The sad old man and his guitar who performs and begs at street corners of Lagos

“Good evening Sir,”

I offered a greeting as I moved tables and sat opposite the man and his guitar.

Man and Guitar. That was what attracted me as I stepped out of the club, sick of the loud music, the bad performances and the strong smell of alcohol, mixed with the perspiration from the dancing bodies and the air conditioning.

This was no ordinary night. It was a Friday, one of those days when I feel like I deserve to turn up at night. I had worked long hour shifts at Pulse, achieved all of my targets for the week, and found new ways to become a better journalist. The weekend was here, and here I was in front of a club.

But I wasn’t clubbing at the moment. Something else had pulled me away from my Hennessy, friends and the ladies. I was outside, chasing the sound of a strange man who played his guitar, and begged for alms from people who would rather spend a fortune on the overpriced drinks in the club than appreciate raw art which called out to them in front of the club.

Elysium Night Club on the Lagos Island was popular for its abundance of commercial sex workers. They were everywhere. From the adjoining streets, down to the entrance of the club, they hung around in scant clothing, which served to serve up their assets. Front back, left right, they strolled, staring seductively at anyone and everyone.

Sex was huge business here. But I didn’t care. A friend of mine who worked with Hennessy was throwing a party at the club. There were lights, cameras and plenty of action. Two artistes had been contracted to show up and offer performances of their hit songs. Humblesmith and Koker.

The choice of these two artistes was informed. Humblesmith had scored his smash hit single, ‘Osinachi’ remix featuring Davido, which was just peaking in Lagos, and had everyone downloading it to their playlist. He had the new wave on lock, as everyone wanted to associate with the new. Koker on the other hand, was enjoying the success of ‘Kolewerk’, after earlier hitting the road with another single ‘Do something’. These artistes were perfect for the night. They had popular singles, which was enough to attract a crowd and interrupt the DJ’s set. But not too much to disturb the flow of the music.

I and my friends had arrived, danced, drank and watched them perform. During Humblesmith’s performance of ‘Jukwese’, a single, which failed to fly, I felt jaded and uncomfortable. So I stepped outside for some fresh air. That decision was one of the best I have ever taken, although when it happened, I had no idea.

Outside the club was bustling. A couple of prostitutes called out to me.

“Boss, we are here for you. Fine Oga, let us move na,”

“Thank you pretty ladies, but I’m good,” I responded and enjoyed the flow of fresh air and the sanity that was lacking inside the club.

And then came the strange music which I began to hear outside the club. It arrived slowly, and majestically, like some passionate woman who was intent on savoring a new romance. I heard a string, a voice, some melody, and then the song unraveled. It was nothing like I have heard before. There was beauty in the melody, and experience in the way it harmonized with the percussion from the guitar. But the voice that carried the lyrics and melody, was advanced and rich, and mixed with an undertone of sadness.

That sadness threatened to spill over and overpower the melody, but it never did. Although it continued to struggle, altering the melody with an infusion of emotion. The product of this struggle, was bitter-sweet. An experience in music, but also a lesson in sadness conveyed by art.

I couldn't take this no longer. I needed to know more about this, so I went searching for answers.

I found my answer in the shape of an advanced man and his box guitar. The source of the sound was very perplexing. This was a man who looked in his mid-sixties, wore a checkered shirt, pants and Converse snickers. He held onto his guitar with love and plucked the strings expertly, backed by many years of experience. His face and skin told many stories of exposure to the sun, countless years of performance in the sun, and when he sang, his voice croaked and crooned at the same time.

He was performing outside with no audience. In front of him was a plate, which signaled that this was his way of seeking for money. Truthfully, with his scarce equipment, he put up a more satisfying performance than Humblesmith and Koker combined. He was a maestro of the guitar, and a master of vocals, but here he was depending on the goodwill of people outside the club.

No one payed him any attention.

“My name is B. Diana Jones,I’m a professional musician. I specialize in playing the guitar” he tells me proudly, as I hand him a N1000 note and inquired. I was the only one who had listened and came forward to him. His collection plate, which was conspicuous in front of him, was empty. My latest contribution, was the only contribution for the evening. His modus operandi was to turn busy ears to listening ears, and then to friendly ears, and then to friendly cash.

At the moment, I was the only one he had succeeded in pulling in.

“Do you know I toured with Fela? And played for the Mandators?”

“Really?”

“Yes. I also did the “Rat Race” and “Crises” albums with the Mandators.”

The Mandators, led by the charismatic Victor Essiet, have long been one of Nigeria's best kept secrets and reggae bands in the 70s and 80s. Thrilling stadium crowds of over 80,000 people, their performances are legendary across different continents. They have had several releases in Africa, but their most popular   and the massive LP, "Crisis ," which went platinum for sales beyond half a million.

Victor's dedication and perseverance paid off in 1979, when someone he knew, financially backed him to record the Mandators' first album, "Sunrise." Three years later, the Mandators released "Imagination," an album for which he toured, with a then unknown guitarist named Majek Fashek.

After a three year hiatus, the Mandators released "Crisis," which swept the country like wildfire. Released on Polygram/Nigeria label, it was one of the first big commercial hits for African Reggae in Nigeria. Following "Crisis," the Mandators recorded three more records: "Rat Race," "Rebel" and "Storm." It is the highlights from these three albums that comprised their first US release in 1994 (Heartbeat Records), "Power of the People: Nigerian Reggae," which was followed by "Crucial" in 1998 (Mystic Records) the group's first American produced CD and the second U.S. release.

