I
Taye Akande Currency, the psychi-artiste from Foko, is presently in the eye of the storm. He has been the subject of scorn and attacks on social media and even at different places across Ibadan due to what turned out as the highlight of his performance at the Olubadan coronation ceremony on Friday, where he sang: “Were la fi n wo were!” – meaning “madness is the antidote for insanity.”
I was part of the Mapo crowd, and I think his performance was problematic. But I do not agree that he was a complete flop as projected in most of the single-story narratives online.
To be fair, he had his moments of artistic glory (typically now forgotten and overshadowed by that moment of psychi-art-ric gymnastic), but it will be difficult to contextualise what played out without a full appreciation of the eclectic mix of sounds that define Ibadan musical taste across generations and among different demographies and social classes.
So first, some contexts.
II
In the 1980s, Gbejo Kamoru, the rising talent whose sun eclipsed in a flash of light, was the rave of the moment across downtown Ibadan, from Idikan through Inalende, O’oopo Yeosa, Ayeye, Abebi, Agbeni, Oje, and environs. Like Taye Currency is considered the numero uno of Ibadan-based Fuji artistes today in terms of rave and popularity, Gbejo was quite the marquee name of his era. Although there were notable voices such as Wasiu Ayinla Karashi, Isiaka Iyanda Sawaba, and Rashidi Ayinde Merenge whose popularity even spread to Iwo, parts of Lagos, and several places outside Ibadan, Gbejo, with his raunchy lyrics and Saje flavour, enjoyed mass appeal on the streets of Ibadan, especially among the hoi polloi.
And Kalarunmo, oh, Kalarunmo—–the nightingale with head-bursting falsetto… he was the yin to Gbejo Kamoru’s yang. If Alao Malaika’s backup singer, Showkey, or Saidi Osupa’s Kokoro Taofiki have their names in Fuji lore today, Kalarunmo was their progenitor. Unfortunately, just like Ilori Lateef (Fuji Tutuye), whose art also teetered on the edge of lewdity before him, Gbejo died suddenly at the height of his glory, paving the way for Abass Akande Obesere of Jalaruru ancestry and other disciples.
But interestingly, even when he was alive, despite Gbejo’s immense popularity across Ibadan (Sikiru Ayinde Barrister’s “to ba je s’aje lo l’aye” line was presumed to be in response to the wild popularity of Gbejo’s progenitors and latter-day disciples in the House of lewdity), he was rarely considered the favourite of Ibadan upper, royal class. His art was best appreciated by restless, younger folks in the inner crevices of the city during street carnivals, Odun Egun, and related festivities. It would have been inconceivable to have Gbejo perform as the “major” artiste at the coronation of an Olubadan. At best, he would have been invited as part of a troupe of artistes, specifically to cater to the taste of his audience, to give them a sense of belonging at the ceremony. And that, far from being considered segregational, has its justification: Gbejo just didn’t have the artistic range of appealing to royalty, despite his immense gift and street credibility.
In the 1970s and 1980s, when the discourse shifted towards royalty, relatively older artistes deploying Sekere and Dundun with measured temperament, folkloric sound with deeper messages, and slower musical tempo had the ears of Ibadan elite.
Think Tatalo Alamu. Think Amuda Agboluaje. Think Dauda Akanmu Epo-Akara.
In fact, among artistes who had easy access to the upper class and crème de la crème of Ibadan royalty in the history of the city, Tatalo Alamu stood out. And that privilege wasn’t without basis or substance; Tatalo waxed arguably the most enchanting, head-bursting songs about Ibadan cultural heritage in history, most notably the evergreen ‘Oro to je’mo Ibadan’. I think Dauda Akanmu Epo-Akara and Sikiru Ayinde Barrister’s endless, emotive, head-bursting eulogies to our beloved city are the closest to Tatalo’s in terms of beauty and everlasting impact.
As the years rolled by, and Nigeria witnessed different phases of democratic dispensations, Ibadan gradually recorded shifts in the structure of its chieftaincy system, with the increasing influence of those on its chieftaincy ladder in the politics and democratic governance of Oyo state. Quite expectedly, the make-up and musical taste of those on the chieftaincy line also changed. While Tatalo and Agboluaje dominated the 1970s and 1980s, the klieg lights shifted toward Dauda Epo-Akara and Sikiru Ayinde Barrister, with Rashidi Ayinde and the rest taking positions on the sidelines. From the 1990s through the turn of the century, the lines between the Ibadan political class and royalty became (more) blurred, almost imperceptible, ostensibly due to the unique nature of the city’s chieftaincy system. In effect, the big names in politics and governance are equally marquee names at the palace.
