Our Lady of St. Bottles Cathedral…by Chris Ogunlowo

By Chris Ogunlowo

The aisle stretches into a mid-section, seeming shy of the altar. It bears a rug that has crooked patterns. As though in defiance, the rug stretches beyond the pews, beyond the offertory box, beyond the podium, and settles in front of an antique candle stand. The stand is composed of bottle-shaped receptacles. Wax from the candles collide with the floor and dissolve into millions of mini drops of wax. Flickers from the candles compete with hundreds of chandeliers showering disco lights into the sanctuary. A looker is at their mercy to discern who the subject in the giant portrait hanging in the altar is.

A woman, obviously. Perhaps, the Holy Mary. Maybe the Mona Lisa. But these guesses quickly fade in the face of obvious contrariness. The subject is without a halo and without a famous child. She beams a smile wider but less enigmatic than that famous avatar. One notices an ample display of bosom, a careful outflow of breasts from a patterned blouse. She has been smiling, for God-knows-how-long, and with a pose that appears more mischievous than infectious.

These are not pews. Only round tables and chairs as in a beer parlour, and they are arranged to keep focus on the giant portrait. Only the choir’s seats are arranged in a semi-circle. Today’s service will be typical. A congregation gathers, exchanging pleasantries and taking their places at the round tables.

An agogo suddenly launches into a routine that alerts other instruments and the congregation.

Our lady strolls in from the altar, hype man in tow. She looks trimmer than her likeness in the giant portrait. She takes a position close to the choristers and gestures for the instrumentalists to take the music low. In a quick rendition, she acknowledges the congregation and welcomes them to St. Bottles Cathedral. She acknowledges the night’s sponsors whose advertising adorns the walls. Orijin Bitters is the biggest sponsor tonight, its banners the size of billboards. At the entrances are roll-up banners of other brands.

As usual, her performance begins with a gospel song. Acknowledging God is necessary because the next songs are, by conservative standard, abominable. But the Christian God is easy to patronize.

St. Janet is a juju musician. Her brand of juju music is a brew of common and gospel songs, spoofed with sexual and humourous Yoruba lyrics. Whoever is judging, this is an art form of a sort. Gospel meets perversion. She combines elements of juju into a form that impresses in a contemporary sense. Her musical adventure, perhaps inventiveness, sometimes allows her to blend into highlife and fuji.

Anyone familiar with juju, especially that of I.K Dairo, Tunde Nightingale, King Sunny Ade, recognizes the compulsory roles of certain musical instruments, especially the guitar and the trumpet. The guitar ensures a good contract between strumming fingers and appreciative ears. The trumpet not only adds effects to the music but in its solo exhibitions may also transpose a listener to a spiritual experience. For St. Janet, her guitarists and saxophonists get really playful. And true to the Yoruba musical tradition, a talking drum also plays a role. It sometimes dashes into quick solos, which the hype man interprets.

Time will tell if St. Janet will rank alongside juju greats. Her devotion, so far, is to her lyrics than the musical form. And she seems unapologetic about it. In an environment with much conservative pretentiousness, St. Janet’s music easily raises eyebrows. She is daring. She makes passersby look uncomfortable as suggestive lyrics belch from loud speakers across the streets. Some people take the joke and repress laughter.

St. Janet music is not for moral vigilantes. Her themes are mostly about man-woman relationships, sexual intercourse, genitals, and making funny commentaries on everyday life. She goes straight for the shock value, albeit laced with humour. Where Obesere is the captain of naughty lyrics, St. Janet is the General.

Admittedly, her mention of sexual parts can make even the staunchest liberal minds flinch in embarrassment. And with Yoruba, a language that impresses with sensational descriptions of genitals – ask Yoruba speakers; she feeds listeners with a cocktail of sex-alluding words and metaphors. ‘Vagina,’ in lettering, this writer thinks, is visually laborious and vocally unmelodious by comparison to ‘Òbò’. Again, ask Yoruba speakers. The latter sounds naughty from a Yoruba tongue. Look at it again and notice the three perfect orifices. One word programmed with such raunchiness. Left to this choir, òbò should be mentioned with such abandon. Maybe this writer is just silly.

Now God is appeased. The congregation is in the spirit. St. Janet serves a sexual homily that sends the audience into frenzy. Alcohol fuels the gyration too.

One wonders if she is attempting a feminist agenda, perhaps unconsciously. These types of lyrics aren’t easily associated with women, at least not in this clime. And she doesn’t give a damn. A culture that adores Victor Olaiya for the original ‘Mofe Muyan’ track with its brazen mention of breast (breast, ọyàn
in Yoruba) and a world that pardons Flavour N’abania for its creative remix of Rex Lawson’s ‘Sawale’ for his ‘Nwa Baby (Ashawo)’ hit, can embrace a woman acting alike. If it’s just an artistic endeavour for her, she does it well.

She wipes some sweat now. Her confidence dominates the cathedral. No one dares lay siege against her creativity. She has just stirred the crowd with another verse, this time scolding ladies who aren’t adventurous with penises. The crowd of mostly men is in a comedic heaven. She has a special fondness for the phallus. If inspiration comes to her, she might commission a wooden phallus to be installed in the altar. Its sight will be an interesting spectacle for members and visitors.

The hype man is having a field day. His boss is in her full element. He doesn’t match Yinka Ayefele’s hype man in creative interjections, but he keeps his game naughtier, especially when interpreting the talking drum.

And o’boy, she’s a hustler too. She exchanges the ‘abominable’ for some good money and performs at clubs. Her concert banners are on Lagos joints. CDs of her live performances are in Lagos traffic. (This writer is a collector).

She probably only knows why she uses Christian elements in her art. She’s a saint. She chants Hallelujah. She borrows songs from the church. She welcomes everyone to a cathedral, a fictitious edifice, as fictitious as the one this writer paints. If these elements are for shock and marketing reasons, it works.

To her fans, her art is fun and bold. She might not be nationally banned or haunted by a fatwa. She might not win a Grammy or get listed in Rolling Stones. But for those who appreciate her art, deviance and humour, she’s already a winner.

Hallelujah somebody.

*Ogunlowo is a writer, creative director and principal partner at Kwirkly, a growing advertising agency.

Twitter: @chrisogunlowo