By Lois Otse Adams, PhD.
“Some stories must be told while the people who shaped them are still alive to hear them. When they are gone, our words become memories, our gratitude becomes a prayer, and the stories we share become the legacy they leave behind.”
I have struggled to tell this story because the pain of your departure has made it difficult to find the right words. When I woke up on Saturday morning to the devastating news of your demise, I was reminded that some stories should be told early, while those who have touched our lives are still here to hear them.
As I write this tribute, I am yet to recover from the shock of your passing, Sir Francis Duru. You were my brother, a strong supporter of my vision, my friend, ally, mentor and adviser. Losing you has left a void that words can hardly describe. Yet, amidst the pain, I remain grateful that our paths crossed and that we built a relationship founded on mutual respect, trust and genuine affection.
Before I go further, I owe you a special tribute of appreciation for the counsel you gave me in 2008, when we first met at a film festival in Benin City, Edo State. That encounter changed the direction of my life in ways I could not have imagined.
Our friendship endured from that first meeting until our last conversation on 17 September 2026. We agreed to meet when I returned from my trip, having exchanged our usual banter and playful arguments. Looking back at that conversation, I wish I had rushed back to see you one more time. Had I known that our planned meeting would never happen, perhaps I would have made different choices.
But who can question the will of God? Not even Lois. Nevertheless, it hurts deeply to know that I will never see you again.
The Day You Redirected My Vision
You came to the film festival as a distinguished guest, but you left as my teacher.
My purpose in attending the festival was to make a final decision about venturing into Nollywood. I was considering a career in front of the camera, but you saw something in me that I had not fully recognised in myself. Rather than encourage me to pursue the glamour of the screen, you challenged me to look more deeply into my gifts and purpose.
When I requested your mentorship, you welcomed me wholeheartedly. We sat together for hours, discussing my aspirations and the possibilities ahead of me. At some point, you looked at me and said:
“I can see something bigger than being a screen goddess. You are an unusual personality. Do not trade that virtue and gift for the screen.”
Initially, I was confused. Perhaps you noticed it in my eyes, because you took your time to explain what you meant. You helped me understand that my greatest contribution might not be in becoming a star before the camera, but in developing my voice, strengthening my writing and using my gifts to influence others.
That conversation changed everything
I arrived at the festival contemplating a future as a Nollywood star, but I left with a renewed determination to become a stronger writer. You did not discourage my ambition; you redirected it towards what you believed was my greater purpose.
That was how Francis Duru helped redirect my vision towards the path my dear father had hoped I would follow.
Francis, if the dead can see and hear us, please tell my father what you did on his behalf. Tell him how you helped me recognise the value of my gifts and encouraged me to follow a path that has continued to shape my life.
Your influence did not end with that first conversation. It became a guiding light, and I carry its lessons with me to this day.
As I mourn you, I make this promise: I will continue to mentor younger people, nurture their gifts and help them discover their purpose. I will intensify that commitment in your honour. Every young person I encourage, every talent I help develop and every life I help redirect will be a living reminder of what you did for me.
A Friendship That Became Family
Your mentorship did not end with career advice. You gradually introduced me to the Nollywood family, where I met distinguished personalities in the industry, both living and departed. Through you, I gained access to relationships and experiences that enriched my professional journey.
You did not merely teach me; you connected me to people, opened doors and made me feel that I belonged. Over time, our relationship grew beyond mentorship into a genuine family bond.
Between 2009 and 2010, Edo State sought to revive the Edo Festival of Arts and Culture (EDOFEST) under the administration of then Governor, Senator Adams Oshiomhole. I became involved in the process, and when it was time to recommend Nollywood professionals who could contribute to the project, I immediately thought of you and the remarkable behind-the-scenes creative, Sir Richard Ossai.
The three of us became known as the Three Musketeers
I had never encountered two creative minds quite like yours and Richards. Having you both around me gave me the creative strength and confidence I needed. We were a formidable team, bringing ideas to life through the design, production and presentation of quality souvenirs and other materials. We also helped raise substantial funds for the state.
Unfortunately, the project did not unfold as we had envisioned. Nevertheless, the experience remains an important part of my professional journey. Working with you both taught me the value of teamwork, creative collaboration, determination and resilience.
I still remember the demanding months I spent in Benin City, working day and night at Edo Hotel, close to the Ministry of Arts and Culture. The work was exhausting, and I became physically drained.
