The grim reaper, it seems, has been bingeing on Nollywood box sets. Alexx Ekubo, the dazzling diamond of Nigerian cinema, has shuffled off this mortal coil at the tragically premature age of 40. Cancer. The great leveller. The cosmic accountant who audits even the most vibrant of souls. And while the nation of Nigeria rightly declares a period of national mourning, there is a curious ripple of grief washing up on these sceptred isles. Why? Because culture, dear reader, is a bloody rhizome. It creeps underground, popping up in the most unexpected places.
Ekubo was not merely an actor. He was a phenomenon. A man whose smile could launch a thousand streaming subscriptions. From his early work in 'Men in Love' to his later, more dramatic turns, he embodied a Nollywood that had grown up, found its voice, and started speaking in a language that the global market could understand. And Britain, with its vast Nigerian diaspora and its own creaking cultural infrastructure, understood it perfectly. We saw in his rise not just a personal triumph, but a vindication of a shared aesthetic. A kind of cinematic Commonwealth if you will, where the Queen's English mixes with Pidgin English over a soundtrack of highlife.
But let us be brutally honest with ourselves. The British cultural establishment is a master at the game of 'posthumous adoption.' We didn't give him a BAFTA while he was alive. We didn't exactly roll out the red carpet for Nollywood auteurs at the National Film Theatre. But now, with his passing, we are falling over ourselves to issue statements. The British Film Institute releases a pallid tweet. The BBC runs a segment on the 'World Service' that sounds suspiciously like it was written by an intern. It's the cultural equivalent of arriving at the party with a bottle of cheap wine just as the host is being carried out in a body bag.
Yet, for all my cynicism, there is genuine loss here. Ekubo represented a bridge. A man who could navigate the chaotic energy of Alaba Market and the hushed corridors of Cannes. He was a diplomat for a cinema that often gets dismissed as derivative, but which pulses with a life force that our own increasingly corporate, risk-averse film industry can only dream of. When he walked a red carpet, he didn't just walk. He strutted. He owned the oxygen. And now that air is still.
Cancer. The odious usurper. It cares not for talent, nor for the millions of fans who will now have to settle for streaming his back catalogue through a blizzard of tears. It is a miserable, unpoetic end for a man who lived so vividly. And as the tributes pour in, I am left to ponder the absurdity of it all. Here in Britain, we are currently fixated on the price of a pint, the latest cabinet reshuffle, and whether it will rain during the bank holiday. Meanwhile, a star has gone supernova and extinguished in the same breath.
So raise a glass, if you are of a mind. But not just any glass. Make it a measure of gin, preferably one of those small- batch distilleries that tastes faintly of regret. And toast Alexx Ekubo. Toast the laughter he brought, the roles he owned, and the unbearable lightness of his being. Toast the bridge he built between Lagos and London, even if the toll gate was manned by procrastinating bureaucrats. And then, because this is 2023, and we are creatures of the digital age, pause your streaming, take a screenshot of this article, and post it with a hashtag. #AlexxEkuboForever. It is the least we can do. The very least, indeed.
