Joey’s Chronicles Of A Lagos Ajebutter: “Where Went Ajegunle Music?”

Growing up in the serene suburbs of Port Harcourt, I have been privileged to listen to a plethora of music. We started out with Dad blaring whatever he saw fit as music from a dusty weird-sounding gramophone. My father was a hippie in every sense, so we had a fair share of Dean Martins, Frank Sinatra, The Beatles, Elvis Presley, and my all-time favorite; ABBA.

I ran around with diapers and a belly bloated full with choice foods and sang with a small voice;

♫“She is the dancing queen, young and free, only seventeen…”♫. Perhaps that is the not-so-hidden reason why I’m a modern day romantic. A forlorn relic of times past.

With time though, boy band Westlife and their sensual, heart-stopping music replaced them. Then came Hip hop, and R&B, but what still beats me every time I look back with nostalgic delight is the sudden emergence of Ajegunle Music.

Daddy Showkey, that eccentric performer with a long-lasting need for a haircut, and a voice that came across with wit and conviction, those weed-smoking Danfo Drivers; Mad Melon & Mountain black then came ahead to steal the show, making us all sing like our lives depended on it.

As a kid, one of my dear wishes was to move to Lagos, find those Ajegunle singers, hang out, and listen to them give me a live performance of their ‘Danfo-Driverish songs. Now I’m all grownup and burly, by some twist of fate, I found myself in Lagos, having a lot of time on my hands. I quickly proceeded to the famous Ajegunle to find me my singing stars.

There my mental bubble burst. Everybody in Ajegunle is a singer. The cart-pusher harbors distant dreams of thrilling stadia. The guy who hangs by the street corner and tries to pick your pocket has visions of being the next big musical sensation. The streets are dirty, the people coarse (with all due respect. I speak of the stereotype), and the bars, crowded at night. The women are willing, and the sex…no comments.

I didn’t find my singers. All I could get was a life of toil, budding ambition, and banal human hustle. No Daddy Showkey. No Mad Melon & Mountain Black. I went back home feeling like the kid who prayed for a dancing Unicorn, but got a malnourished pony.

My dad will be happy. He’ll look me in the eye, with an old mischievous glint, and smile gracefully. Deep down he’ll rather I leave the harsh Ajegunle music and join him in:

♫“She is the dancing queen, young and free, only seventeen…”♫. Yuck!

See you next Tuesday. Peace and Rose Petals.