One afternoon, you and Richard came to town. When you saw me, you were so concerned about my condition that you immediately approached the Commissioner and insisted that I take the next available flight to Abuja to spend some time with my family.
That was you, Francis. You could be firm when the well-being of someone you cared about was at stake. You recognised when I had pushed myself too far, even when I was determined to keep going.
Another memory remains vivid in my mind. When printed materials needed to be transported to Benin City, you and Richard chartered a vehicle for the journey. I monitored your movement from Benin until late into the night, when communication suddenly stopped.
I knew something was wrong.
The vehicle had collided with another, and you both had to be rescued. Thankfully, you survived that frightening experience. Looking back, I remember how many dangerous moments you and Richard overcame together. I never imagined that one day I would have to write a tribute to both of you.
Richard’s passing had already left me devastated. Losing you, too, feels like another painful chapter in a story I am not ready to close.
Our friendship was strong enough to survive difficult professional experiences. Even when we faced disappointments, you and Richard knew how to ease the tension and remind me that some relationships were worth far more than the battles surrounding them.
I remember how a discussion that began with the possibility of taking further action over our professional grievances ended with laughter and a visit to a coffee bar. That was the magic of our friendship. You knew how to turn a difficult moment into an opportunity for laughter and fellowship.
You protected me, encouraged me and treated me with genuine affection. I learnt from your strengths, grew through our shared experiences and found in both of you the kind of friendship that gradually becomes family.
Those coffee-bar conversations, the laughter, the professional exchanges and the unspoken understanding among us are memories I will treasure for the rest of my life.
Your Support at My First Book Launch
Your mentorship extended beyond my professional aspirations. You stood beside me at moments that mattered, often without expecting anything in return.
In 2013, we lost a dear friend, Comrade Olaitan Oyerinde, in circumstances that brought profound grief to those who knew him. His death was another painful loss. You knew him, and you understood the passion we shared for cultural development and the work we hoped to accomplish.
Olaitan had cautioned us to be careful, reminding us that our commitment to developing the state’s cultural sector should not expose us to unnecessary harm.
About thirteen years ago, when I organised my first book launch in honour of Olaitan Oyerinde at the Labour House in Abuja, you stood firmly by me. The event brought together labour leaders, unionists and political officeholders, including members of the Nigeria Labour Congress’s National Administrative Council (NAC) from across the country.
You helped me manage the gathering and brought your presence, experience and influence to bear on the occasion. You did it freely, without seeking payment or personal gain.
I remember what you told me afterwards:
“I am fulfilled to see you pull this quality crowd of labour leaders, unionists and political officeholders.”
Those words meant so much to me. You were genuinely happy to see me succeed. You understood the significance of what I was building and celebrated my achievements as though they were your own.
You gave me your time, your support and your confidence. Such generosity is rare, and I will never forget it.
May the good Lord reward your generous heart and grant your soul eternal rest.
The Losses You Carried
Francis, life dealt you some painful blows. Between 2019 and 2021, you lost your parents, and Richard Ossai, the friend who might have stood beside you through those difficult years, also passed away.
I, too, was battling depression during that period, and the struggle nearly cost me my life. We were both navigating difficult seasons, each carrying burdens that were not always visible to the world.
When I returned from my medical trip, you invited me to share the news of Richard’s passing. I was devastated. The news struck me deeply, and I struggled to understand why you had kept it from me.
Your answer revealed the depth of your concern for me:
“I did not want to lose you, because I knew about your health, having seen you before you were flown to Lagos.”
Even in your own grief, you had been thinking about my well-being. You knew how fragile my health had become, and you wanted to protect me from another emotional blow.
That was the measure of your friendship. You were hurting, yet you were concerned about hurting me.
Then, in 2024, you lost your beloved son. When you lost your son, however, I struggled to find the courage to face you. I did not know how to console a father who had suffered such a devastating loss. I was afraid that the weight of your grief, combined with my own emotional struggles, might push me back into depression.
So, although we remained in contact, I kept my distance. Francis did not understand and he expressed it.
It was not because I cherished you any less. It was because I did not know how to confront the pain of seeing you mourn. I carried my grief silently, and the distance between us grew longer than I ever intended.
You noticed. We met at different events, exchanged messages and spoke about family matters, but something had changed. I knew you felt my absence. I only lost the courage.
I wish I had found the courage early to sit beside you, listen to you and offer the comfort you deserved. I wish I had understood that sometimes, the most meaningful support is simply being present, even when we have no words to offer.
