By Taiwo Ajai-Lycett
Today, October 2, 2026, the Great Lion of Lufodo, Elder Oludotun Baiyewu Jacobs MFR, saunters majestically to his resting place.
And after all the “lala-koko-fefe” of this vain world, here is wishing him journey mercies and a perfect, peaceful rest.
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My name is Taiwo Ajai-Lycett.
Olu Jacobs and I go way back. Pure fortuitous serendipity brought us together, and I was privileged to be his friend and professional colleague.
We shared breathtakingly sweet memories, some not quite so pleasant, and some heartbreakingly sad ones as well.
Straight off the bat, allow me to pose a question. Have you ever noticed how your career or life may have been influenced by chance encounters—by placing yourself in certain situations or environments that increase your windows of opportunity?
Over the years, I have become increasingly fascinated not by luck, nor random accident, but by serendipity—a circumstance that explores how we can, in fact, design, albeit unconsciously, the opportunities for beneficial “chance encounters.”
When I heard of his passing, my mind went to an end-of-production party at his London flat many moons ago.
But more specifically, I was taken back to our first meeting in London in the late 1960s or early 1970s, I believe, when I attended a workshop at the famous Actors’ Studio in Central London, run by an American.
As I found a seat and settled down, the American director—whose name now eludes me—clicked his fingers.
The stage lights blazed, and there stood a towering young African, declaiming lines in a booming, resonant, magnificent baritone.
If I remember correctly, it was Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray.
That actor was our Olu Jacobs—the nascent Lion of Lufodo.
There he was, a smouldering megawatt smile playing mischievously across his lips, introducing the audience to a vain, foolish place full of pretensions—a world where everyone strives for what is not worth having in a vain quest for social advancement.
Wait a minute… doesn’t that remind you of the idle, La-La-Land delusional preoccupation of our own people and society?
It was intriguing that we were two Nigerian actors, both professionally UK-trained, joining America’s famous Actors Studio at that very moment in time.
At times, I felt subtly patronised—as though we did not quite belong there.
However, there was no defensiveness or so-called “chip-on-the-shoulder” nonsense on our part, because—hey!—we had chutzpah, a bucketful of natural African swagger and flair to turn heads, didn’t we?
Besides, it wasn’t for nothing we both came from God’s own country, Nigeria—Mother Africa’s cultural centre—and were luminous graduates of the prestigious Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts and the Guildhall School of Music and Drama.
Together, we were “rude for life” and a big deal indeed. So I concluded: goodness me, I’ve just made myself a new best friend.
Yes, it was a joy meeting, back in the day, someone with as much verve and fire as Olu. He used to call me affectionately “Tai-Tai,” obviously thinking he was the older of us.
I suppose it was quite possible that we might have had a remarkable chemistry on stage and off—communicating in quick glances, rolling eyes, silly faces, and elbow nudges.
Two evenings ago, we celebrated the milestones in the life of one of our greatest thespians and cultural ambassadors.
Now, here we are today, laying him to eternal rest.
His birthplace and the settings of his acting career—the compelling influences that helped shape his characters, plots, and legacy—were international, but fundamentally rooted here in the Federal Republic of Nigeria.
That makes me proud, as we both were passionately proud of where we came from, even when it was sometimes a challenge.
In an age of ratcheted celebrity and Instagram, Olu Jacobs—a thoroughbred, seasoned performer, writer, producer, director, and entrepreneur built a professional armour of work and peerless accomplishment.
He was, without doubt, an actor of indisputable majesty and royal pedigree. One would be hard-pressed to object to his casting as “Igwe.”
I suppose the real point of these reflections on life, or indeed death, is that everything is transitory.
As in Thackeray’s Vanity Fair, where I first encountered Olu Jacobs, we all know and sometimes pretend that in the end, our pursuits may feel fleeting, and the things we chase may not ultimately matter, even when achieved.
There is something both beautiful and pathetically noble about saying, “I don’t know what any of this means.”
We are all little hapless, helpless, clueless creatures trying our best. Or as Thackeray put it: “Come children, let us shut up the box and the puppets, for our play is played out.”
And now, Olu’s play has been played out.
As the American poet Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Life is a journey, not a destination.” And I tend to agree.
So, Olu, we thank God for the gift of your life and for allowing us the honour of sharing the journey with you.
To all who celebrated the great Lion of Lufodo, I say thank you. No matter the direction your life is heading after this farewell, remember to make your own journey count as well.
Ajoke, I see you. I feel you. Pele. Oku suru. Oku amumora. Oku ara fẹ́ra kú. May the God of all comfort comfort you in these difficult times, as no human can.
Olusoji and Olugbenga—the royal heirs apparent of Lufodo—eku ilede Baabaa. God bless, keep, and continue to guide you.
To you, Oludotun, aburo mi owon… so long.
Odi gbere. Od’arina ko. Ode tún d’ọjọ́ alá.
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Tai-Tai here, saying goodnight.
Omo Akin… sun re o.
