Death, that uninvited thief in the night, strikes with a cruelty that shatters our illusions of invincibility. It leaves us grappling with the void carved into the tapestry of intertwined lives. The sudden passing of Kola Ladapo, the multi-talented broadcaster known affectionately as Mr. Nice Guy – pierces my heart with profound sadness.
Describing him in the past tense feels impossible today. I know death levels us all, but why does it snatch away those with such bright futures in their prime? Kola wove warmth into the airwaves with his voice, lit up studios with his charisma, but now silenced in an instant. His death reminds us how fragile the thread is between broadcast and eternal quiet.
Kola wasn’t just a voice; he was a vibe. A multi-hyphenate force not only in Oyo State but across the Nigerian broadcasting industry. Beyond his expertise in jingle production, he excelled at anything broadcasting demanded. Infectious energy, that rare “nice guy” authenticity in a cutthroat industry—it defined him. From radio studios where his laughter soothed weary listeners to real-life chats cutting through politics and current affairs and more, he elevated every space he entered with professionalism.
In a nation where broadcasters twist narratives for elites or factions, Kola was always for humanity. His moniker wasn’t hype; it was truth.
He turned “nice” into a superpower, proving kindness amplifies talent in ways aggression never could.
Despite my international writing gigs, Kola was the first to invite me to Lagelu FM as an analyst. His abrupt exit holds a mirror to our collective soul. Why do we mourn fiercest those who give without reservation? In Nigeria’s high-stakes media world, where burnout devours careers and lives, Kola’s death issues a quiet provocation: How many more “nice guys” must fade before we prioritise wellness over endless airtime?
On a personal note, Kola was my friend. His death hits me hard. What many don’t know: he’d been fighting a private battle for years, yet it never dimmed his work.
In his absence, we face not just grief but a call to action. Kola’s legacy urges us to live louder, love deeper, and mentor the next wave of broadcasters with his grace.
As I wrap up this tribute to my departed brother and friend, I urge all media outfits across Nigeria to champion mental health initiatives for practitioners. We must celebrate our quiet giants before silence claims them.
Tomorrow’s mic might never turn on—what story will we leave untold?
Rest well, Mr. Nice Guy. Your frequency lingers.