OUR SOCIETY DOES NOT APPRECIATE THE VALUE OF CREATIVE EXPRESSION | A CONVERSATION WITH DAMI AJAYI

Dami Ajayi is a Nigerian-born music writer, poet and psychiatrist based in the United Kingdom. He studied medicine and surgery at Obafemi Awolowo University and trained in Psychiatry at Federal Neuro-Psychiatry Hospital, Yaba.

He is the author of three poetry collections: Clinical Blues (WriteHouse, 2014), A Woman’s Body is a Country (Ouida Lagos, 2017) and Affection & Other Accidents (Radi8, 2022). His poetry has been shortlisted for several prestigious prizes, including the Association of Nigerian Authors Prize, the Wole Soyinka Prize for African Literature, and the Glenna Luschei Prize for African Poetry.

During his undergraduate studies at Ife, he developed a love for writing about music. He wrote for several campus magazines and maintained a blog about contemporary music from the mid-2000s. Ajayi has worked as a music journalist for OlisaTV magazine (2014-2016) and culture blog This is Lagos (2017-2019). In 2019, he co-founded The Lagos Review, where he commissioned and edited profiles, interviews, reviews, essays, and commentary on contemporary and older music genres.

His music writing has appeared in various publications, including The Africa Report, The Republic, Culture Custodian, Chimurenga Chronic, Afropolitan Vibes Magazine, Lost in Lagos Magazine, Global Voices, Music in Africa, and The Elephant. He has also consulted for music writing in feature articles published in the Financial Times, African Arguments, Al Jazeera, The World, and Weekendavisen.

He writes and curates “London Listening Sessions,” a newsletter on Substack.

 

  • Libretto: Hello, Dami. We are beyond pleased to have you join us.

Dami: The pleasure is mine. Thank you for having me.

 

  • Libretto: Can you share your journey into the world of poetry and literature? What inspired you to become a poet and music critic?

Dami: The journey to becoming a poet was serendipitous. I started scribbling from age 11. Tried to float a magazine with my Junior Secondary School mates, but I was unable to, but I kept writing. In Senior Secondary school, my mum encouraged me to study Literature, not Geography, so I did Literature at O’Levels, which is all my formal instruction in Literature. The rest came from reading. I love being buried in a book, feeling my way through the world with language.  I started writing poetry seriously in medical school to investigate my experience as a medical student. The novelty of dissecting corpses, the smell of decay, and the politics of different health professionals in the hospital fascinated me. I also started amateur music commentary when writing the poems that would become Clinical Blues. Afrobeats was still a young genre experiencing exponential growth at the time. I have always loved music and felt the urge to talk about it with others, so documenting my thoughts was my way of seeking clarity. Music is very tricky to write about.

 

  • Libretto: As someone who bridges the worlds of poetry, psychiatry, and music criticism, do you find that each discipline influences the others? If so, how?

Dami: I have been formally trained in psychiatry, so I accept that status. Ditto for poetry, as I have written three volumes of poems. As regards music criticism, I have done decent research and focused writing in that field in the last decade. Humans are moved and motivated by the force and illumination of ideas. Psychiatry as a science borrows from every field to enrich itself. Poetry and the arts do the same. Music criticism does the same too. A well-read individual weaponises his knowledge.

Some of the finest insights into human behaviour are the bread and butter of theories taught in psychiatry. I have been accused of bringing medical terminologies into my poetry. I did this brazenly in my first book, Clinical Blues. This was toned down in my second book, where I embraced a lyricism close to songwriters. The third book was an attempt at catharsis, using every discipline at my disposal. My work as a keen music lover often spills into my poetry and music journalism.

 

  • Libretto: As a music journalist, do you ever find yourself analysing your poetry in the way you would critique a song or album?

Dami: Usually, when working on drafts of a poem, I approach the text with some kind of rigour that meets the threshold of literary criticism. This is mainly to resolve that artistic doubt that challenges the vanity of writers, the belief that what one has written may not be worth anyone’s time. Also, my usual creative instinct is to challenge the status quo, to stand apart in mischief and single-mindedness.

