When a Giant Falls, the Colours Remember Him
Femi Akintunde-Johnson
There are deaths that announce themselves like thunderclaps, and there are others that arrive like a sudden power outage in the middle of a beautifully lit scene. Patrick Chike Nebo’s passing on 14 September 2023 belonged firmly to the latter category. One moment, the set is perfectly dressed, the colours balanced, the textures authentic; the next, the lights flicker, and an unsettling quiet settles in. You then realise that the man who made the illusion seamless has quietly taken his bow and exited stage left.
On the fourth Saturday of that September, the airwaves of TopRadio 90.9 FM carried more than voices. They carried disbelief, affection, laughter, and the sort of reverent mischief that follows the memory of a man who was both meticulous and mischievous. “The Vintage TalkShow…with the FAJ” became, for over an hour, a communal sitting room where friends, colleagues and co-travellers gathered to make sense of the absence of a colossus whose work most Nigerians have seen, even if they never quite noticed him. Which, ironically, was exactly how Pat Nebo preferred it.
Present in the studio was Yemi Shodimu – actor, broadcaster, producer, raconteur – whose voice alone can animate a bare room. Joining remotely were Edmond Enaibe, Yinka Akanbi, Dayo Haastrup and Aderemi Ogunpitan: men who have walked the long, often dusty road of Nigerian film, television and stage with Nebo at different points. Others sent words when they could not send bodies. Jimi Odumosu, indisposed but indomitable, contributed a note that reminded listeners why institutional memory matters. Jonathan Gbemuotor’s recorded tribute shimmered with visual affection. A few absences were noted, with the sort of gentle sarcasm that Nigerians reserve for friends who know they should have shown up. Life, after all, happens – even to tributes.
What emerged from the exchanges was not a sanctimonious hymn but a textured portrait of an intensely private man whose public legacy is impossible to ignore. Haastrup recalled Nebo’s tenacity while working with Tade Ogidan, himself a byword for perfectionism. That two such men could coexist without combusting is either a glorious proof of Nebo’s patience or Ogidan’s good humour – or both. Enaibe, Akanbi and Ogunpitan offered vignettes that revealed a man obsessively committed to ideas, allergic to shortcuts, and quietly amused by mediocrity. Ogunpitan, in particular, traced their creative wanderings from the late 1980s, when budgets were slim, ambition was fat, and artistry was fuelled by sheer stubborn belief.
Then there was Uncle Jimi’s note, which landed like a masterclass in institutional generosity and creative audacity. Nebo, it turns out, once dragged both a producer and a Nestlé representative to the office of a Permanent Secretary because he believed – no, knew – that Odumosu should direct Sokoyokoto, a soar-away successful must-watch for foodies. That insistence yielded not just success, but spin-offs in Igbo and Hausa. He designed the LTV/LWT news set for free when funds were scarce, because the work mattered more than the invoice. In an industry now obsessed with rates and riders, that anecdote felt almost subversive. “Pat was the very best,” Odumosu wrote, reminding us that Nebo was thoroughly educated in filmmaking, not merely in production design. Specialist, yes; narrow, never.
Perhaps the most fitting description of Pat Nebo is this paradox: you see his work best when you do not see it at all. When a film promises you 1976, you expect the weight of military boots, the right camouflage, the correct posture of authority. When it offers you the eve of Independence, you demand fabrics, colours, architecture and atmospheres that smell faintly of history. Nebo delivered these not as decorative flourishes but as narrative anchors. Films soared or stumbled depending on their fidelity to such details, and Nebo was the quiet custodian of that fidelity long before “Nollywood” became a benchmark brand.
That is why his name recurs, almost ritually, in the credits of Nigeria’s most discerning filmmakers: Tunde Kelani, Tade Ogidan, Kunle Afolayan, Omoni Oboli, Izu Ojukwu. From Ti Oluwa Ni Ile to October 1, from Diamond Ring to The CEO, from ‘76 to Mokalik, Nebo’s hand is present like a signature woven into fabric rather than scrawled across the canvas. Ogidan’s recollection of Hostages remains the stuff of legend (as captured in my 2021 book, Reflections): a rented flat transformed repeatedly into police stations, prison cells, parlours and offices, walls repainted, dirt added and erased, landlords placated with promises of restoration. The only untouched space, apparently, was Ogidan’s bedroom – curtains sacrificed on the altar of budgetary priorities. Nigerian filmmaking, ladies and gentlemen, in its most honest form.
In 1986, Nebo took the brave, unfashionable step of leaving the security of NTA to embrace the uncertainty of independent practice. The rest, as they say too easily, is history – but it is a history written in sets, textures, and worlds that convinced audiences to suspend disbelief. Twice, just twice, age or mischief tempted him in front of the camera: as a marriage registrar in The Figurine and as Colonel Aliu in ‘76. Even then, he seemed amused by the novelty, like a magician briefly stepping into his own trick.
Yemi Shodimu closed that radio tribute by reminding us of the woman who stood beside Nebo to the end, bearing the quiet weight of genius with grace. It was a necessary reminder that behind every towering creative figure is often an unsung stabiliser, ensuring that brilliance does not tip into chaos.
Pat Nebo is gone, but his colours remain stubbornly alive. In every convincingly aged wall, every authentic costume, every space that feels lived-in rather than dressed-up, his spirit lingers. Giants do fall, yes – but in Nebo’s case, the echo is not a crash. It is the soft, satisfied sigh of a job impeccably done.
