Love is easy to profess. All it takes are some few strokes of the tongue to throw together consonants, vowels and sentiments to give you the perfect sounding phrase: “I love you”.
Celebrities don't really love the late rapper
Dagrin isn’t truly loved and missed for who he was. The thought of declaring grief, and utilising it for showbusiness, that’s what is loved.
There you are. Nice and easy. That’s love in its most basic form. A whisper of words.
That’s all Dagrin gets, and that’s all he has gotten since he left this earth. For all the huff and admirable puff that celebrities feed us on social media about how much they love the late rapper, it still remains what it is. Fine words from fine people, to make us think fine of them, and their intentions.
A Nigerian celebrity is almost incapable of true selfless love. They are a lot like teenagers, relying on public acceptance and industry relevance to pick their friends and foes. Dagrin was once a force in that world. A young kid who fortune smiled on, and made a star. He blazed the trail with a brand of Hip hop that brought money and friends.
His death came as a shock to many. His fans were distraught at the thought that someone they cared about had tragically left earth, but secretly, they beat their chest from a selfish sense of loss because a good source of music had expired. Nobody truly loves a celebrity. They just love his works. Strip that figure of his good movies and songs, and they become just another man.
In celebrity circles, it is popular to give shout outs to Dagrin. “Shout out to my boy Dagrin who put us on the map”. I have heard that line used a million times by a celebrity on stage. The first time I did, I experienced a warm shaft of emotion pierce through my cynical heart, and I said a silent prayer for the departed. Something short and sweet.
One other achievement of that particular 'Dagrin-loving' celebrity on stage that night was to convert me. He appealed to my emotion, and I fell. I found myself cheering him on. He was a good man. He showed compassion to a fallen comrade, and so, deserves my support.
But wasn’t that the point of it all? Hadn’t he succeeded in finding a way to milk out an extra fan, and feed his energy? Thereby helping himself onto a good outing onstage. I had fallen victim to a brand of pop propaganda, and the feeling is worse than being duped of money.
You see, that was not love. That was selfish. That was mean. That was reality. Accept it. Move on!
Dagrin’s grave has reportedly not been visited for 5 years. But we have had an eternity-worth of Dagrin tributes. If compiled, those works can be used to create endless albums. But not one of those countless singers have made the trip to Dagrin’s graveside to drop a flower, or pay for a new bucket off paint to give it a facelift.
The reason is stark: A good song about Dagrin, will make you look good and caring. If done well, and gets acceptance, it becomes a hit, thereby lining your pockets with cash. If it doesn’t become a hit, at least you can dine out on the knowledge that you did something for a dead man. You sang for him.
You selfish prick. A bucket of paint would have done more for his resting place. So would a kind call to his relatives. But none of that gets done. Instead we milk the gripping emotions from his death to further our individual endeavours.
That’s not love. It’s selfish, it’s mean, but hey, it’s real. But nobody would openly admit it. Because, it helps us sleep better at night to not think of ourselves as benefiting from a tragic death.
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