 

  • Libretto: How does your training as a psychiatrist shape the themes you explore in your poetry? Are there any psychological tropes that repeatedly surface in your work?

Dami: My poetry has more likely influenced my psychiatric practice. My preoccupation with confessional poetry demands my recollections about memory, nostalgia, play, and trauma appear in my work. I read Freud in medical school before I chose psychiatry. Reading Freud may have influenced my interest in psychiatry, but the more urgent reason I wanted to be a psychiatrist was that I found out halfway through medical school that I was squeamish.

 

  • Libretto: When analysing a song as a critic, do you focus on lyricism, melody, or subject matter? How do you separate the art from the merits of its composition?

Dami: In life and literature, I assess human behaviour and check whether the boundaries of what is accepted as normal have been traversed. I don’t reserve that vocation to just clinical practice. On one level, everyone does this. We are a meaning-seeking species. As a psychiatrist, our vocation makes this all the more structured and its immediacy more heightened.

 

  • Libretto: Do you think the clinical understanding of human behaviour ever interferes with your ability to be purely imaginative as a poet?

Dami: Again, given that I approach poetry from the standpoint of the individual, which is often myself (these days, I imagine a kinship with my ancestors, particularly my great grandfather Ifamilehin), but given that my arsenal comprises of my observation, my memory, and my body and its scars, imagination is not my most immediate concern. Sometimes, poetry is an attempt to understand my motivations.

 

  • Libretto: What was the process of writing your first book like for you? Has there been any radical changes between how you wrote your first book and how you write now?

DamiClinical Blues was collected from 2007 to 2011. These were at the height of my training in medical school. I started writing the long title poem during long lectures and outpatient clinics when my mind wandered away from instruction. It was a meditation about what my sense of sight, sound and touch brought to me. I was curious about universal themes like health, disease, and dying. I was struck by my human response to these themes. We take health for granted, we panic at the prospect of disease, and we are terrified by the certainty of death. The uncertainty of death is another kettle of fish. I wanted to write about how these experiences impacted the sick, caregivers, and the fly on the wall christened ‘the jazz pianist’ in those poems. I think I had too much fun writing those poems, and ten years later, I am struck by how original, mischievous, and charming they are. I suspect that my poetry has become more cynical than mischievous with age. I don’t know why, but I still approach poetry with a singular purpose, one poem at a time. I am always looking for a shift in my poetic language.

Once this was achieved, I was then keen to write another book. A Woman’s Body is a Country began as Daybreak, my poetry chapbook. It is about travel, city life, music, dancehall, nightlife, bodies, elusive love, and patriotism. It was a distillate of my experiences after I left medical school in Ife and moved to Lagos as a young man. There is a strong sense of the city therein. With Affection, that book jumped me. I did not know when I started to write it, but one day, I looked at the notes on my phone, in my notebook and on my computer, and it was clear that I had a book with a unifying theme. It is also my most experimental and vulnerable book.

 

  • Libretto: Could you share some insights into your experience of publishing your work? What challenges have you faced, and what strategies have you found effective in reaching your audience?

Dami: Publishing is, most of the time, a matter of stars aligning. I have been mostly lucky. I have been traditionally published twice, with my first two books, and Affection was vanity published. Every mode of publishing has its merits and demerits. With Affection, I wanted absolute control of the work, marketing, and audience. It is a rigorous and exhausting process because it does not allow you to sleep unless you intend to sleep on yourself. In Nigeria, publishers rely on their authors to do the heavy lifting regarding promotion. They expect you to cultivate and nurture your audience. It is not peculiar to us in Nigeria; it has become the publishing industry standard globally. Your publishers want to know your social media impact and so forth. Books are products. There have been periods when I have felt the need to promote my work, but I have always been reluctant to be as earnest as the Molue trader. I utilise the platforms available to me. However, I have been fortunate with word-of-mouth promotion and unsolicited reviews. Occasionally, something extraordinary happens, like my book being placed in a Nollywood film or an Italian translator buying my book and wanting to translate the poems, etc. I have said a lot about luck, but I suspect quality and accessibility also play a role.

