Ink, Ideas, and Immortality: A tribute to Suleman Momoh, by Steve Babaeko

On January 8, 2001, I joined Prima Garnet, then the Ogilvy agency in Nigeria, as a Copywriter. Part of the agency’s welcome ritual was a physical introduction—new hires were paraded through each department, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries. It was during this rite of passage that I first met Suleman Momoh. He had a warm smile and an air of honesty so pure that when he said, “Nice to meet you,” I believed him instantly. Trust me, I’d heard those words dozens of times that morning, but his were the only ones that truly registered.

By 2003, we found ourselves drafted into a new mission: leading the creative charge for British American Tobacco, one of the agency’s biggest wins. When two creative minds collide, the energy is electric—brighter than a supernova. Together, Suleman and I crafted some of BAT’s most iconic campaigns, including Proudly Nigerian. That campaign, in particular, almost broke me. For days, I wrestled with the brief, flipping ideas inside out, searching for the perfect angle. Then, at 2:30 a.m. one fateful night, it hit me. Excited beyond reason, I grabbed my phone and dialed Suleman.

“I’ve cracked it!” I shouted.

“Wetin you crack?” he mumbled, groggy from sleep.

I barely got two sentences into my explanation before he cut me off. “Abeg, carry your wahala go. I wan sleep.”

But that wahala became an award-winning campaign. And that Proudly Nigerian logo? The one brands still use today? Suleman designed it.

By 2005, we were on to our next adventure—pioneering the Creative Director roles at 141 Worldwide. We worked like our lives depended on it, and soon, our partnership became unstoppable. We crushed pitch after pitch, even beating Prima Garnet, our former agency, more than a few times.

In those early days at 141, I didn’t have a car. Suleman, ever the generous one, offered to pick me up every morning and drop me off after work. One evening, after yet another late night at the office, we set off in his SUV, cracking jokes and croaking along to Naija songs. The Lagos sky was speckled with curious stars, as if they wanted in on the fun.

I have a habit of watching the cars behind me—it’s just something I do. That night, I noticed a set of headlights trailing us a little too persistently. It was a nondescript sedan, blending into the darkness of a city wrapped in one of NEPA’s infamous blackouts. I didn’t want to alarm Suleman just yet. I told myself that if they followed us into my street, then I’d know for sure.

Suleman turned into my close. The sedan did the same.
My pulse quickened. “Slow down,” I told him. “We’re being followed.”

As if on cue, the sedan overtook us and came to a stop, blocking the road ahead. Then, in eerie slow motion, the doors opened. One of them had a gun.

“They’re armed robbers!” I shouted. “Reverse!”

In the chaos, we backed straight into a pile of sand meant for a construction project. Before we could react, one of the assailants reached for the driver-side door. Suleman barely managed to slam it shut and bolt it in time.

“It’s a locally made pistol,” I said, thinking fast. “It’s got pellets—it can injure, but not kill at that range. Put the car in drive and ram them.”

Suleman didn’t hesitate. Like a Formula One driver, he floored it. The sudden burst of speed startled the robbers, and as I leaned on the horn, they scrambled back into their car and sped off in the opposite direction.
Once again, the teamwork of Suleman and I had saved the day.

But today, there is no victory in sight, Suleman is gone. Yet I do not mourn—I celebrate. I celebrate a kindred creative spirit. A brother. A legend.

Godspeed, Suleman. You were gone too soon, but you have gone home to rest.

–Babaeko is a CEO of a leading marketing communications company in Africa