Father, have mercy on me. Help me forgive myself for the moments when fear kept me away from someone I deeply respected.
The Day You Turned Me Into a Star
After a long period of keeping to myself, I began to find the courage to reconnect with people and rediscover parts of myself I had set aside.
Then an opportunity came to audition for a programme seeking contestants nationwide. I decided to test my beauty, skills and talent, and to challenge myself by competing with younger people.
When I arrived at the venue, I realised I was among the oldest contestants. Yet I felt confident enough to take my place and see what the experience might bring.
My number was called.
I walked in, and there you were, Sir Francis Duru, sitting as the lead judge.
What a moment!
After months of not seeing you in person, there you were, unexpectedly at the centre of an experience that took me straight back to the beginning of our friendship. Tears filled my eyes. The memory of your son’s passing, the distance between us and all the emotions I had struggled to process came rushing back.
For a moment, I wanted to run off the stage. The lights, the elaborate setting and the atmosphere of the audition seemed to fade into the background. All I could see was my friend, the man whose loss I had struggled to confront.
Then you did what you did best: you took command of the moment.
In a matter of minutes, you gave an account of my background, spoke about my abilities and introduced me in a way that transformed the atmosphere. You made me feel seen. You turned the audition into a celebration of my journey, and my session extended into an engagement with other contestants.
Your professionalism, creativity and ability to connect with people were extraordinary. You had a gift for recognising talent and bringing out the best in others.
I left that venue with mixed emotions. I was grateful to have seen you again and proud of the way you had presented me, yet deeply saddened by the circumstances that had kept us apart for so long.
I sometimes wonder what might have happened if that programme had gone on to hold. Perhaps you would have played another significant role in opening a door for me. But even without knowing what the future might have brought, that day remains a powerful reminder of your generosity and your faith in my abilities.
You never stopped seeing something valuable in me.
“Lois, Did I Offend You?”
We eventually met again at film festivals, and with time, I found the courage to face the emotions I had carried for so long.
I will never forget the day you looked at me and asked:
“Lois, did I offend you?”
That question broke something open inside me. I cried and poured out the emotions I had struggled to express. You listened, and we began to bridge the distance that had grown between us.
It was a moment of reconciliation, honesty and renewed affection. We promised to keep living for our respective families and to cherish the relationships that mattered most.
Francis, you truly lived for your family. You upheld family values, remained devoted to your loved ones and gave so much of yourself to the people around you.
You understood loyalty. You understood responsibility. You understood what it meant to stand by the people you loved.
But why did you have to leave us at just 57? Why did your journey have to end when there was still so much life, love and wisdom you could have shared with us?
These are questions my heart keeps asking, even though I know there may be no answers this side of eternity.
Our Final Encounter
Our last encounter remains one of the most painful memories I carry.
It happened during the induction of new students at my alma mater, the Department of Theatre Arts at the University of Abuja, under the leadership of Dr Aworitoma Agoma, the Head of Department and one of your allies.
I could not miss an event organised by Dr Agoma while I was in Abuja. I became involved in the planning, and when he informed me that you would be one of the speakers, I was delighted. I saw it as another opportunity to spend time with you and strengthen the bond we had been rebuilding after so many losses.
We had both been through difficult times. I had lost my eldest brother, and you had endured your own share of grief. I hoped that our renewed closeness would give us more opportunities to talk about life, family and the future.
When we met, I did not hide my concern about your emotional state. I told you, “Sir Francis, you are depressed.”
I knew what depression could do to a person. I had experienced it myself, and I knew how much grace it had taken for me to survive. I could recognise signs of distress in someone I knew well, and I was worried about you.
On the day of the event, I had a class session with my film students and arrived late. By the time I got there, you were already on stage, engaging the students and holding their attention with your familiar energy.
But something was wrong.
You did not appear steady, and my concern grew. I immediately drew the attention of the postgraduate coordinator, Professor Ejue, and suggested that someone should bring you water.
Knowing you as I did, I could tell that you were not well. I kept asking myself why you had come to the event when you needed rest. Why were you pushing yourself so hard? Could you not step away from professional engagements for a while and give your body the chance to recover?
I was worried, and a dreadful feeling settled over me.
Before long, you had to leave the stage, and Richard Mofe-Damijo, popularly known as RMD, took over. Arrangements were made to get you medical attention.