 

  • Libretto: In your opinion, what makes a piece of poetry or criticism truly impactful and enduring?

Dami: The simple answer for me is utility. Is it useful to someone, anyone at any time? If that utility endures, then it stays relevant, stays in print, and stays in use.

 

  • Libretto: Libretto: As a psychiatrist, you’re trained to observe and analyse without emotional involvement. But what role does emotional vulnerability play in your writing process? Does it differ between your poetic and journalistic work?

Dami: I practise art forms that require emotional involvement. Poetry demands of the writer an acute sense of emotions. You will be correct if you call poetry a deliberate attempt at transcribing a vortex of emotions. Music journalism also requires some depth of interest. In writing eloquently about a song, a genre, or a concert, you must be able to recreate a level of immersion in prose.  A psychiatrist needs some level of immersion, too, which we call empathy, to navigate the experiences that are being described. The profession demands it, and it is the least one can pay as respect for the patient’s vulnerability.

 

  • Libretto: How do you approach themes of mental illness in your poetry? Do you feel an ethical responsibility to portray these experiences accurately?

Dami: I have written sparingly about mental illness. There are two short poems, “Romansider Blues” and “Finding Addiction”, in Clinical Blues and A Woman’s Body is a Country, respectively. These poems are very universal and removed from personal enquiry. One is directly motivated by my interaction with a patient; the other was entirely imagined, but the notion of complete imagination is fiction. Better to say that the poem was composed from several true stories. I went to great lengths in both poems to comply with extant ethical considerations. I wonder if poetry can be charged with the act of accurate reportage. Even journalism, somewhat obsessed with facts, struggles with this charge how much more poetry?

 

  • Libretto: From both your psychiatric and poetic perspectives, what do you make of the idea of the “tortured artist”? Do you think there’s a connection between mental health struggles and creativity?

Dami:  The tortured artist is a trope that has uses, particularly in pop culture. As a writer, I approach tumultuous emotions with poetry and happier emotions are often resolved in music writing. There is no doubt an association or correlation (not a causal relationship) between mental illness and creativity. It is a research interest, and some fine researchers have gone as far as assigning posthumous psychiatric diagnoses to some deceased creative geniuses.

 

  • Libretto: What, in your opinion, are the most significant challenges facing writers and music journalists today? Especially those whose work caters mostly to an African audience.

Dami: Sustainability of their practice. How many folks can dedicate themselves entirely to their calling as writers or music journalists? As a young person with fewer responsibilities, it is easy for one to say I am a journalist or writer. But when demands and greater duties like looking after a young family or aged parents hit you, one must look outside that calling. If there is decent remuneration for writing, we may all be better off. But people don’t consider the act of composition to be one that should be regarded. This is why writers get paid peanuts. Folks who can’t write parade themselves as writers, and the overall quality of our literary output falls annually. Many of my contemporaries who began as writers have had to find other ways of making money – some have become politicians and aides to politicians. Others are in academia. Some are in the NGO space. I have stayed in clinical practice as a medical doctor. Those who have stayed in writing are doing writer-for-hire to make ends meet. The problem is the lack of opportunities and structures that can sustain one’s writing practice as a sole form of livelihood. Our society does not appreciate the value of creative expression.

 

  • Libretto: Do you believe that the process of writing a work of poetry can have therapeutic effects? Or is this more likely to be the case when reading a poem?

