Some words about my friend, who I miss already, Begho Ukueberuwa. He passed away today at only 27. It’s a staggering and heartbreaking loss. Rest in peace.
Three years ago, I was sitting on my sister’s bright orange couch in Silver Lake, trying to figure out how the fuck I was supposed to get ahead in entertainment, when I got a text that made me feel even more behind.
Everyone who’s seen an episode of Entourage knows the reputation of Hollywood agents. They’re fake, they’re bullshit, they eat away at the creativity of writers… yada yada, cliche cliche. I’m sure the real Ari Emmanuel is thrilled with Jeremy Piven. But stereotypes exist for a reason, and so, when sitting on that orange couch that always reminded me of the one in The Wire, my friend Lucy texted that me I should get a drink with Begho at CAA — this twenty-five-year-old agent who somehow was already on JJ Abrams’ team and knew everyone in the industry — I immediately assumed he would be the biggest social-climbing douche on planet earth. But I needed to know people, and Lucy insisted we’d get along, and fuck it — I wasn’t above networking — I was probably below it with a person like Begho — so I reached out, and pretty soon we were on for happy hour, right after he finished a meeting with Suzanne Lori-Parks. Cue my eye-roll.
What followed was a three hour period of fighting to dislike someone who made it impossible. I kept waiting for some chink in the armor to show. Some subtle valuation of material goods and money over human interest; some reference to his parents having actually run diamond mines in Nigeria; some road-mark of Hollywood’s decline due to agents predisposition to generic storytelling instead of creative swings. But I could not find these truths I wanted so desperately to find, because they did not exist.
Instead, we just shot the shit about movies and basketball and girls and standup. Instead, he just made me laugh a lot. And at a certain point, I had to accept the fact that, contrary to my insecurity’s beliefs, Begho Ukueberuwa was simply a creative force who got to his place in the world through hard work, great taste, and above all, genuine connection. I came to that bar looking to feed into the bullshit I assumed some made-up prescriptive version of an agent thrived on. I walked away with what I hoped to be a lifelong friend — even if he was, admittedly, a Yankees fan.
Begho and I never lived in the same city, and somehow that never mattered. When I moved to LA, he let me sublet his place for cheap while I got my feet under me. He’d gotten a new job producing, and was moving back to New York, but first had to go to a few weddings and occasions in Austin, Atlanta, and Europe. That was par for the course. Begho had friends everywhere. There was always a buddy I’d never heard of who ran a great Ethiopian place in a hole in the wall in Nashville. Always a girl he’d met who I should really take a meeting with, who used to write screenplays full time, but now runs a poetry club in deep Bushwick. Didn’t matter if you were rich or poor; successful or jobless; gorgeous or sickly — if you were a person worth knowing, Begho made you a priority.
Wherever he went, good people and good ideas seemed to follow. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. He invited me to dinner once in New York, and I was annoyed upon arrival to realize that instead of hanging out just the two of us, this would be an eight person reservation made up entirely of strangers. Hours later, drinking in a dark bar in the east village and talking about why Ronin was an underrated gem of an action flick, I realized I had six new numbers in my phone — several of whom had already invited me to dinner or a drink — and now at the narrow end of the night, we were hanging out the two of us anyway. That was just the way it worked with Begho. You’d come in expecting a good time with your friend, and come away with six new ones.
Begho’s unbelievably young passing is unfair. It’s unfair to his family, who, though I do not know personally, I can only assume must be saints to have produced a man like Begho. It’s unfair to his friends, many of whom will never get to meet, because we are caught up in our own bullshit, and have lost this selfless, brilliant person, who made us laugh and think and connect. And — allow me said bullshit for a moment — it’s unfair to the world, because young as he was, Begho was already creating art and friendships and conversation that would have lived in the hearts and minds of strangers I’ll never have the luxury of knowing.
I’m probably never going to rid myself of insecurity or the jealousy that it causes. I’m likely never going to have as many friends — or live in as many cities — or speak with the intellectual calm that he had naturally. It’ll be all shits and fucks and snark and Lexapro-needing for me. But if there’s one thing I would like to take away from my friend Begho, it’s his authenticity. Didn’t matter if you were a celebrity, a beautiful woman, a high-level agent, a dude from jersey, or some asshole like me: you were getting the same Begho. The same guy who cared about what he cared about, and told you exactly what it was. The same person who just wanted to connect good people to good people, and eat and drink and talk while doing so. It’s probably impossible for most of us to come across one iota as likable as Begho, but we could all stand to take a page out of his book of human interaction.
So, it is through blurry eyes and blurrier brain that I say rest in peace, Begho. I usually find the old Jewish adage my childhood rabbi would say — “may your memory be a blessing” — to be remarkably cheesy, but having been lucky enough to known you, Mr. Ukueberuwa for the years I did, it suddenly rings true and real and fucking spiritual. Your friendship, humor, creativity, and humanity was — and is — a goddamn blessing, and anyone who knew you knew that.
I’ll miss what should have been a much longer friendship as long as I live. And god fucking dammit — I may even crack a smile if your vile yankees win. Shit.
Thank you for the memories and lessons you’ve given me.