0
0
Writing about King Sunny Ade (KSA), the juju maestro and one of the greatest musical artists of the world, can’t be a dash-off, even for an occasion that is not as memorable as his eightieth birthday. After Fẹla Anikulapo-Kuti, KSA is possibly the most-written-about of Nigerian musicians of their generation among those still alive, and certainly one of the most admired. Both are also the two most world-audible, prior to the explosion of Afrobeats, their status no doubt helped by the enthusiasm surrounding Afropop as a music marketing category from the early 1980s. There is already a book about him titled KSA: Melodies of Wisdom by Bamidele Ọlaṣẹinde Adebayọ, published in 2016 to coincide with his 70th birthday celebration. Early in his mid-career when he took to foreign concerts, American music writers such as the late Greg Tate tried to break his work down to those not familiar with the juju genre. In that sense, globally and locally, KSA’s renown is assured. No serious critic in the “world music” category can pretend ignorance of his work. The first Nigerian musician to receive a Grammy nomination with Synchro System (1983), followed by another several years later with Odu, KSA belongs in the first rank of global musical artists.
KSA’s general biography is, or should be, common knowledge, so I make no attempt at rehashing it here. It is enough to say that since forming his first band, The Green Spots, in 1967, he has never wavered. Band names and line-ups changed over time, and life happened to him as it must to all who live to thrive. But even in the most difficult moments, such as the rebellion of his band members during a tour of Japan in 1984, or the health scare he experienced in the early 1990s, KSA is the container-gourd that stays unbroken when the water spills…This tribute, instead, is an account of my personal encounter with him. The encounter was both memorable—because of what really happened—and significant, for what did not. In addition, I make general comments about his talents as a singer-songwriter without a wish to be comprehensive. He remains among my top-three favorite Nigerian musicians.
On February 24th 1995, the Music Confab ’95 took place at Sheraton Hotel, Ikẹja. It was a Friday, so there was a bit of the typical frenzy preceding the Lagos weekend. A few weeks earlier, Fẹmi Akintunde-Johnson (popularly called FAJ) as editor of FAME Weekly, the entertainment tabloid, had invited some of us, including Jahman Anikulapo and Kọle Ade Odutọla, to brainstorm on issues considered relevant to the vibrancy of Nigerian music. I think the topic was collection rights, a thorny issue at the time, and one to which several culture groups devoted extensive attention. Even the Committee for Relevant Art, CORA, dedicated one of its talkshops, the Arts Stampede, to the topic. I forget how, in the end, I was the only one assigned the role of of the rapporteur at the confab. But I remember that it was a packed, large, and meaningfully rowdy occasion. Many big names turned up. Laolu Akins, Odion Iruoje, Tony Okoroji, Benson Idonije, Morgan Okunuga, and of course, KSA.
He arrived slightly late. The event had just begun, but the the atmosphere changed the moment he walked into the hall with his surprisingly small entourage. His presence at the confab was entirely expected because he was at the time a leading figure in the Musical Copyright Society of Nigeria, MCSN. Dressed formally in agbada, he made his way to the top table and, as luck would have it, sat right next to me. His speech was not ready, so as soon as he sat down, he brought out foolscap sheets and started writing with real urgency. I observed him furtively. He spelled the word “professional” as “professioner.” The back of his right hand, I noticed, was scarred with tiny cicatrices of medicinal incisions, or gbẹ́rẹ́. His fingers, especially his thumb, looked exceedingly flexible and wavy, I imagined from years of plucking guitar strings.
Despite the packed schedule, KSA gave his take on the matter. I carried out my assigned task of summarizing the various points, and as the morning stretched into late afternoon, KSA got off to other tasks. But not before I could importune him. Our time together at the high table, or during the coffee break, might have provided me with an opportunity to request an interview. Was it to clarify some of his points, so I could produce an informed report? I forgot. But he called one of his assistants over, and it was clear that if I stood a chance of seeing him again one-on-one, this was the man who would make it happen.
Could I show up at Sigma Disk offices (formerly Ariya Nite Club) at Jibowu around 2pm the following week?
Of course. This was the memorable part: an encounter with KSA in the midst of a large crowd, but with the chance to closely observe him. The significant part was so because it offered an opportunity to speak with him directly, to interview him as a journalist. I had tried to do so with the fuji maestro, Alhaji Sikiru Ayinde Barrister (Alhaji Agba) three years before, but without success. Even as I finalized the appointment with KSA’s man, I was dubious about it all. There were already stories about how hard it was to get his attention. Not surprising; after all, this was KSA, the great juju superstar, not exactly non-pareil (there was always Chief Commander Ebenezer Obey), but still in his own class. I looked forward to the encounter.
