Dotun Oladipo: An elegy

This week, dust will go to dust. 

The very first time we met, it was to bail a common friend out of police trouble. That was in Ede in 2006, twenty years ago. We worked shoulder to shoulder throughout that night of fatality and trouble.

The second time we ‘met’ was in Lagos. This time, it was to bail this Ibadan man out of the labyrinth of Lagos Island’s bewildering crossroads of bridges. Dotun was not going my way, yet he drove kilometres ahead of me just to show me the way. I did not ask him to. He simply did it.

That was Dotun Oladipo: sometimes, kindness is just someone going out of his way to show another person the way.

He craved longevity. He jogged; he gymmed; he played; he worked out, as though fitness could help him outpace death. Yet, the reaper was a step ahead.

W. B. Yeats, mourning a friend taken too soon, asked: “What made us dream that he could comb grey hair?”

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We too dreamt that Dotun would. He also dreamt he would grow and “comb grey hair.”

What does it mean to die by the roadside fighting death, scrambling for life? Death gave him no deathbed, no chance to say goodbye. Finality gave him no pen with which to compose lines on death and its swings.

Everyone who has spoken or written about Dotun has something extraordinarily good to say about him. That is why he will never truly die. A reason his children should walk tall forever.

He was our friend. His sudden exit was a jolt stronger than the strongest shock absorber could take.

Now, the labourer’s task is over.

Dust will go to dust. 

This week.

Goodnight, great guy.