Some of their most prominent works that has re­mained evergreen in the mind of Reggae lovers include, ‘Crisis’, ‘Rise to the top’, ‘Nation and the people’, ‘Youths Awake’ etc. Victor’s subsequent relocation to the USA at a point has been responsible for their long absence in the music scene. In 2015, in an interview, he promised to revive the Nigerian fading Reggae culture.

But B Diana Jones career has not been revived. Even though he has had a hand in some of the greatest live albums that have ever been recorded.

“I played the Feladey (Felix Odey) “Watershed” album (1990), I played with Christie Essien-Igbokwe’s Gold Train Orchestra, and I finally played with Fela Anikulakpo Kuti, with whom I travelled the world extensively.”

He talks fondly about the good times and describes Fela in detail. “Playing with Fela was one of the best things that happened to me. With Fela I was able to travel the globe. We went to so many places. Europe, France, America…I toured extensively with Fela. I left him in 1991, because I wanted to further my career.

“I had paid my dues, I played 3 or 4 albums with him, and I decided to move on.”

Music is what Jones believes he can do. That’s all he has ever known, and he continues to push the art, regardless of what comes financially or not. After decades performing at the highest level and contributing to some of the best albums ever released in the history of Nigerian music, he is unrewarded, and struggles for basic survival.

Together with his guitar, he moves around Lagos, setting up personal makeshift stages at street corners and serenading passers-by with his talent. Just like what he did to attract me this evening, he has done this all around Lagos, performing and depending on the goodwill of a few to get by in life.

When he is not performing at street corners, Jones spends time writing music, and teaching the guitar to willing learners. I ask him about his daily earnings at the street corners, and he hesitates. His body language showed discomfort, but I insisted. “Please Sir, I really need this to tell your story.”

He obliged. “Sometimes I make up to N7000, sometimes up to N10000. There is no fixed amount. Sometimes, I make less than that, sometimes more than that.”

But he has ambitions. Jones has recorded a number of songs for an album, which might never see the light of the day. Sponsorship is all that he needs and he is hopeful that one day, fortune will smile on his efforts. He repeats that to me in different forms, his desperation palpable with every word he says. But he can’t wait for ever. He uses part of his meagre earnings to continue his recording and pay for studio time.

“I have been surviving on this, it helps me to get into the studio, pay my session fee, and record some of my songs, buy some clothes and stuff, and move on from there.” He says.

This money is never truly enough. B Diana Jones lives from hand to mouth, lacks long term plans, and is focused daily on survival. He is a music nomad, who continuously journeys to make ends meet.

Jones reveals that he is a father of 6 children, with all of them in the USA. He conceived them on his travels to the US during his touring days, and none of them have ever visited Nigeria. They have no communication with him, and they might not know that he is alive.

But he plans to visit them, during a planned return to the US. But that’s dependent on the success of his music. If he becomes successful, then he can leave. But his chances are bleak. He has no sponsor.

“I really want to make it at home, before I even think of going back to the US. I want to be known in Nigeria.”

We continue to talk, and he regales me with more stories of his tours, his recording highlights, and how much Nigeria has been changed by the internet. Turns out he is one of the older heads who frown upon the new generation artistes who are backed by production software, and have no real talent in music.

“I don’t think it is really good (for the culture) because most of these guys called artistes, they can’t read music, and they can’t play instruments. They just believe that they can go to the studio, have someone put on software, they can record and just go.”

Regardless of whether he finally finds his breakthrough, Jones will never retire. He finds joy in performing live music, and although the current financial rewards are not optimal, he says he will never leave the art.

During our conversation, in the background, Humblesmith comes on again. This time he is performing the popular ‘Osinachi’. There are shouts from the club, which filter outside, and more people rush into the club hall. Humblesmith is a new generation artiste, who combines live instrumentation with software to achieve results.

This was a clear case of everyone flocking to the younger generation. Many would interpret this as a sign that the world of music has changed forever, and there are spaces nor platforms for the likes of older live performers with talent. Perhaps it’s time to call it quits? B Diana pauses as the noise rises, shakes his head ruefully, and continues.

“I can’t retire from music. Maybe until I cannot play anymore, and train many people to pick up from where I stopped. But I will play active music until I cannot play anymore.” He rounds off.

The air was heavy with the weight of his revelation. Beads of sweat had begun to gather on his brows. He looked relieved and his shoulders straightened. I figure, this was the first time he had talked to anyone in a while. I buy two beers, and after we shared some time drinking, I pled with him to play a song for me, something to warm me up, and bring back the happiness.

B Diana Jones picked up his guitar, which he had dropped during the conversation, and plucked at the strings. What followed was another sad song about his love interest who is leaving him.

“Now do you live around my street, are you a stranger, in my life…” He starts off the song. His face lights up, and that sad voice, carries the weight of many years.

We exchange numbers and I make a mental note to call him and find a sponsor. This was in May 2016.

A month later I dialled his number and it failed to connect. It has never connected. Every month, I spend two Fridays outside Elysium Night Club, hoping to see B Diana Jones again, plucking at his guitar and singing sadly. The prostitutes still come out, the weekly clubbers still come in their numbers. But not B Diana Jones. He has not showed up.

No one remembers him. No one recalls seeing him play. Not one person.

Slowly I have resigned myself to the possibility of never meeting him again in this life. But I will never forget that airy night. I will never forget the old man and his guitar, who was in a bad place, but never lost hope.