TRIBUTE: Debbie, a friendship cut short, a life that touched mine — by Kayode Adebiyi

Sometimes, life defies explanation. Sometimes, you sit back and wonder whether people have a premonition of their own death, perhaps unknowingly making certain remarks or passing comments that only take on a deeper, more profound meaning after they are gone. You replay those conversations in your head, searching for answers, wishing you had paid more attention, wishing you had known that those seemingly ordinary words would one day become memories you would desperately hold on to.

That is exactly how I feel about Debbie.

Debbie was a dear friend who eventually became a business partner. Our paths first crossed in the course of my work when she was a client. She owned a multi-million-pound luxury apartment in one of the high-end, high-rise residential developments managed by the company I worked for.

The first thing that struck us about Debbie was the way she wrote her emails. You had to be extremely careful when responding to her because every word mattered. Her choice of words was deliberate, precise and calculated. She once explained to me that every word carried a legal implication, particularly if an issue eventually escalated into litigation. It was only after we became close that I discovered she was a highly sought-after maritime lawyer in Hong Kong, with an office in London. She divided her time between the UK and Hong Kong, travelling frequently between the two countries.

One day, she asked me which country I came from. I told her Nigeria.

Her response was memorable. She said, “Nigerians are smart people, and I love associating with smart people.”

From that moment, something about Nigeria seemed to fascinate her, largely because of our friendship. She developed a genuine affection for anything connected to Nigeria, and I became her unofficial link to the country.

Debbie was also one of the people who bought my novel when it was published in 2022. She was genuinely excited about the book and celebrated that achievement with me. In fact, as recently as a few weeks ago, she was encouraging me to get my next book published. She was convinced it would be just as interesting as the first. Little did I know that the person who was so enthusiastically looking forward to reading my next book would not be here to read it.

That thought alone breaks my heart.

When Dangote Refinery commenced operations, Debbie became particularly interested. She was keen to broker oil deals with some of her clients and insisted that I must connect her with the refinery in Nigeria. We had been working on this since last year, coming tantalisingly close on several occasions, but somehow the deals never quite materialised.

Our next big plan was to travel to Nigeria together next year, accompanied by some of her clients from Hong Kong and Malaysia, to visit Dangote Refinery physically and get the proposed business arrangements off the ground.

It was something we both looked forward to.

On a few occasions, she had spoken with my dear brother, Temitope Ajayi. Last May, when I was in Nigeria visiting Abiodun Atobatele at his home, Debbie also spoke briefly with him.

We had plans, conversations, proposals and dreams of things we would accomplish together. We were looking ahead, making arrangements and discussing possibilities, as people who genuinely believed there would be more time.

But death has suddenly drawn a curtain over all of that. What a painful interruption! What a cruel way for a promising friendship and partnership to end.

Beyond the professional relationship, Debbie was an exceptionally thoughtful person who knew how to nurture friendships. She wore her emotions on her sleeves. There was no pretence about her. What you saw was what you got. She was warm, expressive, generous with her affection and genuinely interested in the people she allowed into her life.

I remember my wife’s birthday. Debbie went out of her way to prepare and package Chinese meals for me to take home to celebrate with her. It was such a thoughtful gesture, but that was Debbie. She didn’t need a special occasion to demonstrate that she cared. She simply found ways to make people feel remembered and appreciated.

In the photograph accompanying this tribute, Debbie is wearing a Nigerian outfit she asked me to help her choose when she attended a fashion workshop in London in early 2024.

I can still remember her enthusiastic phone call.

“Kayode, I saw some designs from Nigeria. I will send you the photographs so you can help me choose which one to buy.”

She was genuinely excited about it. I helped her make a choice, and she went ahead with it. That outfit became another little expression of her affection for Nigeria.

Looking at that photograph today, I find myself smiling and crying at the same time. Who would have thought that a photograph taken during such an ordinary, happy moment would become one of the images I would now cherish as a reminder of someone who is no longer here?

My last encounter with Debbie was in the early hours of Friday, 30 October.

I had gone out to get coffee at a nearby café when I saw her walking towards the train station. I asked where she was going so early in the morning.

She replied, “Kayode, I am not feeling so well. I am going to A&E.”

We exchanged a few words and joked about the notoriously long waiting times at the hospital. She said something along the lines of, “Aren’t we used to it by now? I have prepared myself for a five-to-six-hour wait.”

We laughed, exchanged our usual pleasantries and said goodbye.

Before we parted, she told me she would let me know when she got back home so that we could discuss some points I had raised about the latest proposal, she had sent me on behalf of some of her clients for the Dangote Refinery business.

That was how we parted. Just an ordinary morning, an ordinary conversation and an ordinary goodbye.

I had absolutely no idea that it would be the last time I would see her alive.

Later that evening, at about 8.30 pm, I suddenly remembered that I had not heard from her. I picked up my phone and called. It rang, but she didn’t answer.

I assumed she had returned home after spending most of the day at the hospital and had probably gone to bed to rest. I didn’t think much of it.

