Some people are remembered for what they suffered. Akin “Shuga” Tofowomo will always be remembered for how fiercely he lived.
He refused to let polio write his story for him. Instead, he carved out a life of music, friendship, courage, and impact that continues to echo long after his passing. And this is the part most people miss: his disability was never the headline for those who truly knew him.
On 30 October 2025, the devastating news came that Akin “Shuga” Tofowmo had died suddenly during surgery in Canada. The shock was overwhelming, then came the tears, and eventually the slow, painful process of accepting a world where his familiar presence was no longer there. By the time he was laid to rest on 29 November, many of us were still struggling to imagine life without his energy, laughter, and spirit. Yet even in grief, one thing is clear: the light he brought into so many lives is not going out; it lives on in memories, music, and the people he inspired.
From an early age, Akin lived with the effects of polio, but he never allowed the disease to define his identity or limit his joy. He was known far more for the happiness he spread than for the leg that didn’t fully cooperate. Here’s where it gets quietly radical: in a world that often reduces people with disabilities to their diagnoses, Akin insisted—through how he lived—that he would be known for his talent, his kindness, and his grit.
For those of us who spent six unforgettable years with him at Federal Government College, Enugu, what stood out most was not polio, not even music, but the bond we built together. Living closely in those boarding school years, we formed a deep sense of friendship and brotherhood that has lasted decades. That community shaped who we became and gave us shared stories that still feel as vivid as yesterday.
Those first days in Enugu
It was September 1983 when we first arrived in the dormitories of Federal Government College, Enugu—nervous, excited children stepping away from home for the very first time. We came from every region of Nigeria, bringing different languages, cultures, and family stories into one shared space. There were plenty of “Emekas,” which made perfect sense in Enugu, but also names like Banji, Mbang, Musa, Titi, and many others that reflected the country’s rich diversity.
These were the glory days of the so-called “Unity Schools,” federally funded secondary schools that intentionally brought students together from across the nation. The idea was simple but powerful: if young Nigerians learned, played, and grew up together, perhaps they would build a more united country. Whether that vision has fully delivered is a debate for another day—but in our small corner of it, it built lifelong connections.
Among that crowd of wide-eyed first years was Akinloye Tofowomo. He was relatively young for his age, and the way he walked immediately caught the eye: one hand resting on his knee for support, one leg noticeably thinner than the other. Our school uniform included shorts, so his condition was visible to everyone right from the start. He stayed in Independence House; I was in Peace House, both wings of the same building, which meant we crossed paths constantly.
Very quickly, our group of classmates formed a tight-knit community. We learned to navigate the daily challenges of boarding school together: surviving the whims of senior students, stretching limited meals, and trying to stay focused enough to excel academically. In the middle of it all stood Akin—present, involved, and central to the identity of the class of ’89.
More than a diagnosis
Akin had contracted polio in early childhood, leaving him with flaccid paralysis in one leg and a gait that required extra effort. But thanks to the care of his parents and the relative stability available to many middle-class public servants in 1980s Nigeria, he was given room to dream, grow, and participate fully in life. He arrived at Federal Government College, Enugu, ready to work hard, play hard, and take his place in the community like everyone else.
His disability was never treated as a defining problem within our circle. Yes, it was obvious that he had to put in more effort to do some physical tasks, but nobody dared assume that meant he would be left behind. In a setting where we all had to adapt to shared bathrooms, water queues, strict schedules, and scarce resources, Akin pulled his weight and then some. In many ways, his determination quietly set a standard for the rest of us.
Whether in the classroom, on the playground, or on the sports field sidelines, Akin sat right at the center of our shared experience. We spent some of the most memorable years of our youth side by side. He never demanded special treatment, and the system rarely offered it anyway. Together we fetched water from the tanks, scrubbed our clothes by hand, raced to the refectory when the bell rang, and strolled lazily around the school grounds on weekends, trading stories about our childhoods and imagining the futures we hoped for.
Back then, we wholeheartedly believed the story being told about our generation: that we were being groomed to inherit a bright, prosperous Nigeria. Whether that promise has truly been kept is one of those controversial questions that can easily split a room today.
Different paths after school
When secondary school ended, life pulled us in different directions. We scattered to universities across the country, exploring new environments and gradually moving into various professions. Many of us took traditional routes—engineering, medicine, law, business, public service—paths that fit neatly into the expectations of families and society at the time.
Akin, however, made a choice that stood out: he followed his passion for music. In an era when many parents still pushed hard for “safe” careers, deciding to pursue music professionally was bold, even risky. Yet, it made sense for Akin; life had already trained him not to live in fear and not to shrink from challenges. Those same years had also trained us, his friends, to cheer one another on rather than hold one another back.
As young adults, we all faced the familiar uncertainties of early career building—job searches, financial pressures, relationships, the weight of expectation. Slowly, each person began to find a rhythm, a direction, and a sense of purpose. For Akin, that rhythm wasn’t just metaphorical; it played out literally on stages, in rehearsals, and through the joy of live performance.
