When RMD Walked In: A Day of Becoming at UniAbuja
By Jerry Adesewo
There are entrances, and then there are arrivals.
At the Faculty of Law Theatre, University of Abuja, Yakubu Gowon University (formerly University of Abuja), on Wednesday, it was unmistakably the latter when Richard Mofe-Damijo stepped into the hall, at the Cultural Carnival ans Inductiin Ceremony of the Department of Theatre. The shift was immediate, almost instinctive. Conversations softened into murmurs, bodies adjusted in their seats, and a quiet ripple of excitement moved through the room. For many of the young Theatre Arts students gathered, this was no longer just another departmental ceremony—it had become a moment, one to remember for a long time.
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He did not keep them waiting long.
When he eventually mounted the stage, it was not with the rigid formality one might expect from a 65 years old veteran of his stature. Instead, he arrived with an ease that only years of mastery can produce—fluid, confident, unforced. The soundscape that welcomed him was equally deliberate: Moses Sax weaving melody into the air, Oladimeji’s talking drum punctuating the rhythm with cultural authority. RMD swayed gently as he walked, acknowledging the music not as background noise but as part of the performance itself.
The hall erupted—not in surprise, but in delight. It was the kind of reception reserved for someone who understands both the craft and the audience.
And then, he began.
What followed was not a speech in the lecturing sense. It was a conversation—layered, reflective, and disarmingly personal. He spoke of his journey into theatre, not as a straight line of success, but as a path shaped by uncertainty, chance, and quiet resilience. There were moments when his voice softened, when memory seemed to press against the present, and he had to steady himself before continuing.
He told of beginnings that carried more struggle than promise. Of a childhood marked not by privilege, but by perseverance. Of a mother whose strength far exceeded her circumstances. Of Uncle London who will pick law as a more noble profession over theatre any day. And of that turning point—the kind that often appears ordinary in the moment, yet reveals its significance only in hindsight.
An audition.
A chance.
A door slightly ajar.
He stepped through it with all sense of determination. That step, he suggested without saying it outright, was everything.
The narrative did not linger in triumph. It moved instead through reflection—on growth, on discovery, on the slow unfolding of purpose. There was an honesty in his delivery that stripped away the myth of effortless success and replaced it with something more enduring: the idea that greatness is often built quietly, long before it is recognised.
Then came the shift.
A copy of my recently published poetry book: THE WEIGHT OF BECOMING sits gingerly on the table before me when he announced, with a glitter in his eyes.
“I want to talk to you about becoming.”
It was a simple declaration, but it carried weight.
My eyes lifted instinctively. A smile followed. I reached for the book, almost reflectively, as though to confirm what I had just heard. In that moment, the coincidence felt less like chance and more like convergence—two separate explorations of the same idea meeting in a shared space.
He leaned into the word without rushing it.
Becoming, he suggested, is not an event. It is not a moment of arrival. It is a process—continuous, evolving, often uncomfortable. It is the quiet work that happens beneath the surface, long before the world takes notice.
And this quite agrees with the position in my poetey book.
Referencing Francis Duru, who had spoken earlier, he reminded the students that theatre, at its core, is transformation. Not the shallow kind that ends with applause, but the deeper kind that demands awareness, discipline, and a firm grip on one’s identity. To step into a role is necessary; to lose oneself in it is dangerous. Then he went on to discuss what he called ‘depersonanalisation’ – seperating the actor from the character he or she is to play, or have just played.
There was a caution in his tone, gently delivered but unmistakable. The stage, he implied, offers many masks—but not all are meant to be worn beyond it.
He spoke of identity as something to be held, guarded, returned to. Of the need to remain anchored, even while exploring the many characters that theatre demands. And of the quiet danger of allowing external voices—praise or criticism—to define one’s sense of self.
Not with the distracted attention that often accompanies ceremonial speeches, but with a stillness that suggested something deeper was taking place. Heads nodded, not out of politeness, but recognition. There is a difference.
By the time he began to round off, the atmosphere had changed again—but this time, it was internal. The excitement that greeted his entrance had settled into reflection. The energy was no longer outward; it had turned inward.
And perhaps that was the true measure of the moment.
Because long after the music faded and the applause dissolved, what remained was not just the memory of a celebrated actor standing before students, but the quiet insistence of a question:
Who are you becoming?
It lingered in the room, unforced, unanswered.
And in that lingering, it did what the best theatre always does—it stayed.