III
On the cusp of the millennium, despite not being based in Ibadan, the klieglights shifted toward Sikiru Ayinde Barrister, an ally of Lamidi Adedibu, the strongman of Ibadan politics, with Rashidi Ayinde appearing as a footnote. From Mufu Lanihun through Arisekola and Adedibu, Barrister was the favourite. And by 2005 when the city was thrown into turbulence due to the Lamidi Adedibu-Senator Ladoja’s kerfuffle, and most dramatically when the late governor Adebayo Alao-Akala assumed power and identity politics was elevated, the Olubadan chieftaincy system became heavily politicised. The tension prompted Olubadan Odulana Odugade to place a ban on Alhaji Adedibu after issuing a warning that none of the council members should engage in partisan politics. In fact, Olubadan Odugade and Alhaji Adedibu barely had it smooth until Adedibu’s death in June 2008, with the monarch even accusing Alhaji Adedibu of instigating council chairmen to stop the payment of the Olubadan’s salary a few months before the politician passed on.
In effect, it’s difficult to separate Ibadan chieftaincy affairs from its turbulent politics. And, ipso facto, the artiste who has the ears of the political elite of every era would most certainly take a vantage position during traditional occasions, the depth of his talent and appropriateness of his style notwithstanding.
Unsurprisingly, when Olubadan Saliu Adetunji was crowned as the king after Oba Odulana passed in 2016, that trend partly informed the choice of Wasiu Ayinde Marshal as the star artiste, with Rashidi Ayinde, the favourite artiste of the ruling APC at the time, playing a supportive role in other government functions (for clarity, Olubadan Adetunji discovered KWAM 1, the tiny kid from Agarawu, turning him into a global star). In government circles, Taye Currency battled obscurity at the time.
Eventually, when Governor Seyi Makinde assumed power in 2019, Rashidi Ayinde became a mere footnote in Agodi and Taye Currency, the golden son of Foko and Seyi Makinde’s default artiste on the campaign train, took the centre stage at government functionaries. By default, he was the “star artiste” at the last two coronation ceremonies in the city, and that explains his choice as “Star Artiste” on Friday at Oba Ladoja’s coronation.
But unlike in the cases of those before him, where opportunity met a depth of talent, Taye Currency—despite his unique gift—doesn’t really have the range of a Tatalo Alamu, Ayinde Barrister, KWAM 1, or even Rashidi Ayinde, in terms of royal songs. And what the organisers perhaps failed to realise was that, unlike previous occasions, considering the glamour and glitz and socio-political standing of Oba Ladoja, that stage was bound to be too big for him alone to handle.
Now, do I subscribe to the argument that Taye Currency shouldn’t have performed at the coronation ceremony at all?
No, and I’d explain.
IV
There are two broad categories of Fuji musicians. The first category comprises thinkers and storytellers who rely on slow-tempo vibes (Woro), proverbs, historical insights and deep lyrics to teach and educate. Since royalty comes with measured movement and decorum, they are mostly considered perfect choices for regal occasions.
Think Agbaakin Sikiru Ayinde Barrister, Saheed Osupa, Sefiu Alao, Muri Thunder, Rashidi Ayinde, Iyanda Sawaba Ewenla, Sir Shina Akanni, Akanni Ramoni Abiodun, Taju System, etc.
The other category comprises entertainers, who mesmerise with their dance moves, Alujo, innovative slang and all-around performative energy. They understand the zeitgeist and are often considered headliners at concerts and parties. Think Adewale Ayuba, Alabi Pasuma, Alao Malaika, Abass Akande Obesere, Remi Aluko, Atawewe, Tope Nautical, Shanko Rashidi, Wale Tekoma, Osanle Iyabo, Fatimo Cinderella, etc
And oooops!, there is the third category, those who try to blend the attributes of both worlds, swerving delicately in the middle, among whom Sikiru Ayinde Barrister and his protégé, Wasiu Ayinde KWAM 1, remain outstanding.
