All music comes from Africa,” African pop singer, Angélique Kidjo, told an interviewer in 2023. Kidjo’s dad is Fon; her mum is Yoruba. In locating Africa as the source of all music, she was saying that in our music and in our songs are all things that interest, excite or worry humanity. In that same interview, Kidjo waxed lyrical. She said she came from a culture “where you spend 10 minutes saying good morning, how is your father? How is your grandmother?”
In every story, every conversation, there is at least a song. And that includes Kidjo’s ten-minute greetings. I feel her. As a Yoruba, I am expected to make anything sing. The unpleasant, if sung the right way, will be good music. That is why we are advised to laugh at any occurrence the severity of which sobbing and weeping cannot redeem. And, so, in spite of everything, the time to sing, dance and laugh is now.
At 4.50 pm on 29 May, 2023, a lady of influence tweeted: “You either accept Bola Ahmed Tinubu GCFR and Kashim Shettima GCON as your president & vice president respectively or join the wailers for the next 4 years, at least, or 8 years. And if you ask me, wailing for 8 years will be emotionally exhausting. If a new Nigeria is your concern, you’ll pray to God to guide our leaders right irrespective of the party you belong in.”
That was a few hours after Alhaji Bola Ahmed Tinubu became president and pronounced “subsidy gone.”
Fast forward to 10:30 am on 9 September, 2024. The X influencer tweeted: “I am fully committed to campaigning for and supporting any better candidate who can defeat this government in 2027, regardless of their party. For me, removing PBAT is a personal mission and a priority. In shaa Allah.”
Our lady has clearly violated the 4-years-or-8-years timeline she gave us just one short year ago. What has changed that has soured the romance?
In case you are scouring the ocean beds in search of what crime the president committed which has cost him the love of this prime supporter, a window opened at 11:23am on 15 October, 2024. The lady tweeted: “Are we really just going to sit back and accept that spending 100,000 Naira a week on fuel is now the norm? That’s 400,000 Naira a month. How many of us can actually afford this? And meanwhile, electricity costs have shot up by nearly 400%. Are we okay with being drained financially just to survive, or are we ready to question why we’re being squeezed like this?”
The last time I checked, the above tweet had attracted almost 800,000 views. Many who replied to the lady’s tweets abused her. They shouldn’t have. When Saul came back from Damascus and became Paul, how was he received? I commend this lady for her forthrightness. At least, unlike others, she didn’t subscribe to John Milton’s fallen character in ‘Paradise Lost’ who loses and shouts: “…farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear” but goes ahead to yell “Farewell remorse: all good to me is lost; Evil be thou my good.” To that Miltonic character, repentance and remorse are too high a price to pay for whatever sin he had committed.
The lady here is one of millions with blisters of buyer’s remorse under their skirts. But she came out to yell and bail out of the abusive love. I commend her. Out of the eight million who voted in this government, there must now be at least seven million sipping the ale of regret quietly in public but cursing King Macbeth privately under their creaky beds. Evil should stop being their good. Because of tomorrow, their buyer’s remorse should be loud.
In 1994, Angélique Kidjo released ‘Agolo’ an album that contains the song: ‘Orio rio/ Ola djou monké n’lo/ Ola djou monké/ Ola djou monké n’lo’. What is she saying? The wordings are obviously in her Quidah, Benin Republic Yoruba. The Oyo-Yoruba in me has no difficulty in situating the root of the lyrics in one of her mum’s folksongs, ‘Ori Ori o Olajumoke nlo…’ There is a story behind that song. And this is where I am going. The folksong rose to meet me when I read the tweets I started this piece with.
The ‘Olajumoke’ song is a lyricised Yoruba folk story about the consequences of rash choices. It says that if you are going to choose a husband or wife, open your eyes, the inner and the outer. The dude you are dying to have may be an empty tin (agolo/pangolo), an àgbá òfìfo (empty barrel).
The story goes that Olajumoke was the most beautiful girl in the village and she knew it. Suitors came after suitors. None was handsome enough to match the taste of the fussy, finicky damsel.
One bright sunny day, a very handsome young man sauntered into the marketplace. The dude is a complete stranger, the type the clairvoyant would see and describe as a beautiful snake. The enchanting young man’s out-of-this-world elegance charmed Olajumoke. The strangeness of his person and his suspicious entry did not alarm Olajumoke. They instead combined to disarm her. She melted and commenced a session of comely stalking, and followed the love of her life up and down the market.
The sun was going down; buying and selling was over. Bobo Handsome commenced his exit from the market but noticed this beautiful girl following him. He asked why. Olajumoke broke all rules and protocols of village romance. She toasted the unknown man of uncommon allure. “Let us be husband and wife.” The strange man was forthright. He couldn’t marry her. “I am Orí (head), a complete stranger here. My place is beyond the Blue Sea (Odò Aró) and even far after the Red Sea (Odò Èjè). You can see that we cannot be husband and wife.”
