Interview: FUJI Music in focus

Sule Alao Malaika pour out his mind on the Fuji Scene in an unconventional interview with Ayanda Abeke. This interview was conducted sometime in December last year(2008).

THE INTERVIEW


AYANDA ABEKE: What is it about king or no king issue. I mean in the FUJI circle.

SULE ALAO MALAIKA: There is nothing there my brother.

AYANDA ABEKE: Please let me know your opinion about this issue.

SULE ALAO MALAIKA: Which issue?

AYANDA ABEKE: Working on the aesthetics of FUJI Music, I recently listened to one of your live-shows and I heard you talking about the Osupa as new King of Fuji. Really, it’s not that I am against your view as you disproved him, is just that I'm much concerned about the essence of FUJI Music and what it has turned to. If for anything, you are one of those few FUJI musicians I respect a lot. The New Oba of FUJI and the recent issue between you and OSUPA could you please throw more light on these two.

SULE ALAO MALAIKA: There is nothing between Osupa and me. If you read my note on FaceBook, you’ll see that I was not involved in the issue at all. Concerning the issue of Oba, I was chosen by a group of people as the KING OF NEW GENERATION since 2004 and was coronated in front of people by government officials and not by any musician. Neither was there any controversy since then. So I cannot really say much about those who begged to be made kings.

AYANDA ABEKE: Begged? You know that it was Mr. FUJI himself who made OSUPA the king of FUJI and I don't think his reign has generational barrier.

SULE ALAO MALAIKA: He made him KING OF MUSIC NOT KING OF FUJI and the same Barrister came back again to say he has withdrawn from his earlier pronouncement. It was not even up to six months.

AYANDA ABEKE: WOW! This is funny really. But I watched the video of that event.

SULE ALAO MALAIKA: So you can see that it is really funny. Is Barrister saying that Osupa is king over Lagbaja, KSA, Oliver de Coque and even Barrister himself?

AYANDA ABEKE: That can't be. I think he meant KING OF FUJI and not KING OF MUSIC.

SULE ALAO MALAIKA: So is it justified and does it make sense? Even Osupa himself said KING OF MUSIC.

AYANDA ABEKE: Well, I can't really judge that because, the fuji fans don't really know the cabalism going on in the industry. Well, That's rather a mistake on Mr. FUJI's part.

SULE ALAO MALAIKA: Nothing like cabalism.

AYANDA ABEKE: Are you sure?

SULE ALAO MALAIKA: I mean no cabal in the industry, just some people who wanted undue and unnecessary noise for themselves.

AYANDA ABEKE: Now, when you say you're the king of New Generation Fuji Musicians, you mean OSUPA, PASUMA, Muri Tunder and some others that I can't remember their names now, are members of that generation? I need to know your view about this...

SULE ALAO MALAIKA: I did not say, people choose me as king and they considered various things before making me King. Osupa says he can sing very well, Pasuma says he can entertain. I am not boasting but I can SING VERY WELL, ENTERTAIN, DANCE, PLAY THE DRUMS etc. In a class, is it possible for the overall best student to be the one that only knows ENGLISH or MATHS? But he would be good, if not the best in almost all subjects.

AYANDA ABEKE: That's a good respond

SULE ALAO MALAIKA: Thanks

AYANDA ABEKE: I must confess you're very intelligent But I will be asking you more questions when next we get locked on the net, particularly on FACEBOOK. Cheers.

Anticipating Onyeka Nwelue’s The Abyssinian Boy...

DADA Books, an imprint of Dream Arts and Design Agency, have signed a book deal with 20 year-old University of Nigeria sophomore, Onyeka Nwelue, to publish his novel, The Abyssinian Boy by December 2008.

Onyeka Nwelue was born in Nigeria in 1988. After graduating from High School at 17, he travelled to South Asia, particularly to India, where he wrote the first draft of his novel in three months. He has been published in the Guardian, The Sun, Eclectica, Nigeria Village Square, Kafla InterContinental and Wild Goose Poetry Review. He has received a grant from the Institute for Research on African Women, Children and Culture (IRAWCC) and is currently working on his second novel.

Set in India and Nigeria (and scattered locations of the world), The Abyssinian Boy is about a family whose nine year-old child gets haunted by an albino dwarf ghost.

Ayodele Arigbabu, publisher of DADA Books, refusing to comment on the terms of the deal, rather said: ‘The Abyssinian Boy lays bare the many paradoxes of culture clash with thought provoking and often amusing ironies’. Chika Unigwe, Nigerian-Belgian author of The Phoenix describes it as ‘an ambitious novel’.



