Olamide: The Argument for Being Nigeria’s King of Pop

by Paul Chuks

Emily Nkanga/CC

The year was 2012, and Olamide had just dropped the single ("First of all") off his sophomore studio album, YBNL, and the country was taken aback by what they heard. After that they danced to the song and coined a street slang out from it that had many functions. Rapped in a burlesque soprano voice, almost fitting of the kind expected in a children’s documentary, Olamide humored his listeners to the wittiness of his caustic sarcasm. The first verse contained a potpourri of emotional vulnerability and braggadocios that he had earned. He introduced himself thus: “first of all, introduction, ah introduction//first of all introduction, okay ah go down low//first of all introduction na me wey sing eni duro and omo to shan"—his songs being smash hits that had Lagos and the rest of Nigeria grooving and grinding their hooves to indigenous rap. “Introduction” became the word said after “first of all" in all kinds of setting; from corporate to academic to governmental to holy. It was as though every audience, congregation, crowd, pupil waited for whoever had the mic to say the word and get their custom reply.

I take a flashback to the first day of school of a new term in 2012 when all students converged at the assembly ground. After the national anthem and pledge were recited, the principal took the microphone for her ritualistic first day of school speech. Immediately she took position and said “first of all.” A loud “introduction” chorused back at her, and she stood, stunned, looking at her staff to help compute what had taken over her students. She took position again and went “first of all” to really kick-start her speech, but the “introduction” that followed felt like a protest word pelted at her. This time her fury bewitched her like she was under exorcism, and she warned that if we crooned "introduction” back to her, we’d feel the wrath of a scorned Benin woman. The third time, it was faint and she fished out those students who still dared to echo "introduction" at her. On our way to class, we laughed at them saying “olamide don put am inside trouble,” English for, they are in trouble for an Olamide song. If anything, this incident shows how deeply penetrative Olamide’s music has been in the pop scene. He heralded a new generation of rap listeners who wanted to listen to someone rap in their language and receive national honors for it. There were indigenous rappers who preceded him, like Lord of Ajasa, Dagrin, AY(Bamidele). But none among them did it like Olamide. Dagrin had the potential to, but his career was short-lived due to an auto-crash that claimed his life. Olamide ushered in the renaissance of Yoruba rap after his death.

The song "First of all" is not just about its jocularity. It is also an embodiment of Olamide’s artistry and persona. As much as he could be a jester and a braggart, he could also be a lover boy who is in tune with his emotion and is ready to explore the arable lands of love with his lover. The song also foresaw and foreran his commercial success. At the time it dropped, he stated that “na we dey control the whole arena//either we dey for Nigeria or Ghana." It was fairly true because he was still at the kick of his career. Today it is true because he is at the zenith. He can shut down anywhere in Nigeria, Ghana and the whole of Africa without breaking a sweat. His legacy is always touched in sand on social media because indigenous artists in general struggle to fit into the pop psyche of a people who still possess and embrace their colonial music palate. The English-speaking rapper/singer has a better chance of fanfare and is automatically rated higher because they are taught in school that their indigenous language is vernacular, and so should not be spoken while the English language is sophisticated, bearing the heft of intelligence. It was worse when he emerged into the scene. Many people mistook his indigenous style for his inability to rap in English. He took shots at his peers on occasions, telling them they were not Kendrick or Drake and their English-speaking dexterity wouldn’t earn them a BET award, announcing he’ll never quit rapping in his native language, and they either leave him alone or deal with it. Today, he can shut down shows in America and a host of other Western countries. In a more recent Canadian show he held at Queen Elizabeth Theatre in Toronto, he delivered what culture writers called an “electrifying show” and had words for his naysayers. He held his microphone to the crowd and watched them perform his song as though he paid for their entertainment. At the end, he said “won de ni awon iyalaya won oni fans.” When stripped of its mordancy, it meant, “I thought they said I do not have fans?”

Today, people have become more receptive of his music which is a testament of his artistry—an achievement understated and overlooked, given the unending love Nigerians have with the English language. The amount of hits he made during his hungry years was a phenomenon that is only redolent of Drake. Even the Popular Big 3 of Afrobeat—Wizkid, Davido and Burnaboy, do not have as many hits like him and have not been the nerve of pop culture. Of the three, only Davido has created a dance style that possessed the country. Wizkid’s Azonto was an earworm for dancers, but Ghanaians had already sung it and stylized it. Olamide created three on his own: Shakitibobo, Wo, Science students. It would have been four, but dab was a Western heirloom that started trending in the U.S before it came down here. Of the three, none has inspired street slangs like Olamide. The much contested “who you epp” was said to be popular in the South-South, but when Olamide sang it, it became national. When “sneh” dropped, Facebook saw a wave of users change their surname to sneh or add it to their names. He popularized the word turn up with the introduction of it in his hit single; he popularized shoro niyen, English for “is that talk?” and often said when someone makes a rude comment. It is hard to contest the claim that the man who made hits in multiple genres more than his peers, stylized several dance steps by himself, more than his peers, inspired new slangs more than his peers, inspired new fashion trends like hair bleaches and timberland, is not our King of Pop. Michael Jackson was crowned the King of Pop for no less.

The only surviving argument against him is his lack of “international recognition,” to which he replied “shey iyen ni maami ma je?” meaning, will international recognition feed his mother? Olamide believed he was satisfied with his home audience because he did not foresee a white English teenager in North-London bumping to his music, and even if they did, they would be the curious ones. And understanding his music was more paramount. The international recognition movement has been a blessing and a scourge. Blessing in the sense that it opened the world to the beautiful sounds of Afrobeat. Scourge in the sense that Afrobeat has now been caught between the jaws of Western monopoly and is defined by it. Any artist who stays back and refuses Western audience or does not collaborate with a Western star or is not affiliated with any Western label is seen as unambitious and a local champion. A defeatist mindset that is reflective of the sharp fangs of colonialism still burrowed in our psyche. Since Afrobeat is home to Nigeria and Africa, Westerners should be seen as just business partners. The monopoly should remain home, and artists should be judged by what they do at home. If the reason we call Michael Jackson the King of Pop is because of his impact on the pop culture, from music to dance to fashion trends, then it logically follows that Olamide should take the crown, since he perfectly checks all the criteria.