, but the unease stayed.
These are some of the failures editors rarely talk about.
Not typos or misquotes, those are easy to fix.
The harder failures are invisible: stories shelved, truths delayed, voices muted in the name of caution.
“Protecting the newsroom” is a phrase I have heard countless times in over the years.
Sometimes it is necessary.
No story is worth a life. But sometimes it becomes a convenient refuge, a way to dress fear up as strategy, or avoidance as professionalism.
The line between responsibility and complicity is thin, and it is usually crossed quietly.
Young reporters feel this most.
I have also watched journalists do careful, difficult work, build trust with vulnerable sources, only to be told, gently, “Not now.”
What they take from that moment matters. They learn either that truth is fragile but worth defending or that truth has limits set by comfort.
Newsrooms teach ethics daily, not through policy documents, but through these decisions.
There is also the false safety of neutrality.
Editors tell themselves that holding back is balance, that silence is impartial. It rarely is🤔.
Silence almost always favours power. Looking away from abuse or corruption because the consequences are uncomfortable is not neutrality – it is a choice.
Still, editors do get it right plenty of times. I have seen stories published despite warnings, threats, and pressure.
I have seen reporters shaken but proud, newsrooms anxious but intact.
Those moments do not feel heroic. They feel frightening, exhausting, and necessary.
They are what give journalism its meaning.
Looking back now, I do not claim perfect judgment.
I have seen decisions that still trouble me.
I have also seen calls that carried consequences and they made all over again without hesitation.
Ethics offers no certainty, only accountability🤔.
What these years have taught me is simple: ethics is not something you inherit from a newsroom’s reputation.
It is something we must practise daily. It is the story on our screen at 11.00pm, the phone call we do not want to return, the reporter waiting for our answer.
Editors must choose courage more often than comfort.
Fear is human. Prudence is required.
But silence has victims too, even when they remain unnamed🤔.
I write this not to accuse editors, but to be honest about the job I love so passionately much.
Journalism is not performed in slogans. It is practiced in small rooms, under pressure, by people making imperfect choices.
If the public is to trust the press again, editors must speak openly about our failure as well as success.
Only then can standards grow stronger.
The newsroom is not a courtroom.
There are no final judgments.
There are only decisions, consequences, and the hope that next time, we choose better🤔.
Respectfully, I invite my editors, co-reporters, and readers to reflect on this together.
These conversations belong in the open not whispered after deadline.
Joke Kujenya, a seasoned journalist, mentor, media trainer and currently publisher of jknewsmedia.com, is based in Lagos, Nigeria.
