There are moments in life when the news lands oddly — as if it arrived slightly after you were ready for it. That’s how I felt hearing about the death of Oyewole Olowomojuore, better known to many as Baba Gebu. He wasn’t a headline-grabber who demanded attention every day, but you noticed him. You remembered him. And now, after a brief illness, he’s gone.
I don’t know him personally, though I’ve seen enough of his work to form a small, stubborn kind of respect. That’s worth saying up front: the man carried weight on screen without screaming for it. He had that quiet authority, the kind that makes supporting roles feel like the center of a scene. Maybe that’s the truest measure of an actor’s skill — when you look back at a film and realize how much you miss someone’s presence.
How it happened
Reports say Baba Gebu died on a Wednesday evening, following a brief illness. “Brief” is a strange word to use for anything ending in death; it feels abrupt and unsatisfying. Maybe that’s the point. Life can narrow quickly. Friends and colleagues tended to describe his passing in similar terms: sudden, sad, and a little hard to process.
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The initial public announcement came from filmmaker and actor Kunle Afod. His Instagram post was simple and heartfelt. He called Baba Gebu “a great legend” and prayed for his soul to rest. Those words, plain as they were, carried more than formality. There was real affection in them — the kind that spills out immediately when you’ve lost someone who mattered to a creative circle. I found myself pausing over Afod’s phrasing, thinking: “Great legend.” It’s the sort of label people hand out loosely, but Afod didn’t sound like he was flattering. He sounded like he was saying what everyone in that corner of the industry already knew.
Voices from the industry
A string of actors and actresses reacted publicly. Their messages were short, reverent, and, not surprisingly, similar in tone. Yemi Solade offered a prayerful note — asking for forgiveness for any shortcomings and for eternal rest — while Akin Olaiya and Saje kept it simple: “Rest in peace.” Abiodun Thomas added a personal touch, referring to him as “Pa Olowomojuore” and hoping God would bless what he left behind. There’s tenderness in that phrasing — it hints at family, at legacy beyond film credits.
Even the quieter responses felt warm. Shoa Kosoko posted a single, heartbreaking emoji and wrote “Rest in peace, Legend.” A tiny gesture, but it says a lot. When someone’s life can be summed up in a single emoji and a word that fits — “Legend” — you realize the echo of their presence in people’s hearts.
Why it mattered
Baba Gebu’s passing read like the loss of a familiar, steady presence. He wasn’t necessarily the loudest or flashiest figure in Nollywood, but those are often the people who hold scenes — and sometimes whole films — together. He was the actor audiences trusted to be authentic, to make a small moment feel essential. That’s a rare skill. Not everyone needs to be the star; someone has to be the one who lends the story its human center. I like to think that’s the kind of person he was.
There’s also a community aspect to this. The way colleagues lined up to post condolence messages tells you something about the ties that bind the Nollywood world. They felt a genuine loss. The short, repeated messages — the prayers, the “Rest in peace” notes — are familiar ritual, yes, but they’re also honest. Sometimes rituals are the language people know for grief. They are quick to type, slower to feel; but they matter.
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A small, imperfect memory
If I had to describe him in one imperfect line, it’d be this: Baba Gebu belonged to the kind of craft where steadiness matters more than self-promotion. That may sound vague. It is — intentionally. Some people’s work resists sharp labels. And maybe that’s fitting. Life and art aren’t tidy.
I’m left imagining him on set: patient, maybe a little wry, the kind of presence that lets other actors lean into their own performances without overshadowing them. It’s a small image, likely romanticized. But here’s the thing — that’s how memory works. We try to fill in the outlines with something that makes sense, however shaky the fit.
What’s next
The news sparks the usual questions: How will his family manage? What happens to the roles he might have taken? Who will remember the small, steady touches he gave to scenes? There’s also the practical side: funerals, condolences, the private grief those close to him will carry. The public will speak in short prayers; the private circle will have longer stories, probably more contradictory and more tender than anything posted online.
We can also expect the industry to mark his passing in small ways — mentions at premieres, a quiet dedication here or there. It won’t fix anything. But it will honor a man who helped shape moments on screen in a way that felt honest. That, in itself, is a type of legacy.
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A final note
Hearing about someone’s death, especially someone who felt familiar, makes you reflect on the strange mix of permanence and fragility in public life. Baba Gebu’s face and roles will stay in the films and memories of those who worked with him and watched him. But the laughter, the conversations, the daily presence — those are gone. I can’t say more than that without slipping into platitudes. So I’ll just pause here and acknowledge the small, steady loss. Rest in peace, Baba Gebu. You were quietly important.
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