Dami: A poem, the writing of it or experiencing it as a reader, can be a gift. It can also be a trigger. It is really about how it is deployed. We all read and write poetry for different reasons. I write mostly to make sense of my feelings and the world. Some write poetry to motivate and encourage. Others do it to showcase their exuberance or the influence of others. I have written poems for their cathartic value. Readers have come to me with thoughts about how my poems have spoken to them. Would I recommend poetry instead of therapy? Absolutely not!

 

  • Libretto: Which poets or music critics have most influenced your work? How have they shaped your voice?

Dami: If I had to mention all my influences in poetry, we may not leave here. I am more motivated by books than individual poets and more by dead poets than those alive. I love the precision and sense of history in Femi Oyebode’s poetry. I love the formal ambitions of Terrance Hayes’ poetry. I love IfeanyiMenkiti’s poetry for its sardonic wit, wisdom and deadpan humour. My favourite music critic to read is the late Greg Tate. I was put on to him by Nigerian writer and professor Akin Adesokan. Again, with music writing, I am enamoured with specific essays and not writers in general. I am currently reading the Best Music Writing Essays series published by Da Capo Press.

 

  • Libretto: So, what are you working on next? What should we look forward to? Is there anything you are currently working on that may intrigue the interest of your readers?

Dami: I am working on a book of poems about COVID, migration, and ageing. Some days, it feels like working on three different books. I am also putting the final touches on a book of short stories and a book of interconnected essays on music. There is a novel begging to be written.

 

  • Libretto: Finally, what advice would you give to young writers, journalists, or medical professionals who want to explore the intersection of these fields?

Dami: Read, read, read, and then write for writers. Journalists, hold yourself to the highest esteem and ethics of your profession. Medical professionals, never forget the reason—it is always about our patients.

The Rovingheights Bestseller List 2022: Presented with Open Country Mag

Every end of the year, since 2020Rovingheights has shared an informal list of the top-selling titles in its stores. As Nigeria’s biggest literary bookstore, Rovingheights is a pillar of the reading community, providing books that other stores in the country might not have thought to stock. Late last year, its co-founder Tobi Eyinade asked Open Country Mag editor Otosirieze to collaborate on the store’s third annual list. In line with our mission to contextualize African literature (and film!) in the global conversation, we decided to compile the list on a bigger scale. Our motivation: creating the first formal bestseller list in Nigerian literature. Caveat: with data limited to Rovingheights and non-representative of other bookstores.

Beyond the bragging rights they invite, bestseller lists also function as industry reports. It is primarily in this larger sense that The Rovingheights Bestseller List 2022: Presented with Open Country Mag operates. There is the main list of the Top-selling 100 Books, and there are the genre lists for Fiction, Nonfiction, Poetry, Children’s Books, and Self-Published titles. Together, they tell a story of Nigerian reading culture. Books, as we have known for decades now, are no longer the most prized cultural product for most Nigerians, no thanks in part to military rule, but when they are priority, they are pirated into such ubiquity that force legitimate booksellers out of business. So this list is an existential triumph for literary culture. And lists like this show not only the books we buy but perhaps why we buy them at the time we do.

Take the triple placement of Max Siollun’s history books, What Britain Did to Nigeria (No. 4 in Nonfiction; No. 10 in Top 100) and the duology Soldiers of Fortune: Nigerian Politics from Buhari to Babangida: 1983-1993 (No. 9 in Nonfiction; No. 48 in Top 100) and Nigeria’s Soldiers of Fortune: The Abacha and Obasanjo Years (No. 49 in Nonfiction). Or the staying power of Olusegun Obasanjo’s Nzeogwu (No. 31 in Nonfiction; No. 73 in Top 100), a biography of his late friend and one of the leaders of the first military coup in 1966, a book first published 36 years ago, in 1987, when the compilers of this list had not even been born. Or Okey Anueyiagu’s Biafra: The Horrors of War: The Story of a Child Soldier (No. 9 in Self-published). Political books like these may sell more than other kinds, but we also cannot ignore that people are buying them in our current national climate: with elections only one week away and the incumbent president a burden we cannot wait to be relieved of.