The rise of “Shuga” in Lagos
In Lagos, Akin’s star began to rise. His band, the now well-known “Shuga Band,” grew into a favorite at events across the city, becoming a go-to name for those who wanted unforgettable live music. He built a reputation not just for musical skill, but for the energy, warmth, and showmanship that filled every performance.
In 2001, I had the honor of serving as best man at a wedding in Lagos, and there on the stage was Akin, performing with his band as his career was beginning to accelerate. We embraced, exchanged stories about the paths our lives had taken, and spoke frankly about our goals and dreams. Watching him command that stage, it felt obvious that he was only at the beginning of something much bigger.
Yet, as often happens when adulthood’s storms pick up—careers to build, families to raise, responsibilities to juggle—we drifted apart again. There were no falling-outs, just the quiet distance that time and busyness can create, even between people who care deeply about one another.
Reconnecting in the digital age
Then came the rise of social media, opening doors for reconnection that would have felt impossible in earlier years. Old classmates began to find one another online—names, faces, and inside jokes from the past reappeared on screens, bringing back a sense of belonging many didn’t realize they had missed so much. Through those digital bridges, we rediscovered the shared history we had nearly allowed to fade.
By this time, we were older, more secure in who we had become and the paths we had chosen. Almost naturally, we slipped back into that instinct of supporting one another—sharing opportunities, celebrating milestones, and offering comfort in difficult seasons. The six years we had spent living, studying, and growing together had forged something strong: a bond built on shared trials, shared laughter, and countless small moments of vulnerability.
Alongside reconnecting with each other, many of us also renewed our sense of responsibility to the school that had brought us together in the first place. We began to think more intentionally about how to give back, how to support current students, and how to keep the spirit of those Unity School days alive in a changing Nigeria.
Talking openly about polio
By then, my own work had become deeply connected to the global fight against polio. Eventually, with time and trust, I found the courage to talk with Akin specifically about his childhood experience with the disease. For years I had avoided the topic, not out of indifference, but because I never wanted our friendship to revolve around his diagnosis rather than the person he was.
When we finally had that conversation, he shared pieces of his early story—what it had meant to grow up with polio, the challenges he faced, and the long internal journey it had taken for him to feel ready to speak publicly about it. Finding his voice on this subject was not instant; it unfolded over years of reflection and growth.
By the time we spoke in depth, he fully understood the influence he carried and the responsibility that came with it. He knew that his visibility as an artist and public figure gave him a unique platform. He saw that he could help make sure polio was not just remembered as part of his story, but potentially ended as a threat to others. After all, polio is one of the very few infectious diseases the world actually has the tools to eliminate—what often stands in the way now is not science, but will and follow-through.
From music to advocacy
Once Akin embraced that role, he did not hold back. He spoke honestly about his experience, without bitterness but with clarity and purpose. He offered encouragement to others living with physical challenges, especially those who had not enjoyed the same support structures that helped him. He pushed for greater engagement—urging people, organizations, and communities not to look away or remain silent.
He backed his words with action. Akin founded the “Shuga Limb Foundation,” a long-term commitment rather than a one-off gesture. Through this organization, he rallied fans, friends, and supporters to stand with people experiencing physical disabilities. The foundation worked to empower them—not just through charity, but by creating opportunities, spotlighting their stories, and challenging limiting beliefs.
This wasn’t just philanthropy; it was a statement of conviction. Akin believed deeply that no one should be confined by circumstance alone. Physical challenges, financial hardship, social stigma—none of these, in his view, should be treated as automatic ceilings on what a person can become. Some might argue that this perspective is too optimistic in the face of harsh realities. Is it? Or is that hopeful stubbornness exactly what drives real change?
The legacy Akin leaves behind
Akin’s life became a gentle but persistent challenge to all of us: use what you have, where you are, to make a difference. He showed that joy and purpose can coexist with pain and limitation. He reminded us that courage does not always roar; sometimes it simply shows up again and again, refusing to shrink.
In honoring his memory, there is a promise we owe him—especially those who care about the fight against polio. For you, Akin, we will not drop the ball. We will continue pushing for a world where no child has to live with polio’s lifelong consequences. The tools exist. The knowledge exists. The finish line is in sight. What remains is the collective determination to cross it.
Rest in peace, my brother. Your journey, your music, your advocacy, and your friendship continue to speak.
Your turn: what do you think?
Should society be judged by how it treats people with disabilities—and if so, how do you think we are doing right now? Do you believe we are truly close to ending polio globally, or are we underestimating the obstacles that remain? And on a more personal level: do you think passion-driven careers like Akin’s are still seen as “risky luxuries,” or are they finally being recognized as powerful, respectable paths?
Share your thoughts. Do you strongly agree with Akin’s belief that no one should be limited by circumstance—or do you think that idea overlooks some uncomfortable realities? Your perspective might be the controversial one someone else needs to hear.