DADA Books was established earlier this year and has already published performance poet- Jumoke Verissimo’s first poetry collection: I am Memory which is currently being promoted through a series of readings and performances around Nigeria.

If the progress made by I am Memory is any indicator of what to expect from the publishers of The Abyssinian Boy (which is fast becoming the most anticipated novel in India and Nigeria), then Onyeka Nwelue is off to a good start. Sources close to the author have suggested that he may have been paid a hefty advance by the publishers.

For enquiries, contact: DADA Books, 1st Floor, 95 Bode Thomas Street, Surulere, Lagos; Tel: +234-01-7451990. E.mail: dreamarts.designage ncy@gmail. com

LIVE in ABUJA: Toni Kan Reads at SALAMADER CAFE

Salamander Café, Abuja

Tuesday 9th December, 5pm for 5.30pm start

Nights of the Creaking Bed is a collection of tales that speak to the heart of our existence as human beings navigating the profoundly difficult terrain that we call life in Nigeria. This collection, which has been described by writer and literary critic, Molara Wood, as “a cohesive and stylish collection, with atmospheric scenes and noir elements,” explores themes as quotidian and disturbing as corruption, religious intolerance, gratuitous violence, ritual killing, gnawing poverty, unrequited love and even incest.

The characters that inhabit Nights of The Creaking Bed are colourful, real and conflicted, while the stories read like they have been torn off the pages of our lives as well as those of our friends, family and neighbours. Of Kan’s female characters, Molara Wood notes: ‘His women characters dare to be different. Without apologies, they rebel against the constricting box of conformity. They are familiar women, unclothed.’

This is a hauntingly beautiful collection and the images are so evocative that they will stick in the mind long after you have closed the book.

Meet the author, buy your signed copies, listen to fresh musical talent from Jos...


About the Author
Toni Kan is an award winning poet, essayist and prose stylist. Toni has previously published two critically acclaimed books: When a Dream Lingers Too Long, a collection of poems which received Honourable Mention at the ANA-Cadbury Poetry Prize in 2003 and a novella, Ballad of Rage, which was shortlisted for the maiden NLNG award in 2004 and also received honourable mention at the ANA/Spectrum Prose Prize of the same year. His works have appeared in Salthill, Drum Voices, Revue, Farafina, Sentinel Poetry Quarterly and ANA Review.

Salamander Café,
Nr Mama Cass
Wuse 2
Abuja

RSVP (only 50 seats available):
Folake: 0805 631 4593,0702 785 0936 or email: folake@cassavarepublic.biz

Farafina Magazine's Event

Farafina Magazine invites you to join us for our premiere Visual Arts & Literature event holding at Bambuddha Restaurant on the 13th of December, 2008 at 2 pm.

There will be a photography exhibition by Adolphus Opara, a film screening (selected clips from Molara Wood's interview with acclaimed writer, Ben Okri), spoken word performances, and readings by Nnedi Okorafor and Eghosa Imasuen.

Some new information... Timi Dakolo, winner of the inaugural Idols West Africa, will also be at the event.He will be performing.

Time and Place

Date: 13 December 2008
Time: 14:00 - 18:00
Location: Bambudhha Restaurant Street:
1310, Karimu Ikotun, Victoria Island

Contact Info

Phone: 017406741
Email: imfo@farafinamagazine.com

For more information, visit: http://thefarafinist.blogspot.com

WRITERS ANONYMOUS

The African Artist's Foundation will host its second rendezvous for writers from all backgrounds and all persuasions called: Writers Anonymous- a workshop (more of a salon for writers really) that offers mutual support to writers to help them come to terms with the pains and gains of their literary vocation.

Writers Anonymous is a forum designed to foster an anonymous ambiance where mutual sharing and learning constitute the main drivers of creative exchange, with (a) guest writer(s) (who remain anonymous -beyond a couple of hints- till the set date) in attendance to share experiences with others on the path travelled while building their craft and careers as writers.

Writers Anonymous will create an environment for the sharing of creative writing tips and of course, of great poetry and prose excerpts between writers of different levels of competence and lovers of literature in general.

The SECOND EDITION of WRITERS ANONYMOUS will hold on Saturday the 6th of December 2008 from 3pm-7pm at the African Artists' Foundation terrace, 54 Raymond Njoku Street S/W Ikoyi, Lagos. Drinks and small chops will be in decent supply so bring a friend along.