Piracy would be why Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, author of the widest read books of Nigerian literature since Things Fall Apart, does not top any of the categories or make the Top 15 in the Top 100. That and the fortunate trend of her books selling far more in collection than individually. But with Americanah (No. 8 in Fiction; No. 18 in Top 100), Notes on Grief (No. 9 in Nonfiction; No. 20 in Top 100), Half of a Yellow Sun (No. 16 in Fiction; No. 32 in Top 100), and Dear Ijeawele (No. 17 in Nonfiction; No. 45 in Top 100), she is the only author to have up to four books logged.

Meanwhile, Collen Hoover’s decimation of bestseller lists in the US and the UK also reached Nigeria as she makes a landfall with three novels. Other international bestsellers who make it in: Hanya Yanagihara, Michelle Obama, Jordan Peterson, Marcus Rashford.

Rovingheights’ data confirm that fiction and nonfiction far outsell poetry in Nigeria, which is why only the No. 1 book in Poetry, Dami Ajayi’s Affection and Other Accidents, broke into the Top 100, at No. 96. Poetry is the shortest list, but Rupi Kaur and Tolu Akinyemi, writing as Poetolu, manage to slip in two books each. Meanwhile the very titles of the books on the Self-Published list tell a story not of Nigerian reading culture now but of Nigerian hustle. The top-seller in that category: How to Sell to Nigerians by Akin Alabi (No. 3 in Top 100). The top-seller in Nonfiction, however, is not Nigerian. But a Nigerian is at No. 2, with a business book: Aigboje Aig-Imoukhuede’s Leaving the Tarmac: Buying a Bank in Africa (No. 8 in Top 100).

We opted to include only the sales figure of the No. 1 bestselling book of 2022. It is a short story collection, Damilare Kuku’s Nearly All the Men in Lagos Are Mad, and its 2,204 copies sold is over triple the book behind it.

The Top-selling Poetry Books

S/N. Title, Author, Publisher

8. A Little Violence, Seun Lari Williams, Independently Published

7. Home Body, Rupi Kaur, Simon & Schuster UK

6. Like Butterflies Scattered About by Art Rascals, Umar Abubakar Sidi, Masobe Books

5. Nomad, Romeo Oriogun, Griots Lounge Nigeria

4. Milk and Honey, Rapi Kaur, Andrews McMeel Publishing

3. Her Head Was a Spider’s Nest, Tolu Akinyemi (Poetolu), Heart of Words UK

2. Funny Men Cannot Be Trusted, Tolu Akinyemi (Poetolu), Heart of Words UK

1. Affection and Other Accidents, Dami Ajayi, Independently Published

Relations: An Anthology of African and Diaspora Voices

Edited by Nana Ekua Brew-Hammond. HarperVia, $27.99 (480p) ISBN 978-0-06-308904-4
Brew-Hammond delivers an impressive anthology of short stories, essays, and poetry by writers from across Africa. In the Sudanese writer Reem Gaafar’s “Finding Descartes,” a school teacher becomes an activist after meeting a smart, young boy who ought to be in school, but isn’t. Rwandese-born Namibian Rémy Ngamije follows the protagonist of “Fulbright” to Columbia University from Namibia, where his excitement about the land of Frank Sinatra, the Notorious B.I.G., and getting to “find out what a New York minute is” is tempered by anxiety over white supremacist violence. Other standouts include the sparse and powerful poem “Denouemont” by Nigerian poet Dami Ajayi, which draws haunting inspiration from a discarded face mask: “Your fate reminds me of breath/ & George Floyd lying on asphalt,/ an American knee weighing/ against his neck.” There’s no shortage of strong imagery, such as in Nigerian American Enuma Okoro’s story “The Heart of the Father,” which imagines a pastor whose clothes are “like Moses’s face… when he comes down from the mountain.” As with most anthologies, some entries are better than others—next to the gems are those that run too long or lean on unearned twists. On the whole, though, there’s much to savor. (Jan.)

