My mind has taken leaps, skipped hills and swam across the Niger to write not just a eulogy but a testimony which I hope, pulses with the fullness of Sule’s life. While I feel the ache of the loss of this dear brother of mine, I also hear his laughter, remember the grace, and the mischief that Sule carried like a second skin.
Suleman Momoh passed away on May 13, 2025, and with his passing, the world dimmed—just a little. “Was” feels like a betrayal of the present tense he so richly filled. That word is still too raw, too sharp. But this is what death does: it teaches us about life, what life tries—and often fails—to teach us about death.
The words of Lolu Akinwunmi, CEO of Prima Garnet and Nitro 121 could not be truer;
“If love could have saved you, Suleman Momoh, you would have lived forever.”
Sule was executive director at Nitro 121 till his passing.
And yet, Sule’s life defied death’s usual shadows because he didn’t just live—he loved. Fiercely. Loudly. Unconditionally. Unscripted.
Sule’s heart could not be contained- it knew no bounds.
Sule gave and gave and gave—with no tally, no transaction, no expectation. Perhaps that’s why the outpouring of love after his passing caught even those of us closest to him by surprise. The love has come from everywhere—from old colleagues, new friends, clients, family, and people we didn’t even know he’d touched. But Sule never kept score. Maybe God gave him an extra chamber in his heart—because how else do you explain the capacity of love in his heart?
He treated everyone ever so fairly. No one person could claim to be his “best friend.” We all were.
Unscripted Kindness was Sule’s vest-his shimi! There was no script to Sule’s life. He didn’t curate his kindness for applause or perform generosity for the camera. He simply lived love—without ego, without motive. His warmth and humour transcended status, shape, or title. Tall, short, big, small, CEO or street vendor—Sule treated everyone with the same joy and unlimited respect.
I once thought his gentle, generous spirit was reserved for a few of us. Now I know better. It was for everyone he encountered. That realization humbles me.
Sule was The Clown, the Creative, the Confidant. He was a clown as a way of life—his jokes were unforgettable. Both of us had a running gag. Whenever I gave him a creative brief, he’d quip:
“Aunty Mero, abeg, make you do, you get to get money o! If you poor, me sef go poor! That’s why I dey do your work quick quick!”
I still laugh through tears remembering how he’d joke during brainstorming sessions;
“Wetin you dey look? You never see Oyibo before?” And to think that Sule was dark skinned, this was funny!
Sule was many things: Executive Director at Nitro 121, advertising genius, designer of the Proudly Nigeria and RRS logos, published author under the name Omone King. He wrote and published @ book- UNLOCKING YOUR POTENTIAL which is sold on Amazon. He designed countless logos for my projects—CHUMMIES, VEX MONEY—always delivering brilliance without billing.
He was a fantastic writer. A philosopher. And yes, the book on proverbs he once asked me to translate into Pidgin? I did. He never published it, classic Sule always putting other people’s projects before his. I hope his family will publish this book someday. . That book is a gem waiting to shine.
Sule’s loyalty was not just a trait—it was his nature; as natural to him as breathing. Apart from my daughter Zulu, my mother, and my late brother Efere, no one else has matched Sule’s unwavering presence in our lives. And he wasn’t family by blood. He was just Sule.
In my single-mother journey, he walked beside Zulu and I like a protective brother. When Zulu landed her first job, he was the first to scream, to cheer, to joke! Of course, when Zulu got her first salary, she sent him “pocket money.” He was elated! He celebrated every little win like it was his own.
When my sister Oghale heard of his passing, she said, “Aunty Maero, that was one brother who loved you through and through.” And it’s true. He was my brother. Not by birth, but by bond.
We spent a glorious few days together in February last year—Zulu, Sule, his beloved wife IJ (his “smallie”), and I. It was a creative retreat, a spontaneous gift of time and laughter. I was so happy to connect and enlist him on this. He cracked jokes till nightfall; stories till our stomachs hurt from laughing. If you knew Sule, you know—there was always gist. Always joy.
He was madly in love with his wife and crazy about their children: Joann, Jessie, and Jaden. He spoke about them constantly, searched endlessly for opportunities to give them more—better schools, brighter futures. Watching Jaden’s heartbreak at the funeral shattered me. How do you explain a love that big, that constant, that now feels like a missing limb?
We worked together at Prima Garnet over 25 years ago. Advertising, for those who know, is a volatile space. Ego clashes. Deadline heat. Tempers flying. But Sule? Always calm. Always on time. Always composed.
I once witnessed someone accuse him of something unfounded. He almost got angry. And our MD, Lolu, said:
“If anyone can annoy Sule, that person has to be a devil.”
That’s how rare his anger was. Peace was his posture. Always.
Sule never counted the cost. Even after I left advertising, Sule remained my creative partner. After my brother Efere passed, he filled that gaping space. Without saying so, he just… stepped in. No fanfare. Just love.
His fingerprints are on countless legacies—designs, books, ideas. He nudged others to dream. Lolu shared how Sule encouraged him to finish his manuscript—and designed the cover. That book will be dedicated to Sule. So will Yetunde Adesina’s, who also said Sule pushed her to write and made the cover happen.
He was always pushing others forward, even while quietly placing himself last.
What Now?
His colleagues at Nitro 121 held a tribute that captured his essence. No theatrics. Just deep, aching love. There were no dry eyes in the room. And for a moment, I foolishly believed Sule might jump out and shout:
“Wetin dey do una? Why una dey cry? Person nor dey play again? I never go anywhere o!”
Oh, how I wish.
If there’s one flaw Sule had, it’s that he remembered everyone… and forgot himself. He carried too many people’s burdens. Gave too much. Loved too loud. And we didn’t always give it back while he was still here.
But maybe, in honoring his memory, we finally can.
Suleman Momoh was not a man with a script. He didn’t live life according to anyone’s expectations. He was the kind of man who reminds you why people are worth loving—loudly, patiently, imperfectly.
He was not my friend. He was my brother.
And now, the world is quieter without his laughter echoing through it.
- Maero Ozako, a child rights advocate and children’s motivator is a copywriter, published author and illustrator of several children’s books and her latest novel; Yanga girl.
