In 2009, Dr Abati bared his mind on modern Nigerian music and how it was responsible for the nation's identity crisis.
Editor’s Note: On June 22 2009, veteran journalist and then Chairman of the Editorial Board at The Guardian Newspapers Dr. Reuben Abati, wrote an opinion piece on the state of Nigerian music and how it was responsible for the nation’s identity crisis. The resultant debates and counterarguments gave different views on modern Nigerian music and its practitioners. Eight years later, Dr Abati’s article still makes for good reading; as does the rejoinder by Banky W.
You may not have noticed it: Nigeria is suffering from an identity crisis imposed on it in part by an emergent generation of irreverent and creative young Nigerians who are revising old norms and patterns. And for me nothing demonstrates this more frontally than the gradual change of the name of the country.
When Flora Shaw, Lord Lugard‘s consort came up with the name, Nigeria in 1914, she meant to define the new country by the strategic importance of the Niger River. And indeed, River Niger used to be as important to this country as the Nile was/is to Egypt.
We grew up as school children imagining stories about how Lugard in one special romantic moment, asked his mistress to have the honour of naming a new country in Africa. Something like: ‘Hello, sweetheart, what name would you rather give the new country that I am creating?’
‘Let me give it a thought? ….Awright, how about Ni-ge-ria darling?’
‘That would do. That would do. How thoughtful, my fair lady? You are forever so dependable.’
And the name stuck and it has become our history and identity. But these days, the name Nigeria is gradually being replaced by so many variants, that I am afraid a new set of Nigerians may in the immediate future not even know the correct spelling of the name of their country.
For these Nigerians whose lives revolve mostly around the internet and the blogosphere, the name Nigeria has been thrown out of the window. Our dear country is now ‘Naija’ or ‘Nija’. What happened to the ‘-eria’ that Ms Shaw must have thoughtfully included?
The new referents for Nigeria are now creeping into writings, conversations, and internet discourse. I am beaten flat by the increasing re-writing of the country’s name not only as Naija or Nija, but consider this: ‘9ja’. Or this other name for Nigeria: ‘Gidi’. There is even a television programme that is titled ‘Nigerzie’. In addition, Etisalat, a telecom company has since adopted a marketing platform that is titled: ‘0809ja’. Such mainstreaming of these new labels is alarming.
This obviously is the age of abbreviations. The emerging young generation lacks the discipline or the patience to write complete sentences or think through a subject to its logical end. It is a generation in a hurry, it feels the constraints of space so much, it has to reduce everything to manageable, cryptic forms.
This is what the e-mail and text message culture has done to the popular consciousness. Older generations of Nigerians brought up on a culture of correctness and completeness may never get used to the re-writing of Nigeria as ‘9ja’. Language is mutatory, but referring to the motherland or the fatherland in slang terms may point to a certain meaninglessness or alienation.
What’s in a name? In Africa, names are utilitarian constructs not merely labels. Even among the Ijaw where people bear such unique names as University, Conference, FEDECO, Manager, Heineken, Education, Polo, Boyloaf, Bread, College, Summit, Aeroplane, Bicycle, Internet – there is a much deeper sense to the names.
But the name Nigeria means nothing to many young Nigerians. They have no reason to respect the sanctity of the name. They don’t know Flora Shaw or Lord Lugard, and even if they do, they are likely to say as Ogaga Ifowodo does in an unforgettable poem: ‘God Punish you, Lord Lugard.’ Eedris Abdulakarim summarises the concern of young Nigerians in one of his songs when he declared: ‘Nigeria jagajaga, everything scata, scata’.
The post-modernist, deconstructive temper of emergent youth culture is even more manifest in the cynical stripping to the bones character of today’s Nigerian hip-hop. It is marked by a Grunge character that shouts: non-meaning and alienation.
On my way to Rutam House the other day, I listened at midday to a continuous stream of old musical numbers from 93.7 Radio FM. Soulful, meaningful tunes of Felix Lebarty, Chris Okotie (as he then was), Mandy Ojugbana, Christy Essien-Igbokwe, Onyeka Onwenu, Sony Okosun, Alex O, Ras Kimono, Majek Fashek, Evi Edna-Ogoli, Bongos Ikwue, Veno Marioghae, Uche Ibeto, Dora Ifudu, Mike Okri, Dizzy K. Falola, and Tina Onwudiwe.
Onyeka Onwenu sang; ‘One love, keep us together’. Veno Marioghae sang: ‘Nigeria Go Survive’. Even in the romantic offerings like Chris Okotie’s ‘I need someone, give me your love’, or Felix Lebarty’s ‘Ifeoma, Ifeoma, I want to marry you, give me your love’ and Stella Monye’s ‘Oko mi ye, duro ti mi o’, or Tina Onwudiwe’s award-winning ‘Asiko lo laye’. There was so much meaning and polish.
