On to another character he played: Sizwe in Sizwe Banzi is Dead (actually, he frequently performed this play on stage entirely solo). For him, this wasn’t just a play; it was a call to action. Through his performances of this play at the National Theatre and beyond, Uncle Lari challenged audiences, to make them uncomfortable, to force them to confront the systems that strip people of their identities. It was a role that embodied his belief in the power of storytelling to change the world.

He truly thought that actors were no different from writers. They, too, told stories, but with their bodies. This is why he could never understand why performers weren’t given the same respect as authors under copyright laws.

Anyway, in the play, Sizwe Banzi is a man forced to bury his own name to survive under apartheid. He assumes a dead man’s identity, trading his past for a chance at a future. It’s a story about erasure, about the lengths people go to survive in a world that denies their humanity. And yet, there’s a moment of twisted triumph: Sizwe receives a wristwatch, a token of recognition for his years of labour. It’s a bittersweet victory—a symbol of survival but also of the system that forced him to erase himself to earn it.

I think Uncle Lari understood that irony deeply.

Years later, in 2009, he received his own recognition: the Member of the Order of the Federal Republic (MFR), essentially a medal awarded for his contributions to Nigerian arts and culture. For me, it was a real ‘Old Man and the Medal’ moment. He loved that medal. He’d polish it from time to time, making sure it flashed like a mirror in the sun. But, like Sizwe’s wristwatch, it was a bittersweet honour. He was grateful, of course, but he also knew that medals and awards couldn’t fix the systemic neglect of Nigerian artists.

‘We keep on keeping on like true artistes,’ he wrote many times in his Vanguard newspaper articles, ‘but what we need is more than applause. We need support. We need investment. We need a stage that doesn’t crumble beneath our feet.’

He fought to preserve the National Theatre, warning against selling it to ‘a bunch of traders who might want to build stalls for Tokunbo goods.’ Yeah, no, he wasn’t always diplomatic when he championed the cause of Nigerian artists, urging the government to recognize their value and invest in their future. For what he believed was good for the arts, he wasn’t always diplomatic even with his colleagues, making enemies left, right and centre. As the first president of the Actors Guild of Nigeria, I thought he was a terrible politician. I mean, how can a contrarian full of contradiction and paradox make a good politician? For example, his unwinnable fight against the name ‘Nollywood’ sent ripples through the industry. His ideas for the industry remained in a file he carried about until his death. Nonetheless, through his art and his activism, he reminded us that storytelling is not just a profession; it’s a calling, a responsibility, a lifeline.

Life imitating art? Perhaps. Or maybe it was art imitating life. Either way, my old man understood that the two were inseparable.

Here’s a poem about actors I sent to him in 2015:

Dear Actor,
Be yourself
Do what you’ve been called
To do
You’ve been called to be:

Others.

When I am acting
I’m not acting
I do not pretend,
I become.
There’s a difference
I become someone else
Sometimes, something else
I leave myself
On an old dusty shelf.
And this is when I’m
Being myself
But when this is your life
For very many years
It’s easy to forget
Yourself
But don’t be scared
Be yourself, Actor
Do what you’ve been called
To do
But prepare yourself
An actor must prepare;
For what this art
Could do to you.

No applause. He hated it, of course. Called it forced (without remorse). (Pardon me, couldn’t help myself). I agreed, still do. I do not have his curse of always hesitating to publish things, so I’m rarely afraid to put things out. Maybe that’s a curse, too.

In the end, the characters he played were never just performances; they were reflections of the world he lived in. As the native doctor, he confronted the superstitions and fears that have eroded Nigeria’s cultural heritage. As the cleaner, he celebrated the dignity of labour—including the labour of being an artist—and the quiet resilience of those who rebuild their lives from the ashes. And as Sizwe Banzi, he was a man fighting to reclaim his identity in a world determined to erase it. Together, these roles paint a portrait of a man who saw Nigeria not as it was, but as it could be: a place where history is honoured, labour is valued and stories are never forgotten.

You turned less into a legacy, Uncle Lari. And you never feared the fall. After all, what’s a curtain call but another beginning? The show must go on, right?

I miss you terribly, my old man.

I wish things were much better for you. For us. I wish I did more for you.

I thank you for your sacrifices.

You spoke often of artists dying Dickensian deaths. Yours was foreshadowed in many ways. I know that’s not really what you wanted. Knowing that—that you saw it coming— is what tore me to pieces.

Uncle Lari, what is death like? You promised you’d tell me. Was Wislawa’s take right? Is it like she described in her poem? Inept?

By the way, now I agree with your contrarian view: you don’t need family, you just need to love and be loved. But I’ll add that if you find that within your family, bonus points⎈