On November 22, 2020, my LBJ, The Rambo, Chief Lukman Bolaji Jinadu, the Baa Gbile of Gbagura land, gave up the fight and we lost him to Covid-19. He said goodbye that day from his sick hospital bed surrounded by Bisi, his wife, Akin and Ayo his beautiful sons. I cried like a baby. I lost a rare gem of a friend to Covid-19.
By Taju Tijani
Memory is a tyrant. It bullies us. It keeps selecting reminders of past events that we hold dear. In my memory bank, October is a reminder of the loss of a dear friend. It was my huge loss of 2020. Lukman and Kola Jinadu visited me on December 26, 2019. Cold. Wintry. Dark. Parked on the communal car park was a gleaming grey BMW – sleek, shiny, and hungry to eat the road. As it is my habit, I love springing playful prank anytime LBJ visited. On this day, I concocted one. I asked my guests to use the lift to the concierge downstairs while I join them soon. LBJ looked at me shocked. “Teejay, aaha, you are fully ready …let us walk together downstairs,” he said. I insisted that I will soon join him and his younger brother Kola downstairs.
In minutes, I was waiting for them at the concierge downstairs. I had beaten the race of who got downstairs first. I knew the stairs were faster than the lift. They were unaware I’ll be doing the stairs. Shocked to see me nestling quietly downstairs, Kola burst into laughter. Lukman smiled ruefully and gave me a thumb up for my pranks. “Egbe logbe mi de isale, I joked.”
Lukman dissolved into laughter. I advised him that he has a lot to learn from me regarding traditional power of “appear and disappear.” Captivated. Shocked. Amused. He nodded his head as we all walked towards his shiny beast and we zoomed off into the dark, winter night.
Time nightclub in Beckenham, South London. LBJ was in the midst of his buddies. His heartbeat was in clubs. That was his lifetime passion. He loved keeping nightclubs safe for clubbers and fun seekers. LBJ was a massive, wide chested and pound for pound Nigerian judo champion early in his life. He was a dynamo of a fighter. He also flirted with weightlifting where he left indelible impact. For his Judo exploit, he was nicknamed The Rambo! He made his living as a close protection officer who specialised in protecting the rich and the famous. He also offered protection to casino owners across the West End in London and in the counties.
The DJ wore a dreadlock. His vibes were a mixture of afro, indie, house, groove, garage, and reggae. Quickly, I downed two glasses of wine to kill the biting cold. LBJ, as the driver, only had a small shot of brandy and Kola was swigging his own wine. The night rolled away as we swapped our Christmas activities a day before. Like this writer, Lukman too had converted to the Christian faith and lived as a committed born again. He was a Bible scholar and wrote many essays on Bible texts.
Our friendship started from an unlikely place. In April 2009, I was in Nigeria on vacation. As is my tradition, I love hanging out with friends in Lagos. This time, Yomi Omosanya, the MD of Justfonez, and his lovely wife Zoggie will be hosting me. I had just arrived from Ibadan to acclimatise with my Lagos, the old Lagos of my birth, childhood, and juvenile years – all over again. As I walked in with my backpack, I saw a big, black, handsome dude. His smile was broad, disarming, intentional and talismanic. I will enjoy that smile for the next 11 years in Ibadan, Lagos, and London.
LBJ hijacked me from Yomi in the spirit of our London brotherhood. He had come to Lagos too from London to kill time and enjoy what Lagos and Abeokuta his hometown could offer. Our conversation was smooth, unpretentious, and warm. He took to liking me instantly. It was so unreal and mythic: he saw me, loved me and we became brothers almost instantly. I loaded my backpack into his car, and we drove to his flat. There was no gap in the evening to interrogate what was happening. We were out, painting Ijesha, a densely populated area of Lagos, and his neck of the wood, bright red.
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I stayed with him for days in Lagos. On the road, we listened to St. Janet music and LBJ will explode into all the lurid lyrics of this swaggerlicious singer. Then, Obey, Sunny, Fela and to recharge the atmosphere, afro, funk, and jazz. The oeuvre of his musical interests was breath-taking. We had our favourite restaurant haunt in Masha, Surulere. We indulged in culinary excesses: snail, panla, goat meat, tinko, liver, kidney, towel, lungs and sometimes bokoto. Then a bottle of Guinness for me and a bottle of wine for LBJ.
LBJ will roar into Ibadan with his beastly looking black Mercedes ML to enjoy time with me. My place is spacious, lush with greens, secluded, rural, innocent, and restful but infested with snakes. In time, we both got used to the snakes as harmless reptiles on the round wandering around for food. I remembered our long conversation in my kitchen. We debated Nigeria. Our life in the diaspora. Dream of homecoming. He would open my understanding to comprehend the scriptures in new ways. We had homiletic contestations, and at a stage, LBJ began to worry about the proliferation of false and prosperity preachers. He had a revolutionary response for that incongruous shake of faith. He became a traditionalist!
Suddenly, he began to romanticise with our traditional heritage. He was given the title of Baa Gbile of Gbaguraland. He took his chieftaincy title very serious. He was a loyal chief to the Agura of Gbagura land and LBJ took the responsibilities of his title as a badge of honour. He was close to the Agura and ran errands for him both locally and internationally. I remained rooted to Christ!
March 2020, UK was in the death throes of Covid-19 pandemic. It separated us. We were locked down. Silence. Eerie silence. I thought he was in Nigeria. Then bravely, I visited him at home. There, the news hit me like a tsunami. He contracted the virus. On the couch, he told me in a strange hush tone that he had just been discharged from the hospital and recovering at home. LBJ looked a complete shadow of his old big, strong, and energetic self. Then the follow up phone calls and more calls.
Again, I made another visit on October 29, 2020. That was our last meeting on this planet. I threw the London Evening Standard newspaper at him to cheer him up. We had a long chat, and I made a promise that once he was back on his feet, I will take him out for a good time. He stood up for a stretch and I encouraged him that he was getting better. Hearing that, he gave me that old expansive smile. Then I disappeared into the night.
On November 22, 2020, my LBJ, The Rambo, Chief Lukman Bolaji Jinadu, the Baa Gbile of Gbagura land gave up the fight and we lost him to Covid-19. He said goodbye that day from his sick hospital bed surrounded by Bisi, his wife, Akin and Ayo his beautiful sons. I cried like a baby. I lost a rare gem of a friend to Covid-19. LBJ was kind, bold, God fearing, encourager, funny, protective, friendly, fearless, humble to the core, inquisitive, fatherly, fighter and generous. He was 60 at his death. We laid him to rest at the Hereford cemetery on Wednesday, December 16, 2020.
Death came knocking the second time at the doorsteps of the Jinadus. In October 2021, Kola Jinadu, his younger brother who I mentioned in my opening paragraph also paid the supreme price. He died almost a year after the death of his elder brother. That has remained my eternal puzzle. Why? May their souls rest in peace.