This was in the ’80s. That generation which sang music under its real names, not abbreviations or slangs, was continuing, after the fashion of T.S. Eliot‘s description of ‘Tradition and the Individual Talent’, a pattern of meaning that dates back to traditional African musicians and all the musicians that succeeded them: S. B. Bakare, Victor Olaiya, Fela Anikulapo-Kuti, Sunny Ade, Ebenezer Obey, Dan Maraya of Jos, Osita Osadebey, Ayinla Omowura, Victor Uwaifo, Geraldo Pino, Rex Lawson, I. K. Dairo, Haruna Ishola, Yusuf Olatunji, Inyang Henshaw, Tunji Oyelana, Bobby Benson, Tunde Nightingale, and even the later ones: Shina Peters, Dele Abiodun, Y.K. Ajao, Ayinde Barrister, Kollington Ayinla, Batile Alake, Sir Warrior, Moroccco Nwa Maduko, Orlando Owoh, Salawa Abeni, KWAM I (Arabambi 1 and please include his disciples- Wasiu Alabi Pasuma et al), Oliver de Coque (Importer and Exporter…), Ayefele, Atorise…
But there has been a terrible crisis in the construction of music. The children, grandchildren and great grandchildren of these ancestors have changed the face and identity of Nigerian music. As a rule, gospel musicians, given the nature of their form, sing meaningful lyrics, but the airwaves these days have been taken over by the children of ‘Gidi, Naija, Nija, Nigerzie and 9ja’. I listen to them too, but everyday, I struggle to make meaning out of their lyrics.
Music is about sense, sound, shape and skills. But there is an on-going deficit in all other aspects except sound. So much sound is being produced in Nigeria, but there is very little sense, shape and skills. They call it hip-hop. They try to imitate Western hip pop stars. They even dress like them. The boys don’t wear trousers on their waists: the new thing is called ‘sagging’, somewhere below the waist it looks as if the trouser is about to fall off. The women are struggling to expose strategic flesh as Janet Jackson once did.
The boys and the girls are cloaked in outlandish jewellery and their prime heroes are JaRule, Lil’Wayne, Fat Joe, P. Diddy, 50 Cents, Ronz Brown, Chris Brown, Sean Kingston, Nas, Juelz Santana, Akon, Young Jeezy, Mike Jones, T-Pain, F.L.O-RIDA, Will.I.am, Beyonce, Rihanna, Ciara, Keri Hilson, Jay-Z, Ace hood, Rick Ross, Birdman, Busta Rhymes, Cassidy, Chamillionaire, Soulja Boy, Young Joc, Kanye West, R. Kelly, Kevin Rudolph, T.I.P-king of the South, Ludacris, Plies-The real goon, The Game, Young Rox, Flow killa, Osmosis (2 sick), Flow-ssik, Raprince, Bionic, Fabulous, Jadakiss, Swiss Beatz, DJ Khaled, Maze, Yung Buck, Maino, MoBB Deep, Lloyd Banks, Olivia, Lady Gaga… Well, God Almighty, we are in your hands.
And so the most impactful musicians in Nigeria today, the ones who rule the party include the following: D’Banj, M.I, Mode Nine, Sauce kid, Naeto C, Sasha, Ikechukwu, 9ice, Bouqui, Mo’cheddah, Teeto, P-Square, Don Jazzy, Wande Coal, 2face, Faze, Black Face, Dr. Sid, D’Prince, K-Switch, Timaya, Dj-Zeez, DJ Neptune, Banky w, Big Bamo, Art quake, Bigiano, Durella, Eldee, Kelly Hansome, Lord of Ajasa, M.P., Terry Tha rapman, Weird MC, Y.Q., Da grin, kel, Roof-top Mcs, Pype, Nigga Raw, Ghetto p., Kaka, Kaha, Terry G, Ill Bliss, Zulezoo, Pipe, DJ Jimmy Jatt, X-project, Konga, Gino, Morachi…
Well, the Lord is God. These are Nigerian children who were given proper names by their parents. Ikechukwu bears his real name. But who are these other ones who have since abandoned their proper names?
For example, 9ice‘s real name is Abolore Akande, (what a fine name!), 2face (Innocent Idibia), Sauce Kid (Babalola Falemi), D’Banj (Dapo Oyebanjo), Banky W (Bankole Willington), P-Square (Peter and Paul), MI (Jude Abaga), Timaya (Enetimi Alfred Odom), Sasha (Yetunde Alabi), Weird MC (Adesola Idowu). But why such strange names? They don’t sing. They rap. Most of them don’t play instruments, they use synthetic piano.
At public functions, they mime. They are not artists, they perform. They are not necessarily composers, they dance. The more terrible ones can’t even sing a correct musical note. They talk. And they are all businessmen and women.
They are more interested in commerce and self-advertisement, name recognition, brand extension and memory recall! They want a name that sells, not some culturally conditioned name that is tied down to culture and geography. But the strange thing is that they are so successful. Nollywood has projected Nigeria, the next big revelations are in hip hop.
