Everyone in Naija is an artist, including your father

I love to think I will make a great singer. My bathroom singing moments are worthy of Grammy and Headies nominations, and when I perform backup on some songs, it’s a bit like heaven opened itself up and rain down blessings on the children of Israel. That’s how monumental a talent, I think I am.

But I am not a singer. My voice sounds like a cross between the rejected parts of Davido and Don Jazzy. Those parts that they rejected because it sounded like the equivalent of seeds in marijuana. For people who know nothing about weed, when rolling a blunt, the seeds are thrown away, because according to Bob Marley or Lucky Dube, or Jesse Jagz, if you smoke them, you will be signing up for a ticket to pure madness. In short, you will run mental.

Back to the gist. While I have this interesting voice, I don’t consider myself a singer. And if you are like me, then congratulations, you are almost the last of a dying breed. Our type is going extinct because in Nigeria, everyone and everyone is a singer. Your mother, father, brother, sister, security guy, gym instructor, and bus conductor is low-key an artist. In fact, if you check well, your pastor has a fire mixtape, titled ‘Turnup Gospel Vol. 1.” It is filled with Christian bars about stunting on the devil, tithe chronicles and spiritual melodies. He isn’t releasing it yet because God hasn’t called him to do so. But he sha has it just behind the altar. Just in case.

I work in the music industry via the media. I am a music journalist who rolls within the music industry, trying to generate value for both musicians and you the reader. So this throws me in a lot of situations. You never really stop working as a music journalist. And that’s because everyone is a singer. Just to put it in perspective, one morning while rubbing oil from the puff-puff I just ate all over my hands (it’s a great skincare routine), the puff-puff fryer pushed me a CD. Why? Because he was a rapper, and another customer had told him that I can make him blow.

Last year, while still deceiving myself that I can be fit, I rejected five gyms in my area because they all had musicians I knew. I wanted to work-out to actual music, not politely have to do presses while someone tries to make me listen to their wack stuff. Yes, many of these guys make wack music. And I fear if I work out to them, it will make me add weight. That’s how wack it is. It kills your soul, upsets your metabolism and makes fats accumulate during work out.

But I finally found one, where there was no musician, or any guy with an ear-rings and 6 packs. There were just normal people who looked fat. I was happy until one day I walked into the gym, and my trainer was greeting me with two hands and calling me “Boss.” I was just ‘Joey’, the day before. I became uncomfortable, so I gave him wary Hall-of-fame-worthy side-eyes while I did my exercises. When I was done, I cleaned up slowly, waiting for the inevitable. He didn’t waste his opportunity.

“Boss,” he said again. “Let me play you one of my songs. I saw you talking about music on Instagram. Let’s see how we can push it together.”

I resisted the urge to shout “Jesus” Even you too!”

But I didn’t. I simply knew that this life is a pot of beans. My best friend and colleague has contested for Project Fame twice. They kicked him out twice. That’s how I kicked myself out of that gym. Condemning me to a lifetime of fat.

When my potential mother-in-law heard that I worked in music, she called her friend’s son who had grand ideas about a rap career, and told him that I was influential ‘in music’. The guy looked me in the eye like I was the saviour of his soul. One morning, during pillow-talk, my girlfriend told me she once recorded a song. But he can’t find the file to play it for me. I acted hurt, but low-key, wherever that file was, it is in the right place. Please, don’t be found.

Everybody in Nigeria is a musician. To fully appreciate this, ask yourself this question: ‘How many musicians do I personally know?’

You will be shocked be the answer to that. Your friends, teachers, mentors, uncles, pastors, and your neighbour’s dog. If you are of good behaviour and catch your mother during a good time, she will admit to being a backup singer for Fela, or tell you how low-key, how she was once a huge competitor with Onyeka Onwenu.

As for your father, don’t bother asking. I thought you already knew that King Sunny Ade jacked his shit during the 70s.