Off to Jibowu I took myself on Tuesday, February 28. I got there well ahead of time, expecting to wait for as long as necessary. There were copies of entertainment tabloids to pass time, but I usually went about with books in my bag, so I didn’t want for reading materials. At some point, I had to step out to eat nearby, and I was assured that KSA didn’t have any other appointment. With the food, the on-and-off electricity in the building, I got tired and dozed off briefly. Then, around 3.15pm, a frenzied movement seized the office. KSA had arrived. The man who arranged the appointment came with him. Walking past where I sat, he paused momentarily but didn’t acknowledge me. I didn’t mind; my expectation was that he would settle down, then invite me into his office for the interview.
Minutes passed, nothing happened. Shortly before 4pm, another stampede broke out, slightly less frenzied than before. KSA was on his way out. I stood up. This time, he stopped before he got to where I was and smiled understandingly.
“Ha, aburo mi akọwe. Sorry for the wait.” Words to that effect, but “aburo mi akọwe” (my learned junior) was the form of address he used for me throughout our encounter. It was clear that there would not be a sit-down interview.
This was what happened: outside, KSA slid into the owner’s corner of the parked Mercedes-Benz, and beckoned me inside, his assistant joining the driver in front. Details of the rest of the day, or at least the portion of it that I spent in KSA’s company, were too routine to set down here, but a few things stood out. He would get his “speech” to the organizers of the confab, so an interview might not be necessary. He wanted to know where I lived and when I told him, he seemed pleased. The atmosphere was right as the car headed towards Ikorodu Road, so I attempted a gambit, hoping to charm him.
“KSA, sir, the speech apart, it would be a great honor for me to interview you about the collection issues discussed on Friday. And other things, too.”
He didn’t say anything at first. I was also mindful of the rare privilege of sitting at close quarters with KSA, so I made sure to keep deferring to his whims. It wasn’t hard to do, and he seized on the chance. He got busy with seemingly important documents, occasionally nodding or grunting to my feelers. (Less than a year before, while going to Mayflower School following the death of the social critic Tai Ṣolarin, I was spotted near Ṣagamu by the personal assistant of Chief Gani Fawẹhinmi. Offered a ride in the car, I became the sponge for the chief, a shrewd newsmaker, who saw the presence of a journalist as an opportunity to belt out quotables.)
When KSA finally spoke, about ten minutes after my spiel, he said something along the lines of being unprepared for the kind of interview I had in mind, and for which he was sure there would be an occasion with sufficient notice and so on. Hearing him at length, I picked up on one of his speech mannerisms. He would say, “Hen-hen?” in a questioning tone, the rhetorical equivalent of “Alright?”, to assure himself that he had been heard approvingly. I didn’t have to give up; there was no further to go along that path.
On getting to Ikẹja through Bank-Anthony Way, the driver was instructed to park all the way down Awolọwọ Way, to Balogun Bus-Stop. It appeared that KSA had business around that place but it was also where I would get off, according to KSA’s assistant, Ikẹja being closer to Ojodu, my residence, than Jibowu. However, before I could alight, a female vendor near the bus shelter spotted the superstar and yelled his name. Bedlam. Like a swarm of flies, people mostly women, swopped on the car, as if they wanted to drag him out. It was quite a sight. I had stepped out but I could not leave. I stood and watched as the crowd ballooned after him, waving, trying to touch or hold him, while his assistant parted the way with his hands. It struck me at that moment that it was risky for someone of KSA’s status to move about without bodyguards. Although the crowd was mostly women, hawkers and traders who would return to their wares once the man disappeared into a doorway, it was still unusual to regard that mass of bodies swarm after a person.
Musicians are magnets to the iron-filing of females of a certain social inclination, and it was no different with KSA. The story is told that once on location for a Yoruba movie from the late 1980s (he played the king in that story), KSA saw a lady walking along. In true fashion, he lifted his right leg which, to those who knew, meant a claim to the lady. When a younger man said, “Ah-ha, KSA, leave her alone now!” the lady pulled the man aside and pleaded, “Please, please, let KSA put his raised leg on me!” (The filmmaker Tunde Kelani used a version of this in Ayinla, his 2021 biopic about Ayinla Ọmọwura, the late apala musician.) It is also on record that KSA was part of a group called Committee of Brothers whose MO was having a good time with female admirers. Members included Ayinde Barrister (who put it on record in a 1983 album), Alhaji Adisa Osi-Ẹfa, Chief Ade Martins, Alhaji Adebayọ Azeez, and a few others. The only rule was that no one would go after a woman married to a member of that group.