But there is another little detail that has since become particularly painful to remember. After I made that call, I mentioned to my wife that I hadn’t been able to speak with Debbie. My wife immediately said, “You know what? Please tell Debbie, when next you see her, that she must come to our house for dinner. We have to host Debbie.”

It was such a simple, spontaneous expression of affection and hospitality. We had no reason to imagine that anything was seriously wrong, let alone that we were making plans with someone whose time on earth was almost over.

That dinner will never happen.

Those words, which sounded so ordinary that evening, have now become another painful reminder of how uncertain life can be. We were looking forward to welcoming Debbie into our home, sharing a meal and enjoying her company. Sadly, the invitation will remain unfulfilled.

Sometimes, it is not just the people we lose that hurt; it is also the beautiful moments we had planned to share with them but will never get the opportunity to experience.

Shortly afterwards, I also fell ill and was away from work for a week, shuttling between my home and A&E. When I eventually resumed work, I tried calling Debbie again. There was still no response.

I wondered where she was. My assumption was that she might have returned to Hong Kong to spend some time with her husband and recuperate.

Then yesterday, I received a WhatsApp message from her number.

I was genuinely happy to see it. I hurriedly opened the message, expecting perhaps one of her usual updates or a response to our pending business discussions.

But the first line stopped me cold.

“Hi Kay, this is Debbie’s husband, Tony. I am using Debbie’s phone to let you know that, with a heavy heart, Debbie passed away peacefully at 4.00 am this morning at the Royal London Hospital…”

I read on, and my world collapsed.

Tony explained that Debbie had suffered a brain haemorrhage on 30 October, the very day I had seen her walking towards the train station. She had been in a coma for the preceding two weeks. He said she was not in pain and that he had been right by her side.

I cannot adequately describe what happened to me at that moment.

I left the office, went into the toilet and wept bitterly. I cried like someone who had just lost a member of his family. And even as I write these words, the tears are flowing again.

It is difficult to accept that someone you spoke with, laughed with, made plans with and expected to see again could suddenly become a memory.

How can someone who was making plans for next year, discussing business proposals and looking forward to my next publication suddenly be gone?

How cruel can death be?

And then I remembered another conversation we had in early October.

We were talking when Debbie mentioned that she had not been feeling particularly well and needed to see her doctor. I cautioned her and said, “Debbie, please take care of your health.”

Her response has since become one of the most haunting things I have ever heard.

She said, “Kayode, you know I don’t joke with my health, but at 68 years, I am not afraid of death. If it comes, it comes. The most important thing is to know God.”

I have replayed those words countless times since receiving the devastating news.

At the time, I took them as the philosophical reflections of a woman who had lived a considerable part of her life and understood the fragility of human existence. I never imagined that, barely weeks later, I would be recalling those exact words while mourning her.

Was she simply expressing her thoughts about life and mortality, or was there something deeper in those words that I failed to appreciate at the time? I may never know.

But one thing I know is that Debbie lived with an awareness that life was bigger than the things we pursue, the businesses we build, the professional accomplishments we celebrate and the material possessions we accumulate.

She understood that, ultimately, our relationship with God matters most.

Debbie, I wish we had more time.

I wish we had made that trip to Nigeria. I wish we had walked through Dangote Refinery together, celebrated the successful conclusion of those deals and perhaps sat somewhere afterwards to reminisce about how it all started.

I wish you had lived to read my next book. I wish I could still receive those carefully worded emails of yours, knowing that I would have to think twice before drafting my response!

I wish I could still pick up the phone and hear you call me Kayode.

And I wish that dinner my wife was so eager to host had happened. I wish we had sat around our table, shared a meal, laughed and created yet another beautiful memory. It hurts to know that something so simple, something we could easily have taken for granted, is now an experience we will never have.

But life has its own script, and sometimes the final chapter is written without warning.

Thank you, Debbie, for your friendship, your kindness, your generosity, your trust and the many beautiful memories you have left behind. Thank you for believing in me, for celebrating my achievements, for embracing my country and for allowing me to be part of your world.

You came into my life as a client, but you left as a friend. And that friendship will remain one of the unexpected but beautiful gifts life gave me.

To Tony, her husband, I cannot begin to imagine the depth of your loss. My heart goes out to you. May God grant you the strength to bear this unbearable pain and comfort you in the days and months ahead.

I take some comfort in knowing that Debbie was not in pain and that you were beside her in those final moments. May the memories of the beautiful life you shared sustain you.

As for me, I will remember Debbie with affection, gratitude and a smile, even through the tears.

And perhaps, when I eventually publish my next book, I will dedicate a few lines to you. You may not be here to read them, but I will know why they are there.

For now, I take solace in the words of Scripture, words that remind us that death does not have the final say for those who belong to Christ:

“O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”

1 Corinthians 15:55 (KJV)

Sleep well, Debbie. Until we meet again.

–Adebiyi is a Public Relations Executive based in United Kingdom