What really happens when a Nigerian musician dies?

Musicians die every day. It’s a fact of life.

We Nigerians have watched as our best artistes and music creators die. We have seen people who have worked hard all their lives at providing their fellow Nigerians with joy and emotions via the art of music pass on from life.

It’s unexpected and grave, But it is on record that every year, one Nigerian musician sadly, passes away. In 2013, it was Goldie. Kefee passed away in 2014, Dan Maraya departed in 2015, and 2016 had OJB Jezreel and Nomoreloss kick the bucket. Eric Arubayi sadly passed on in 2017.

Every year the cold clutches of death throws the industry into mourning.

But what happens to a typical Nigerian musician after he/she dies? What does the industry do about it? How do we live with it, and deal with the reality of our loss? Do we immortalise our fallen stars?

In Nigeria. When a star falls, they generally linger in our minds for a while, and then they truly pass on as new events take over the news of their demise.

If an artiste dies today. The news screams about the death. Multiple platforms (Pulse inclusive) move to commoditize this death, and meet the needs of thousands of fans who are curious about the death of this individual, and many more. The life of this artiste is analysed, cut up and served in bits and parts to the public.

New information about the cause of death, commentary, theories, conspiracies and many more are milked, edited and published, before the family even gets to find out that they have lost a loved one.

As the news of the death spreads, there are numerous mentions on social media, a trend on Twitter, and many more. Strangers and celebrities jump on the bandwagon to celebrate you in your death. Something they never did when you were hale, hearty, and kicking.

“RIP”

“Rest In Peace brother”

“We will meet again”

And if you the dead man are lucky, you will find someone who will dedicate a short story to your name, and pray for your departed soul.

Funeral arrangements will be made, and on the eve of the burial, there will hold a wake keeping event, where people come to celebrate the your life, drink and eat over your demise and sing hymns and religious songs. If you are Muslim, you are laid to rest.

The next day, there’s a burial. The media is out in full swing, the cameras are clicking, your body is being transported to the venue, and the media will bring coverage. There’s a burial in town after all, and everyone must get a part of the sobering moment, or show up to look like they really care about the people of the industry.

And then you get buried, and your memory begins to fade. If you have worked in life to create a solid discography that is both timeless and revolutionary, you will be rewarded by the multiple listens and screams that you are the greatest artiste that ever lived.

See Fela. He created Afrobeat, and immortalise a genre of music, which continues to serve the continent with raw material.

If you are not Fela Kuti, you are on a long thing. After your death, people will seldom remember you. The industry and culture will move on, and your name will continue to be spoken in small pockets of people, but it will slowly be eroded from our minds, via work and the vagaries of existence.

As for your music, it will be picked apart for substance, and if any is found, it will be replicated and used in generating value. But that’s only if they are worth anything in terms of content. If they aren’t, then the lack of any good material will simply hasten the departure of people from your name.

There’s also the part about your music, copyrights, and who should own it. Ideally, all the deals you signed with any company handling your music is still valid. Your legal representatives will continue to handle your work and provide monitoring and disbursement until the duration of your contracts.

But unless you live a will behind detailing how your royalties would be split amongst your survivors, then there would be a problem. Many Nigerian families with great singers have the benefit of having had the artist make a will to guide their beneficiaries.

But in the cases where there haven’t been any will, there’s bound to be trouble. The survivors begin a long, often-ugly battle to split up proceeds. Sometimes, they come to an understanding, but they mostly extend the fight until a victor emerges via the courts, or a settlement is reached.

For your legacy, all successful artistes give birth to plenty of copycats. And the exit of a great artiste leaves room for someone else to attempt to fill those shoes. The wannabe artiste simply strips his predecessor’s work of his most defining elements, incorporates it into their craft and begins the push.

Sometimes, this does not happen, but the fact that there are similarities, no matter how broad, generates comparisons amongst fans and the media. In some quarters, Olamide is still seen as a Dagrin replacement. Phyno is regarded as the man who benefitted the most from the passing of MC Loph.

These arguments, although they rise and die over time, they never truly go away. And that’s because in Nigeria, people seldom give credits to the source of their inspiration. Artists in this country generally despise the apportioning of credit due to the wrong notion that it would hurt their larger-than-life genius status among fans.