A black star has fallen. This week, news broke that Alexx Ekubo, the Nollywood heartthrob and British-Nigerian cultural bridge, has died of cancer at the age of 40. The response has been predictable: a chorus of grief from Lagos to London, from Instagram to the BBC. But let us pause. Let us resist the easy sentiment and ask what Ekubo's life and death tell us about the state of our cultural moment.
Ekubo was not merely an actor; he was a symbol. Born in Nigeria, educated in Lagos, he rose to fame playing romantic leads that delighted a diaspora hungry for representation. In a world where British-Nigerian identity is often reduced to food festivals and Afrobeat playlists, Ekubo offered something more: a face that could sell a soap, a smile that could open a film. He was handsome, charming, and eminently likeable. But he was also a symptom of something deeper: the commodification of identity in a globalised entertainment industry.
Consider the irony. Here was a man who died of a disease that is more survivable in the West than in much of Africa. Cancer does not respect celebrity, but it does respect geography. Ekubo's British links—he studied in the UK and maintained strong ties there—afforded him access to better care than most Nigerians could dream of. Yet the disease still claimed him. His death is not just a tragedy; it is a stark illustration of global inequality, where life expectancy is still zip-coded. The mourning in Britain is real, but it is also a luxury. How many thousands of Nigerians have died of cancer this year without a single headline?
And what of Nollywood itself? Ekubo was its golden boy, a symbol of a film industry that has grown from cheap video flicks to a global phenomenon. Nollywood now churns out thousands of films annually, rivaling Hollywood and Bollywood in sheer output. But quantity is not quality. The industry remains plagued by poor distribution, formulaic plots, and a refusal to grapple with its own demons. Ekubo's roles were often the clichéd lover, the rich bachelor, the aspirational male. Rarely did he play a man with flaws, a man who struggled. Nollywood deals in fantasy, not reality. And in a country with a median age of 18, where youth unemployment is rampant and corruption is a given, the fantasy is dangerous. It teaches young Nigerians that success is a flat stomach and a white smile, not a robust institution or a functioning society.
But let us not be too cruel. Ekubo was a man, not a metaphor. He made people happy. His films brought joy to a continent that needs it. And his death reminds us that talent does not guarantee time. The British-Nigerian community has lost a figure who moved between worlds with ease, who proved that one could be both proud to be Nigerian and comfortable in the West. That is no small thing.
Yet as we light candles and post tearful selfies, let us also light a fire under our political leaders. Ekubo's death should not be a moment for mere sentiment. It should be a call for better healthcare, for an end to the cancer of inequality—both medical and cultural. Nollywood must grow up. It must make room for stories that are not just about escape, but about truth. And the British-Nigerian community must stop treating its heroes like ornaments and start demanding that they be used to build bridges, not just pose for them.
Alexx Ekubo is gone. The grief is genuine. But grief without action is just another form of entertainment. Do we dare to do more than mourn?
