The news hit like a fist to the gut. Prince Nazir Ado Ibrahim of Ebiraland’s royal house is gone, and with him, a piece of my own soul. We didn’t talk much lately, just a call here and there. But when I heard he had passed, something inside me shattered. He was the living symbol of my lost childhood, the star around which all of us who grew up with him orbited. He was the bridge between the North and the South, a man who spoke Yoruba better than I did, yet wore his Ebira royal heritage like a crown.
We were brothers for 60 years. We shared a childhood so rich and wild it feels like a fever dream now. I thought we’d grow old together, swapping stories in retirement, comforting each other as the world passed us by. I planned for that. But he is gone.
I remember it all. Atta Lodge in Yaba, his father’s house, where our gang would gather in the late 70s and early 80s. I remember our days in London, my apartment in Pier House, Chelsea, his father’s mansion in Belgrave Square. I remember the Lagos Polo Club, Ikoyi Club, Apapa Club, where we moved like a pack of wild, fearless friends. I remember the boxing lessons, the karate, how he was a warrior. I remember the night police raided JB’s house in Surulere, and how we fought back to back, shoulder to shoulder. We never lost. Nothing could come between us.
We had our own language, our own code. We walked the dark side together and survived. We learned to ride horses, play polo, and cruise the rough streets of old Lagos in flashy cars. We fought over girls, fought with white boys and locals, squabbled over nothing. We loved hard. We partied at Legends, Tramp, Studio 54, Xenon, Princes in Lagos. I visited him at university in Geneva, New York, and we drove to see our brother Des in Syracuse. I remember his Porsche 928S. The police would stop us, ask how we could afford such cars. We laughed at them. They had no idea who we were.
Do you remember the wild teenage years? Storming the Adeyeye brothers’ home in Catford at midnight? The Kentucky Fried Chicken gang? The pretty white girl from Kings Road who wouldn’t leave my apartment? The Good Earth Chinese, Mr. Chows, the White Elephant on the Thames? Do you remember Brighton beach, the seagulls, the Brighton Rock candy? Do you remember your brother Azad’s mews house, the wild parties there, and Jackie trying to keep us straight?
Do you remember when I started the September Club in 1988, and you told me it was a great idea? Do you remember Tim Espir, Simon Loopuit, Azad Shivdasani? Do you remember Mr. Robert Bairamian, my headmaster at Holmewood, who taught us Latin and how to mingle with British high society? Do remember Lords Cricket ground, Twickenham for the rugby match, cheering on Cambridge? Do remember your oil and gas ventures under your father’s guidance?
These memories are all we have now. They will follow our souls into eternity. Ours was a blessed generation of brilliant, exposed minds. We were the best of the best. We lived life to the fullest with Azad, Des Braithwaite, Tonye Amachree, and so many others. Later, you became my in-law when I married your cousin Saratu. We have a daughter, Folake, whom you doted on.
We loved each other like Achilles and Patroclus, always watching each other’s back. We had our time. God was good to us. We had everything. Now it is your time to rest. Greet our brothers who crossed before you. Tell them FFK sends his love. I will never forget you, Suku Su. Rest well.
