By Festus Fifen
There is a time to be born and a time to die. But what matters most is not that we were born, or that life must end. It is what we do with the time in between.
We may never get used to death, yet it remains one of life’s few certainties. As I reflect on the life of Francis Duru, the veteran Nollywood actor who passed away at 57, I am confronted once again by the nagging question of what it truly means to live.
To the world, he was a screen icon. To me, he was also a course mate. At ISDEVCOM, Nasarawa State University, Keffi, Francis was a fellow PhD student, sharing the same classrooms and the same demanding pursuit of knowledge. That a man with his achievements still chose to sit as a student speaks volumes about his humility and hunger for growth.
Born on July 27, 1969, in Cameroon to Nigerian parents from Imo State, Francis studied Theatre Arts at the University of Port Harcourt, graduating in 1996. He began acting in 1989 and rose to widespread recognition for his portrayal of Ahanna in Amaka Igwe’s classic film *Rattlesnake* (1995). Over more than three decades, he proved himself a versatile actor. He won Best Actor in a Leading Role (Igbo) at the 2020 Best of Nollywood Awards for *Mboputa*, served as interim president of the Actors Guild of Nigeria in 2010, and received the United Nations Ambassador of Peace award in 2007.
But beyond the dates, awards, titles and filmography lies a more fundamental question: what does it mean to be alive?
In our department, Francis was more than a celebrity in the room. He was a committed participant in the work of development communication. We were actively involved together in development projects and community intervention programmes, and he gave himself to them fully. He never treated them as mere academic requirements. To him, communication was a tool for changing lives, and he brought the same passion to those assignments that he brought to his craft. Whether it was group work, fieldwork or a looming deadline, he was always present, always contributing and always encouraging others to do their best.f
He also played a fatherly role in our class. He was a pillar of calm when pressure mounted, a patient voice when tempers flared, and a counsellor to course mates who needed direction. He corrected with kindness, advised with wisdom and carried the rest of us along. Many of us, younger in age and experience, found in him a father figure who made the demanding journey of doctoral study feel less lonely.
Life is not merely oxygen. Biologically, we define it by the breath in our lungs and the beating of our hearts. But life transcends breathing. Life is purpose. It is impact. It is the difference we make and the value we add to the world around us.
That is what makes Francis’s passing so instructive. He was passionate about his craft and interpreted characters so convincingly that audiences connected with them. He understood his calling and gave himself to it. Even in the later chapters of his life, he kept learning, kept growing and kept reaching higher. That is the mark of someone who understood that purpose has no retirement age.
His physical presence is gone, but his contribution remains. In a sense, he has only just begun to live in the memories of those he touched, in the body of work he leaves behind, and in the hearts of the course mates who called him a friend and a father.
Presence is not permanence. We will all leave this world someday, but what we leave behind can outlive us. Some people pass through life almost unnoticed, while others leave footprints that time struggles to erase. The difference lies in how they lived, what they gave and the value they added.
We will not be here forever, and not everyone will celebrate a hundredth birthday. Longevity is desirable, but we must ask which matters more, the quantity of our years or the quality of our contributions. Duration or donation? How long we lived, or how much life we gave to others?
These are not questions for the dead. They are lessons for those still breathing.
As we celebrate Francis and mourn his departure, we must also examine our own lives. What are we doing with the time we have? Are we pursuing our purpose or merely existing? Are we making meaningful contributions or simply occupying space? Are we building something that will outlive us, or waiting for a tomorrow we are not guaranteed?
Death reminds us that time is limited, but it also challenges us to make that time meaningful. Let us make every day count. Let us pursue our purpose with passion, serve with sincerity, love deliberately and contribute meaningfully. Let us live with the awareness that today could be our last, not in fear, but with greater intention.
Because one day, our breathing will stop. The question is, when that day comes, what will continue to live because we lived?
Rest in peace, Francis Duru. Thank you for the memories, the performances, the guidance and the lessons your life leaves behind. To my course mates and to all of us still breathing, may we find the wisdom to do more than merely exist.