A Quick History of Afrobeats

A Quick Ting on Afrobeats hardly reflects on moral conundrums. Seemingly obsessed with Black pride and optimism, Adofo’s book embraces a positive outlook and perhaps this is the right attitude to afrobeats.

A Quick Ting on Afrobeats is the latest addition to the growing corpus of the ‘A Quick Ting’ book series commissioned by Magdalene Abraha and published by Jacaranda books. Written by Christian Adofo, this expository book of eleven essays is described as ‘the first book of its kind’ on its cover. It chronicles the emergence of afrobeats from precursor sounds—like highlife, hiplife and afrobeat—and tracks its ascendance to becoming one of West Africa’s major cultural exports to the world. Charting on international billboards, selling out international megatours and winning Grammy awards have been checked on the afrobeats bucket list, these are unprecedented achievements, hence it is important that a book of this kind has been written by this particular kind of writer.  

Adofo is a Black British journalist and writer of Ghanaian descent. His parents migrated to England from Ghana in the 60s, in the aftermath of the military coup that destabilized the young nation.  The culture they brought along with them inadvertently became part of Adofo’s experiences.  

Adofo’s opening essay, ‘My Personal Relationship With Afrobeats’, reminisces about hall parties from Broadwater Farm (north London) to Lambeth town hall (south London). These hall parties, suffused with jollof rice and good old music from Ghana, was attended by close-knit West Africans.  Adofo tracks his relationship with West African music from this knot of nostalgia and plots a steady arc about his coming of age, his coalescing identities and the emergence of this new genre called afrobeats which grew in its fame into the African diaspora in the 2000s. This steady arc begins with history. The corner piece is highlife, a popular dance music that spread across West African coastal cities in the 50s and 60s.  

Arguably the soundtrack of his parent’s youth (and childhood), highlife ushered in independence from colonial rule and the rebirth of new nations quartered according to the infamous 1884 Berlin Conference. It was in Ghana that this fledging music was christened highlife by the excluded poor who watched hall dances where African elites charged with shepherding their new nations danced in platform shoes.  

That optimism was short-lived. Those new nations quickly fell apart to bloody military coups. In Ghana, President Kwame Nkrumah was overthrown in 1966, nine years after the country’s independence from British colonial rule. What followed were countercoups, attendant political unrest, fiscal uncertainties, and eventual economic decline. A privileged and disillusioned few migrated to the West. They took their food and music along with them, trading their ‘Third World’ problems for ‘First World’ problems. Bringing the hall party tradition—and all its aspects small talk, dance and music—to the West may have been a necessary coping mechanism, one that a young and impressionable Adofo observed first-hand and required to properly contextualize his own coming of age. 

AFRO-SKANKING

A Quick Ting on Afrobeats is hardly a quick thing. Call it a reflection on the author’s coming of age and you would be partly correct. It is a shape-shifting thing amalgamating personal narrative and insight on West African music as it pertains to the Black British experience. It gestures for an academic core, with the narrative style oscillating between memoir and ethnomusicology, between archiving and unearthing, but always in the service of finding the self. 

In the essay ‘Skanking Era – UK Funky House’, Adofo returns from a column of research-heavy anthropology-leaning essays to become a willing participant and first-hand observer, watching a culture acquire a fresh veneer. A fluid essay about partying and dance in the UK, this section describes how, at its peak, UK Funky House doused tensions around Black identities. Adofo was attending university, highlighted the role of organizations like the African and Caribbean Society in bringing Black students of both African and Caribbean descent together to deliberate about their experiences and to dance. Those heady parties powered by hormones and virile youth are relived in prose that brings to mind the agile prose of Lucy Sante’s essay ‘E.S.P’ and party scenes in Diran Adebayo’s debut novel Some Kind of Black—two writers whose descriptions of house parties are sublime. Dance and music become an epiphany of sort in Adofo’s writing. And not unlike his parents in their hall parties, Adofo and his peers were negotiating their existential personal and collective yearnings in music, in dance and in unison.

