Dotun Oladipo: An Angel Was Here By Yemi Olowolabi

It began as a typical day in the life of a critical thinker, political analyst and ecumenical spirit: Dotun Samson Oladipo, Publisher, Eagle Online Newspaper. He rose from bed and made a beeline for the gym, a daily routine that defined a ravishing persona; fastidious about fitness and fanatic about alertness. After a few hours at the gymnasium, he returned home to prepare for what seemed like a crowded day. As he stepped out of his posh terrace apartment, he waved his hands to his wife and daughters, with an habitual assurance of “see you later in the evening” But unknown to his beautiful family, their breadwinner would never come back again!
From the sublime serenity of Greenfield Estate, OPIC, he drove straight to the rumbustious atmosphere of Joseph Odunlami Street, Ogba where his office is located. His time was ticking fast but, like all mortals, he was thinking about the future. He had just a few hours to live but he was making plans for the day and even beyond. He got busy, punching at his keypad, editing and planning to meet up with the afternoon belt of his daily broadcast on Whatsapp and email channels. Dotun worked at a dizzying pace to accomplish the tasks before the set deadline. He didn’t know that death was lying in the corner, desperately waiting to end his busy schedules and daily hustles.
Apart from posting stories on that fateful Tuesday, Dotun’s wanted to do the computation and subsequent payment of his staff salaries. He always kept a date with his cherished traditions of paying his workers on the 25th of every month. The date was August 25th. While he prioritised his workers’ welfare, death grew impatient with serial insidious indicators. Someone who woke up healthy suddenly became jerky. A hitherto ebullient editor looked besieged. His metabolic components seemed shot into smirtereens. Everything happened swiftly. Dotun was no longer at ease. He was in a dire need of cogent diagnosis. He needed a physician urgently. He reached out to his family doctor who advised him to come to the hospital immediately. He sensed danger. Not death. Otherwise, he would have left an epithet on his table. Of course, he would have crafted a parting line for his better half and a moving epilogue for his admirable daughters.
His strength ebbed slowly as he briskly inched close to his car yet his faith remained strong, dwelling on divine promises and the decisive will to live. He drove off, with a legion of ravaging thoughts and supplications, quietly expressed in soundless soliloquy.

From Joseph Odunlami Street Ogba to Mayfair Medical Center, Capitol Road, Agege, is distance of about 3.6 kilometers. But for the erudite journalist, it seemed like a long tortuous journey laced with thorns and thistles. His turbocharged Toyota Venza was in top shape, revying with automatic relish but Dotun was draggy, clutching at straws, wheezing and wishing that this cup of cardiovascular discomfort would just pass over him. His legs wobbled on the pedals. In other words, the car was well, the driver was sick. The journey was bound to be aborted. It was tragically interrupted.

Less than 300 metres to his destination, he became increasingly uncomfortable, driving the car further seemed impossible. His next move was predictable. He pulled up from the main road and called for help! A passerby showed up. Now, gasping for breath and covered with sweat, he called out his doctor’s telephone number and the Good Samaritan dialled the digits. Dotun Oladipo’s journey to the hospital was cut short on the road. It became a medical emergency.
The doctor arrived some minutes later, emitting hope in those despondent moments.
Dotun sat still in the car with his head suspended on the steering and his hands spread out on the dashboard. Aghast by wretched sight, the doctor called out his patient’s name. No response.
The Falcons could not hear the Falconer. Things have fallen apart . The doctor didn’t give up. He rushed him to a nearby clinic. Futile! The beat has stopped. Again, he moved him to his own facility, Mayfair Medical Center. Hollow! Dotun was gone.
Suddenly, a glorious life was cut down and a mellifluous song halted. Tragedy took the place of rhapsody as close family, friends and associates grimly exchanged the gruesome news of a monumental loss.
The news dominated the online space, trending with high
velocity, evoking viral griefs and groans. More than anywhere else, Dotun’s passage hit the media community in the solar plexus. Apart from being a practitioner of repute, with decades of constructive contributions, the late journalist was an angel in human skin; a man fearfully and wonderfully made for a time-based mission on earth. It is now making sense. The mystery is beginning to unfurl as more events unfold. From the huddle of tributes and litany of testimonies, it is becoming clear that an angel actually lived with us for more than 56 years. Oh, heedless fellows! We did not know. Our warped understanding of the angelic is a gothic, esoteric feather-cladded being that flies in the skies, appears and disappears, leaving us with goose pimples and eerie aftermath. This is a mere illusion pumped into our psyche by the repeated manipulations of cinematography. Angels actually come in the likeness of men. Dotun was one. Why didn’t we know? Our society valorises titles and venerates clothings. Those we reverence as next door neighbours of celestial beings are pastors, bishops, archbishops, evangelists, apostles, primates, shepherds and the other godly prefixes. The reason is not far fetched. Those ones preach sermons on the altars and are mostly dressed in white collar or adorned in flowing cassocks.
Dotun was never swathed in habiliment. He neither wore a religious garment nor was he a pupilteer. But, undoubtedly, he was a bishop of virtues who sought, spoke and pursued the truth. He fought many battles in the interests of others, using the platform of ethical journalism practice. Everywhere he worked, he wore the badge of humility and hard work. Either in the _Nigerian Tribune_ or _Punch_ , either in _The Compass_ or _Newswatch_, and indeed, _The Sun,_ he left a legacy of sound character, integrity and true friendship.
His last days on earth further confirmed his true identity as a divine messager sent to dwell in our midst. He exemplified purity, purpose and public spirit. He was selfless and he gleefully sacrificed his time in helping others to grow especially in the crowded online publishing industry.
His tenure as president of the Guild of Corporate Online Publishers, GOCOP, was hallmarked by exemplary service, innovative leadership and exponential growth of the young association.
Truth be told, men like Dotun are rare. You only come across them once in a while. He was exceptionally courteous, exceedingly magnanimous, extraordinarily ingenious and extremely generous. The sad thing is that such beings are cherubic. They don’t stay long on this side of the divide. The consolation, however, is that they leave behind a long lasting memory that keeps them in our hearts forever. This is a fitting metaphor that deconstructs the life and times of Dotun Oladipo, the incredible angel that soothed our hearts with warmth of kindness but left tears in our eyes at his sudden eclipse. Fondly called Dotcom on account of his prestigious status as one of the ancestors of online journalism in Nigeria, will be remembered for his laudable career trajectory as much as his tangible services to humanity.
Adieu, great editor. The heavens rang your exit bell too soon, denied you the joy of outliving your aged mother and robbed you of the bliss of seeing your children’s children. Your darling wife, with whom you lived like siamese twins is now a lonely widow, permanently severed from your constant presence and reassuring halos. At this juncture, we are hurt but helpless. We are disappointed at your appointed time, but the fang of death is unstoppable when the Saints in heavens are already waiting for your triumphant arrival. Go well, Dotcom, as the bell tolls for your beautiful soul.