Even in your weakened state, you tried to walk, supported on one side by me and on the other by the Vice-Chancellor, Professor Babatunde Hakeem Fawehinmi. The event had to continue, and Dr Agoma remained to coordinate the students.
You were taken to the clinic in the Vice-Chancellor’s car. When you regained consciousness, you called my name.
“Lois.”
I will never forget that moment. Tears!!!
The Vice-Chancellor, seeing that you recognised me, was reassured. He took your number and continued to follow up on your condition, calling repeatedly to find out how you were doing.
But your health was deteriorating. It became necessary to arrange a referral, and the Vice-Chancellor helped facilitate the process. We eventually left the clinic at about 5 p.m.
Before we departed, I sat you down and spoke to you from the depths of my heart.
“Sir Francis, you are giving up.”
I pleaded with you to hold on, to rest and to keep fighting. I reminded you that you still had so much to live for. You looked at me, said okay and thanked me.
I left that encounter deeply troubled.
I knew you needed to slow down. I knew you needed to give yourself the same care you had so often given to others. I also knew that I could not make those decisions for you, but I hoped that my words would stay with you.
After that day, I made a greater effort to check on you
Our last conversation took place on 17 September 2026. We agreed that we would meet when I returned from my trip. I was looking forward to seeing you, taking you out and discussing family matters, retirement from work and the importance of healthy living.
I had plans for us. I imagined another conversation, another opportunity to laugh, another chance to tell you how much your friendship meant to me. So sad I lost all that.
I never imagined that I would return to meet your memory instead.
Francis, it hurts. It hurts to know that the meeting we planned will never happen. It hurts to remember how I pleaded with you to hold on, believing there would still be time for us to talk, laugh and make more memories.
If only I had known that our last conversation would be our last, I would have held on to every word a little longer.
A Legacy That Must Live On
Francis Duru, you were a remarkable talent. You possessed an extraordinary presence, a creative mind and an uncommon ability to inspire people. You were a gifted teacher, a powerful speaker, a committed comrade and a man whose influence reached far beyond the screen.
You had the rare ability to connect with young people, recognise their potential and make them believe in themselves. The young people who surrounded you at the clinic, calling you “Father,” offered a glimpse of the legacy you had built. In their affection, I saw a man who had invested himself in others.
Looking back at our final encounter, I saw someone who had given so much of himself to his work and to the people around him that he had little strength left for himself. I wish you had allowed yourself more time to rest, to heal and to enjoy the fruits of your labour.
Your contribution to Nigerian cinema will not be forgotten. Through the characters you brought to life, the creative projects you shaped, the students you inspired and the younger talents you nurtured, your influence will continue to travel through generations.
I will remember you through my own work. I will remember you whenever I encourage a young person to recognise their gifts, whenever I offer guidance without expecting anything in return, and whenever I choose to help someone find their direction.
That is how I intend to honour the counsel you gave me in 2008. That is how I will keep your memory alive.
To your dear wife, the woman you remained devoted to, may God grant you strength and comfort. To your children, may the Lord surround you with grace and give you the courage to bear this painful loss. To your family, colleagues, friends and the many young people whose lives you touched, may the memories of your love and service bring comfort in the days ahead.
On behalf of myself and my family, including my children who always asked me to take photographs with you and send them whenever I told them we were together, I extend our heartfelt condolences to your family and everyone mourning your passing.
I also remember those who were with you at the clinic that day. I can only imagine how deeply this loss has affected them. May God comfort every heart that is grieving.
Francis, I wish I had told you more often how much you meant to me. I wish I had found the words to express my gratitude while you were still here to hear them. But if there is one thing your passing has taught me, it is that we must not postpone appreciation, affection or the telling of important stories.
I am telling ours now, and I pray that it will inspire others to recognise the people who help shape their lives before time takes away the opportunity.
My regards to Sir Richard Ossai. You have both left an indelible mark on my life, and the memories of our friendship will remain with me until we meet to part no more.
I find it difficult to write the words Rest in Peace, because some part of me still expects another phone call, another coffee-bar conversation or another moment of your familiar laughter.
But I must let you rest.
Goodnight, my brother, my friend, my creative colleague, my mentor, my teacher and my dear Sir Francis Duru.
You redirected my vision, strengthened my purpose and helped me recognise the value of my gifts. I will carry that gift forward by helping others discover theirs.
You may have left the stage, Francis, but the lives you touched will continue to tell your story.
May your gentle soul rest in perfect peace.