AFROBEATS: AESTHETIC OR FIXED GENRE?

‘Afrobeats’ has become the catch-all phrase for contemporary music coming out of West Africa and its diaspora. Adofo’s chapter, Afrobeats (Yes, With An S)’ sheds light on the etymology of this phrase. Although Adofo provided a posthumous profile in an earlier chapter, ‘Fela and the Afrobeat – The Man and the Music’, he struggled to connect Fela’s legacy to the current wave of afrobeats. The chapter about afrobeats appears too late, after the chapter profiling Fela. It also fails to interrogate afrobeats as a catchphrase and the politics of nomenclature. 

Instead, Adofo provides insight about afrobeats’ earliest use in the 80s and about how the genre was popularized by the influential UK-based DJ Abrantee. But the intellectual lamp Adofo held up to highlife and other precursor genres of Afrobeats, dimmed at an important knot that he should have explored, if not untied. At this knot lies questions around collective ownership and country tensions. Afrobeats is probably of dual, if not triadic origins. Ghana and Nigeria, two West African anglophone countries and their respective diasporas, made this music—but this description hardly serves the genre’s multiplex birth story. The politics of origin is not new. Highlife music was said to have originated from Sierra Leone and Ghana, but it is more rewarding to consider a wholistic narrative that includes all coastal West African cities and how the music was more an aesthetic than a fixed genre.  

Adofo focuses on the Ghanaian and UK narrative of the emergence of Afrobeats. Aside from establishing the large looming legacy of Fela, the Nigerian narrative is exempt. Perhaps a chapter would be too ambiguous for an exhaustive enquiry but there is insight to be garnered in the intersections of Nigeria, Ghana and their diaspora communities. Simply put, Nigerian references are few and far between and even when touched upon, they are subjected to a sketchy appraisal.  

Popular Nigerian afrobeats artiste, Mr Eazi has strong ties with Ghana where he schooled and, currently, he lives in the UK. Mr Eazi named his second mixtape, Life is Eazi, Vol. 1 – Accra to Lagos and its sequel, Life is Eazi, Vol. 2 – Lagos to London. Inadvertently these titles chart the direction of cultural phenomena in anglophone West African countries. Take the Azonto dance. Unequivocally, it emerged from Ghana and moved into Nigeria (read Lagos) where it was then appropriated. Azonto would later emerge as a sort of viral dance in the UK, and Adofo documents this in the chapter, ‘Is It Really Everyday Dance?’   

Other kinds of dance—Yahooze, Skelewu, Shoki, Shaku, Zanku—receive a short shrift from Adofo, instead of the intellectual rigour he extended to Azonto, hiplife and boga highlife, the diasporan update of highlife in Hamburg, Germany, elsewhere in the book. 

The afrobeats story can neither be exhaustively nor convincingly told without the Nigerian story. If A Quick Ting on Afrobeats is marketed as the first book of its kind, then exempting the Nigerian perspective of the afrobeats story or replacing it with a legacy posthumous profile of Fela is egregious.   

Perhaps writing the afrobeats story is a complex endeavour coloured by every author’s perspective. Adofo has written the afrobeats story according to a Black British author of Ghanaian descent. In writing his own side of the story, he highlights the role of Ghanaian highlife, boga highlife and hiplife in the emergence of afrobeats. But the triangular coordinates of Accra to Lagos to London are not exhaustively explored.  

Thankfully, this book is not the first book of its kind. At least not in the sense that it is the first book written about afrobeats. Jide Taiwo’s History Made: The Most Important Nigerian Songs Since 1999, published in 2020, caters, as its title suggests, to only Nigerian songs. There are also several titles at different stages of gestation. A Quick Ting on Afrobeats will not be the last book of its kind. 