Because love is blind, Olajumoke would have none of what the stranger was saying. Remember Angélique’s line:
“Ifé ayé ilé /Igbadoun foun ayé (Love in this world is strong/ It is pleasure for the world)”.
The lady of beauty insisted she would follow the strange man to wherever on earth. Then Orí, the young man, lunged into a burst of songs. “Leave me/ If you don’t turn back, we will get to the Sea of indigo/ If you don’t leave, we will reach the Sea of blood…”
The lady of our story did not heed the warnings, neither did she contemplate a change of resolve. She must marry this man of means and colour. That was how she followed a complete stranger on a journey of love. It was a long trek across daylight and moonlight. Then, they reached and crossed the Blue Sea. Soon, they reached and crossed the Red Sea. Then, things moved very fast for the lovey-dovey girl. It turned out that everything that gave the man elegance was borrowed. He started dropping the parts one by one where he got them. He started with his arms, and then his legs. The spirits that loaned them to him got back their properties. Then the torso, the flesh, the hairs and the nails. Every minute part was a borrowed item and the lender got back their properties. Orí is no longer what we call head. What he is is one ugly, scary skull. Now, beautiful girl knew she was in deep trouble. She is married to a Skull – deathly and deadly. She no do again. She told Orí but the ex-handsome man said it was too late; their romance was till death do them part.
Skull did what captors do with their victims. To ensure his ‘wife’ did not escape, Orí decided to ‘bell’ her with waist beads. Each time beautiful Olajumoke attempted to run away, the beads alerted the husband, jingling: “Ori Ori o Olajumoke nlo (Skull, Skull, Olajumoke is running away).” How did this girl get back her freedom? Did she ever get a reprieve? Well, the conclusions are as varied as the storytellers and where they belong.
How Olajumoke chose her husband is the way we choose our leaders. The signs are always there that the masquerade we are costuming will most certainly snatch the singlet we have as our only garment. Like Mr. Skull, they do not hide who they are. The parts that make up their bodies of intelligence are unreal; they are borrowed. The only parts that are truly theirs are the fingers – for counting billions.
“Omo eni kò sè’dí bèbèrè” was the battle cry of Tinubu’s campaigners in Yorubaland last year. Everything was reduced to beads (ìlèkè) and bottoms (ìdí). Any Yoruba person who campaigned against the child of the house was a bastard. We asked the past why it invented (ìlèkè ìdí) (waist beads) for girls only. The past told us it was for reasons of beauty – rounded hips, slim waists, etc. We asked what else? We are told the beads also tell which girl is chaste and which is not – or likely to be not. The loose loosen their waists; they walk and roll the beads pushing the world into libidinous wars. Where such is seen, waywardness robs such girls of parental adornments. That was why some of us insisted in 2023 that not all omo and their big bottoms deserved the land’s ìlèkè. But they said our mouths smelt bad. What did we know?
The reason we talk today is the reason we counseled yesterday against replacing destroyers with predators. We said last year do not vote for election, vote for structure. Let us break down this house and rebuild it so that we can all be safe. “It is very difficult, indeed almost impossible, to maintain liberty in a republic that has become corrupt or to establish it there anew” (Machiavelli). We ignored structure and everyone gave their electoral waist beads to their own child. Votes were reduced to abject ornaments for voluptuous behinds. Machiavelli wrote again, “people are often misled to desire their own ruin.”
When Sani Abacha took over the government in 1993, people clapped for the kingmaker who had made himself king. They said he was a wrong-righter. When by 1994 it became clear Abacha was determined to sit still on the June 12 election and the mandate it conferred, MKO Abiola went philosophical: Ìlèkè tó sò’dí òpòló ni ejò gbé wò yí o (a string of beads is found to be too large for Toad’s waist, Snake now goes for it). It is the same today. Check toad, check snake, measure their waists, solve the riddle.
Some regime backers, last week, told the newspaper columnist to stop his criticisms of the president and his bumbling presidency. “Provide solutions,” the persons yelled in forwarded messages. Well, the columnist did not campaign last year to be beaded with power. The columnist’s duty is to tell the king that he is naked. If the naked, his clothiers and courtiers do not know the solution to the nakedness, then, what else is there to say other than sing in musician Lagbaja’s voice: “Mo sorri fun gbogbo yin l’okookan.”
I am not done with Angélique Kidjo and the interview in which she spoke the words I quoted earlier. It is in the 29 June, 2023 edition of The Telegraph of the U.K. In her words is a warning to the ‘victorious’ to know how very slippery the mountaintop is. The powerful who think they stand firm and therefore could betray the ground that holds their ladder should hear out Angélique: “I didn’t get here because I decided to be number one. I got here because people decided to listen to me. The people who put you up here, well, they can always pull you down.” Wisdom. But ‘they’ won’t listen. Their ears are like Ori’s body parts – borrowed – and collected back by the lenders.