Despite the identity crisis and the moral turpitude that we find in Nigeria’s contemporary hip-hop, the truth is that it is a brand of music that sells. Nigeria’s hip hop is bringing the country so much international recognition. All those strange names are household names across the African continent, so real is this that the phrase ‘collabo’ is now part of the vocabulary of the new art. It speaks to an extension of frontiers.
In Nigeria, it is now possible to hold a party without playing a single foreign musical track, the great grand children of Nigerian music are belting out purely danceable sounds which excites the young at heart. But the output belongs majorly to the age of meaningless and prurience. The lyrics says it all.
Rooftop MCs sings for example: ‘Ori mi wu o, e lagi mo’. This is a very popular song. But all it says is: ‘My head is swollen, please hit it with a log of wood.’ X-Project sings: ‘Lori le o di gonbe (2x), e so fun sisi ologe ko ya faya gbe, ko ya faya gbe, file, gbabe, se be, bobo o ti e le, wo bo nse fe sa hale hale niwaju omoge, ha, lori le odi gonbe, …..sisi ologe ki lo di saya o, so fun mi ki lofe, o wa on fire o….’Now, what does this mean in real terms?
But let’s go to Naeto C: ‘Kini big deal, kini big deal, sebi sebi we’re on fire’, or D’Banj: ‘My sweet potato, I wanna make you wife, I wanna make you my wife o, see I no understand o, cause I dey see well well, but dey say love is blind, see I never thought I will find someone like you that will capture my heart and there will be nothing I can do….’
Yes, we are in the age of sweet potato. And so Artquake sings: ‘E be like fire dey burn my body, e je ki n fera, oru lo n mu mi. Open your hand like say you wan fly away. Ju pa, ju se, ka jo ma sere, alanta, alanta.’
And here is Zulezoo, another popular Nigerian musical team: ‘Daddy o, daddy, daddy wen you go for journey, somebody enter for mummy’s house, person sit down for mummy bed, person push mummy, mummy push person, mummy fall for bed yakata, daddy, o daddy, the man jus dey do kerewa kerewa…kerewa ke’ And Dj-Zeez: ‘Ori e o 4 ka sibe, ori e o 4 ka sibe, 4 ka sibe, 4 ka sibe’. And MI: ‘Anoti, anoti, anoti ti, anoti titi.’ And Konga: ‘Baby konga so konga, di konga, ileke konga, ju pa pa, ju pa, konga, ju pa pa, ju pa, sibe…’ And 9ice: ‘Gongo a so, kutupu a wu, eni a de ee, aji se bi oyo laari; oyo o se bi baba enikan, kan, I be double now, aye n lo, a mi to o, gongo a so, oti so o, e wo le e wo enu oko…’ Or Tony Tetuila: ‘U don hit my car, oyinbo repete, u don hit my car o‘. Or Weird MC: ‘Sola lo ni jo, lyrics lori gangan, awa lo ni jo’.
Sheer drivel. So much sound, little sense. Is this the future? Maybe not.
Most of the music being produced now will not be listenable in another five years and this perhaps is the certain fate of commercial art that is driven by branding, show and cash. But we should be grateful all the same for the music, coming out of Nigeria also at this time in the soul, gospel, hip, hop genre: the music that is of Femi Anikulapo-Kuti, Lagbaja, Asa (There is fire on the mountain/and no one seems to be on the run/ there is fire on the mountain now…’), Ara, Sam Okposo, Dare, Sunny Neji, Infinity (now a broken up team), African China, Alariwo of Afrika…
We suffer nonetheless in music as in the national nomenclature, an identity crisis. A country’s character is indexed into its arts and culture, eternal purveyors of tones and modes. Nigerian youths now sing of broken heads, raw sex, uselessness and raw, aspirational emotionalism. A sign of the times? Yes, I guess.
I find further justification in the national anthem, many versions of which now exist. I grew up in this same country knowing only one way of singing the national anthem: from ‘Nigeria we hail thee’ to ‘Arise o Compatriots’. The singing of the national anthem is supposed to be a solemn moment. Arms clasped by the side, a straight posture, and the mind strictly focused on the ideals of patriotism and nationalism. Stillness. Nobody moves. And the national song is rendered in an unchanging format. But not so any longer.
There are so many versions of the Nigerian national anthem these days. Same lyrics but different musical rhythms. I have heard the national anthem sung in juju, in fuji, in hip hop, in Ishan’s igbagbolemini, in acapella mode, even reggae. I attended an occasion once, the rendition of the national music was so enthralling, people started dancing. Even the photographers and cameramen danced with their cameras. For me that was the ultimate expression of the people’s cynicism.
The prevalent mood is as expressed by Dj-Zeez: ‘Ori e 4 ka sibe, 4 ka sibe’: an epigrammatic, onomatopoeic, market-driven diminution of language as vehicle and sign. What kind of people are we? A dancing nation? Dancing and writing away our frustrations and caring little about sense, in this country that is now known as ‘Naija, Nija, 9ja, Nigerzie, Gidi?’
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