More than anything else, King Sunny Ade is a master of his art, one of the greatest musicians of our time. Long before his international fame, he was a foremost juju musician. The pool was crowded in the 1970s and 1980s. There was Chief Commander Ebenezer Obey, often considered his greatest rival, although the rivalry was mostly a marketing ploy. (KSA recorded a song to dispel it.) There were others, too. Admiral Dele Abiọdun. General Prince Adekunle. Emperor “Pick” Peter. Professor Yekeen Ajao, Ahuja Bello. Uncle Toye Ajagun. Dele Ojo. Idowu Animashaun. Micho Ade. Sir Shina Adewale (before the break-up.) And many others. As in the theater troupes, musical bands proliferated whenever opportunities arose, and numbered in scores. Juju music had found a clientele that could no longer be satisfied by highlife, and novel approaches to structuring bands had helped these younger artists move away from the mode popularized by the earlier generation of Tunde Nightingale and Kayọde Fashọla. The competition was fierce. Talents abound, genuinely.
Cream must rise to the top, however, and it didn’t take long for KSA to find and keep his perch, from where he was never to be dislodged, even with the arrival from the early 1990s of younger stars like Sir Shina Peters, Dele Taiwo and Dayọ Kujọrẹ. His music is evergreen, the albums unforgettable. Let Them Say. The Good Shepherd. Surprise. Sweet Banana. Authority. Seven Degrees North. The Merciful God. In each, a few striking features stand KSA apart and made him the owner of the game.
Physically, he is blessed with a body for performance: agile, elastic, apt to hold up well for long. He is a great dancer, his stage presence magnified by his well-practiced gestures to the audience. His guitar never leaves his shoulders, and when he is fine form, it matches up perfectly with his willowy physique.
His songwriting prowess speaks for itself, with a discography in excess of a hundred albums. (On this point, one must practice caution: KSA’s discography is a critical aficionado’s nightmare. As with most of the exponents of the popular genres, his early albums were released by volumes, not by specific titles. A song like “Ẹni Binu Wa” could show up under both Volume One (Ẹ Kilọ F’ọmọ Ọdẹ, 1974) and The Way Forward republished in 2001! In my playlist developed from years of store-bought CDs, the track “Aláṣẹ Láyé” shows up under the album Sweet Banana, although it properly belongs in Authority.)
All the same, KSA’s stamp on the songs is unmistakable. To an extent people underestimate, he has created an entire repertoire of verbs, idioms, idiolects, and tropes that have become part of everyday speech such that no one seriously bothers about their origins. Yet they remain his songs. Think of the rhetorical force of “Jà Fún Mi.” Or the generative beauty of “365 Is My Number, Dial!” Or the evocative charge of “Get Up!” Or the pithy rendition of “Eyi Ma Dun,” an Ẹyọ ode. The two opening lines of Ẹ Kilọ F’ọmọ Ọdẹ were so resonant that within a year of the album’s release, they appeared in another album by Alhaji Dauda Epo-Akara. Despite his global renown and the attendant expectations of a set formula, KSA has retained an earthy, folksy quality in his compositions. I think that he decided at some point, possibly in the wake of Synchro System, to take the local fight to fuji musicians, who seemed to have claimed ownership of danceable tunes, so-called àlùjó.
And, of course, there is his unique gift of perpetual singing. A song, say “Aye Nreti Ẹlẹya,” starts in one mode and soon breaks, almost imperceptibly, into another, higher tempo, without losing the homiletic or prayerful quality it’d begun with. Even when it moves into another register, there is no denying that it is still the same song because the percussion stays steady throughout. It is unusual for a fan to have a favorite among the favored artist’s massive corpus, but I have a soft spot for “Aláṣẹ Láyé,” especially given the way the initial praise (of God) grows into self-praise, the plucky guitar grooves matching the pluckiness of the master staking his claim to unending relevance. The title track of The Good Shepherd sounds like it’s not going to end: one gets the sense from the way the final lines blend into percussive notes that the band just ran out of studio time.
I could go on, but like every good thing, even a KSA song. comes to an end, leaving room for another album.
Happy 80th birthday, KSA! The Golden Mercury of Africa. Baba Ẹlẹṣin Bariga. King of World Beats. Thank you for sharing with the world the gift of your singular talent!
