By Onochie Anibeze
Somewhere in the United States of America lives a man who must hear this story – Tosin Adebanbo.
He may not know it, but in a different time and place, far away from where life has taken him, he was a hero to a young man he never met… my brother.
There was a time when Nigerian football was not just a game – it was a festival of passion. The era of IICC Shooting Stars, Rangers International, Bendel Insurance, Mighty Jets… stadiums throbbed with life, and the air itself seemed to chant the names of heroes. Among them stood Tosin Adebanbo, strong, fearless, dependable defender.
And then there was the unforgettable voice of Ernest Okonkwo, stretching his words into music:
“Tooossiinnn Adebanboooo to the rescue!”
That call echoed beyond the pitch. It travelled into homes, into hearts… and into the soul of a young man named Moses Anibeze, my brother, my storyteller, my link to a beautiful past.
Mo, as we fondly called him, loved Adebanbo with a loyalty that needed no introduction. He spoke of him as if they had grown up on the same street, shared meals, shared dreams. But they never met.
And now… they never will.
On March 12, Mo left us.
Even as I write this, it still feels unreal. The kind of pain that numbs the fingers and blurs the eyes. The kind that makes words heavy.
But March was not done with the Anibezes.
Just as we were struggling to breathe again, to understand loss, to hold on to faith… it struck once more.
On March 31, my brother Charlie – the third child of our parents, followed Mo.
Two brothers. Nineteen days apart.
March became a thief in our story.
Mo was a brother. He was a bridge, between eras, between ideas.
He painted pictures with words – of Adebanbo’s tackles, of the elegance of Ernest Ufele, whose unforgettable goal in Egypt against Mehalla still lives in the folklore of Rangers. Mo told these stories like a witness, like a custodian of memory.
He loved the game deeply. From Stationery Stores to IICC, from the days of Kunle Awesu and Idowu Otubosin to the brilliance of Segun Odegbami, Muda Lawal, and Best Ogedemgbe, he carried their stories with pride, with joy, with life.
But football was only one part of him.
Mo was history itself.
He didn’t just study it at the University of Lagos, he lived it, breathed it, taught it. Listening to him was like sitting in a lecture hall where the past came alive. He would summon voices from centuries ago – Montesquieu, Thomas Hobbes, Aristotle, Rousseau, John Locke, Machiavelli – and make them speak in our present.
He had a mind that leaned toward Marxism, a spirit that challenged yours, and a presence that made every conversation richer. Being around him was an education, a privilege, a joy.
He worked at Daily Star in Enugu and nudged me toward journalism. He watched my journey with pride. That memory now feels like both a gift… and a wound.
And then there was Charlie.
If Mo was the story teller, Charlie was the spark.
I lived with him when I first came to Lagos. He was relentless, hardworking, and his business thrived because he gave it everything. But beyond the grind, Charlie had style – effortless, natural. He was the most fashionable among us, the one who lit up rooms without trying.
Back in Enugu, he explored show business and made his mark – organising music shows at places like Tourist Hotel and Club Elbella. He understood people, understood joy, understood how to bring life to a gathering.
Charlie had style and liked music. Isaac Hayes, The Temptations, Grover Washington Jr, The Rare Earth, Bob James, Jimmy Hendrix, The Commodores were some of his favourites. In Africa, he idolized Osibisa, Fela, Miriam Makeba and many Ghana High Life bands and Congo music. Of course, One World, Blo, Ofege, Eddie Okonta, Rex Lawson, Victor Olaiya, Celestine Ukwu and Osita Osadebe were some of his Nigerian stars. If he liked a track, he could play it repeatedly for hours. Charlie lived fully.
And now he is gone.
How does one mourn two brothers at once?
How do you process a silence that suddenly doubles?
The house feels different. The memories feel louder.
March has left a scar on the Anibezes.
Yet, even in this crushing grief, we hold on to what we know to be true:
There is a time for everything.
A time to be born.
And a time to die.
We do not understand why March chose us this year. We may never understand. But we surrender to the will of God,
Mo, Charlie – you were loved. You are loved. You will always be loved.
And somewhere, perhaps beyond what we can see, the stories continue.
May your souls find eternal rest.
Amen