Think Adewale Ayuba. Think Alao Malaika.
For anyone with a faint understanding of Fuji’s evolving dynamics, since he escaped obscurity together with Tana, his younger brother, it is this third category of royal artistes (Olorin Oba) who double as entertaining performers (Ala’lujo) that Taye Currency has struggled in the past decade to smuggle himself into. After fate brought him to Alao-Akala in 2009, and he later gained exclusive access to Governor Makinde, becoming PDP’s default artiste, that skinny lad who rose from the gutters of Foko and Born Photo has tried to position himself not just as a street artiste, but one versatile enough to entertain royalty.
And to be fair to him, even if he doesn’t have the range of Barrister and KWAM 1, he isn’t in the league of Remi Aluko and Atawewe when it comes to entertaining kings. I was in that crowd at Mapo, and he did perform fairly well at some point, with some rich Ibadan panegyrics and cultural sounds.
But let’s cut to the chase, for such a once-in-a-century coronation ceremony, despite his gift and energies, Taye Currency doesn’t have the range and artistic depth to entertain the different categories of audiences at that ceremony ALL ALONE—and that doesn’t necessarily make him a bad artiste. Every artist has his/her limitation, however versatile they might appear, and there isn’t anything bad about it.
For instance, much as they all try, no Fuji artiste has the fluidity of Pasuma Wonder when it comes to blending Fuji into Afrobeats and contemporary (Afro) hip-pop music; very few artistes could teach moral lessons with folklores like Saidi Osupa and Sefiu Alao; nobody could teach civics in the entertaining ways of Barrister; nobody has the dexterity of Obesere in lewd lyrics; nobody has the gift of patterned dance steps like Adewale Ayuba and, to a lesser degree, Alao Malaika.
It is what it is.
Given the wild popularity of Olubadan Ladoja, and the glamour of the ceremonies, a more appropriate arrangement would have been to have perhaps two or three other artistes—say, Rashidi Ayinde, Saidi Osupa, and maybe Ayinla Karashi or Obesere or Tiri Leather, all of Ibadan heritage— join him on that stage. With unity and proper coordination, each artiste could play to their individual strength and entertain the diverse crowds with their arts, from the hoi polloi to royal fathers, and everyone would be happy.
Taye Currency’s psychi-art-ric boo-oo is what you have when cultural decisions are in the thrall of political considerations, that itself a reflection of the complexity of the Ibadan chieftaincy system and how intertwined it is with the political structure of the state.
I have listened to different alibis put forward in defencee of Currency’s “Were la fi n wo werey” rendition (from the one referencing Senator Ladoja’s struggle and claims of protesting should anyone try to take his seat, through to the one about Taye responding to some alleged miscreants) and I disagree with them, not because Taye couldn’t have delivered such lines at that occasion but due principally to his failure to understand the appropriate timing and category of audience that such was meant for.
I was there at the ceremony, and I’d argue that his performance could have been segmented thus: (a) slow-tempo, mature, folkloric sounds for the royal fathers and other guests before Olubadan Ladoja came in; (b) rich, cultural panegyrics for the Olubadan and other guests after the Olubadan came into the arena; (c) and finally, street slang and irreverent gymnastic for the energetic young crowd awaiting his performance AFTER the royal fathers and Olubadan left the arena.
More importantly, unlike what was the norm in the years prior, a more inclusive lineup of artistes would have helped address the one-off moment of awkwardness—a poignant lesson to those in charge that a united front is better than a politics-induced policy of exclusion.
After all, with the massive love Olubadan Ladoja enjoys across socio-political divides, a policy of inclusion that encourages mutual understanding, cooperation, positive energy, and all-round development is what Ibadan needs now. That stage could have been the starting point, but it is never too late.
RELATED NEWS
The Spectre of Jalumi, By Oladeinde Olawoyin
A Requiem for Omo Aje, by Oladeinde Olawoyin
Ota and its Totally Famished Road, By Oladeinde Olawoyin
Igboho, the Fly, by Oladeinde Olawoyin
Bridging that gap is perhaps the first test of leadership for Olubadan Ladoja.
Yoo se se o.
Kaabiyesi o!
Olawoyin first published this article on his Facebook page
Naijaonpoint