FINDING WOMXN ZERO 

In his essay, ‘Womxn in Afrobeats’, Adofo sweeps the historical landscape of popular West African music as far back as possible in search of women. Exasperated, he fingers patriarchy as the culprit for the relative absence of women in music. The emerging elite of our modern societies regarded musicians as layabouts and women in this nocturnal trade suffered a worse fate than men.  

Adofo quotes renowned ethnomusicologist, John Collins, and identifies Julie Okine as the Woman Zero of West African music. Okine was the first woman vocalist of ET Mensah’s band, The Tempos. But in Liberia, in 1949, Okine had a predecessor, a young lady called Eupheme Cooper, who was with a band called The Greenwood Singers. Songs from this band were included in Songs of the African Coast recorded by Arthur S. Albert.  

The song ‘All fo You’ carries American influences on its shoulders. This song was quite popular along the coastal cities of West Africa. Perhaps this popularity came from the hugely popular version by highlife maestro, ET Mensah, whose version in the early 50s is perhaps the best known. The song is, however, traced back to a Jamaican folk song called ‘Sly Moongose’ and recorded by Sam Manning in 1925. This adds a dimension to the history of West African music relocating the Jamaican calypso to its natal land.  

Documenting history is not without the inherent bias of the chronicler and every attempt at objectivity creates its own limitations. Regardless of the accuracy (or not) of Adofo’s Woman Zero, this chapter waltzes through Africa’s musical history identifying key female figures like Mariam Makeba, Lijadu Sisters, Christian Essien Igbokwe and Charlotte Dada. The flourishing of women musicians within the Pentecostal Christian church in the 80s is also explored, bringing fresh insight into how religion skewed and undermined cultural attitudes to women musicians.  

Afrobeats may have better representation for women singers but the likes of Tiwa Savage and Yemi Alade struggled and probably worked harder, than some of their male contemporaries to garner the same magnitude of attention. Amarae and Tems, two rising female stars and affiliates with the alté music scene, have attained their milestones quicker than their older female colleagues. It is not clear if their ascendance reflects the much-needed change in the music industry, but it is a positive outlook and thoughtful on Adofo’s part.  

AFROBEATS TO THE WORLD

The book’s final chapter, ‘Homecoming and The Future’, is sprightly with optimism about the future of afrobeats. With Burna Boy’s Grammys from his Twice As Tall album under its belt as its foremost critical acclaim and the dominance of a clutch of songs—Wizkid/Tems’ ‘Essence’, CKay’s ‘Love Nwantiti’ and Fireboy DML’s ‘Peru’—on global musical charts, there are reasons to be joyous.  

This joy is particularly meaningful to those residing in the diaspora: Afrobeats provides a portal for accessing black pride and identity, a unique experience that is all but lost on listeners back home in West Africa who utilise the music more for its dizzying dance and escapism.  

In Nigeria, there is the possibility of an emerging cultural economy that could be bolstered with governmental support, but the music industry dogs behind the film industry Nollywood in doing things for itself. Understandably, there are unsavoury aspects of funding and patronage in the afrobeats economy. Proceeds from financial crimes often find their way to blend with the music: from direct patronage through praise-singing services to record labels floated to possibly launder dodgy money. 

A Quick Ting on Afrobeats hardly reflects on these moral conundrums. All too obsessed with Black pride and optimism, Adofo’s book embraces a positive outlook and perhaps this is the right attitude to afrobeats, a not-so-nascent genre probably making its way into global dominance. 

Afrobeats has been a journey more than two decades in the making and Adofo, in 193 pages of crisp prose, takes us through the key players, high moments and iconic songs of afrobeats

Poetry Time at Goethe Abansoro with Dami Ajayi and Kwaku Darko-Mensah Jnr

July’s Abansoro features Dami Ajayi and Kwaku Darko-Mensah Jnr, took place on the 20th of July at 7PM prompt. This night of poetry on the terrace was moderated by Dr. Martin Egblewogbe of the Writers Project of Ghana.

 

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