RSVP: ayo.a@africanartists.org, +234 803 300 0499

Memory Lane

When there is nobody to be called upon at difficult moments, succour refuses to be at your command, and a multitude of people in your environment who earlier pronounced you proficient in all things become the first to ululate at your pit-fall, in such times are we left devastated and numbed. This moment in a life time is as chilling as the death day. Steadfastness is the best drug to cure the disheartening disease, in a moment like these, when all things starkly turn against one.

The statistics of recent obituary bills have shown that death is really an omen to wealthy families and ominous to others.
“Age 75: Gone too soon,” a wealthy family’s obituary recently proclaims in the news journals and electronic media.
“Age 45: Gone to rest in his arms,” says pauper’s obituary on broken walls and wood walls across tattered streets of this state. O the grim angle of death, you are indeed cruel, selfish and self-centred! You always take away saints and leave sinners!

Sincerely, my dad’s death was more than disaster, for the agony and havoc it created afterwards could not be quantified. Without a doubt, streams cannot be covered with coco leaves. Typically, we have lived as one big happy family. My dad, in his life time, worked as a manager in one of the country’s biggest lottery companies and my mum as a food vendor in a well rated bank as well.

Before now, long ago in much earlier times, my dad had always pointed to me in our discussions that he was once an energetic trader in the Gold-Coast, the present day Ghana . And when I grew up, to be precise, in the college, in my Geography class, I got to know that Ghana is one of the numerous neighboring countries to Nigeria , the arguable “giant of Africa .” But I’m sure if had known this much about West Africa and Africa as a continent, I would have one day asked him: “On what basis is Nigeria the giant of Africa ?” And I’m as sure as the death day that he would have sprang up a thoughtful argument. Many stories did my dear dad tell me about life and his endeavours. No doubt, trading had made a stronger man of him amidst the dangers and terrors encountered on his trade-mission sojourns.

One day, Bowofola Binuyo recalled the must terrific day of his life whilst chatting with me, on a dull Sunday evening. We were both in our small room situated in a shabby slum recently slated for rehabilitation by the state government, in the suburb of the most popular and populous city in Nigeria , Lagos …the land of wisdom, quickness and perhaps fastness. Never stop, keep moving; don’t wait nor relax, time is important. Lagos as a city never waits for anybody, but what you make of it is with your solitary effort.

With excitement my dad said to me, “The day I could on no account forget in my life was that day I was trapped in the middle of a thick and dark forest along the outskirts of the then Gold-Coast (Ghana).” This day was a Friday. After purchasing goods, he had to sneak through the thickest wild forest that housed all sorts of wild animal you can imagine. This was because the goods he had bought with thousands of cedes were illegal, so he could not pass through the boarder without being checked thoroughly. Suddenly, in the far distance, a strange sound echoed; towards his path, he saw troop of plum and thin elephants treading in their weight and height order.
“Bode, stop!” he murmured to his younger brother who accompanied him on the journey.
“For what? You mean you want to delay me in this thick terrific forest,” Bode replied feverishly.
“Okay. Look straight into your front and tell me what you see”
“Elephants trooping down our path,” he hurriedly replied, panting as if life would ebb out of him through his mouth in the next seconds.
“Come, come with me!” Bowofola said as quickly as he can, dragging his half-dead brother closer to himself. He held him tightly, resting Bode’s head on his torso so as to calm his nervousness.

Beside the deserted forest path they hid their goods and stylishly walked into the heart of the forest where they remained mute, almost devoid of breathing, at the back of a huge tree. Slowly, the brothers watched the elephants shamble away.

In the memory of my late dear dad I was lost such that I heard my name in a high tone: Biola!
“O, this is where you are”
“Hold your breath mister monitor or whatever you name is!”
“You can now go on and insult me after I had instructed your colleagues to clean your portion in your absence; you can go on and call me names.”
“Ah, I am sorry Mr. Laolu, I am sorry”
“No, there is no need being sorry afterwards, since you’ve now grown feather like duck in water, go on and call me names…”
“And it’s not so sir. I was robbed this morning on my way to the office”
“Robbed? How? Hope it’s not one-chance sah?
“Exactly sir”
“Stop calling me sir that does not accord respect in the sense. And I hope they did not beat you or perhaps do…”
“Not all. My God was with me, and the spirit of my dad never allowed their evil been unleashed on me.”
“Ha ha ha…your dad’s spirit.”
“Yes my God and the spirit of my dad saved me from their evil hands or you doubt me?”
“Doubt you? Not at all Biola. You have said the truth but putting your dad’s spirit after God’s intervention precisely was the genesis of my laughter.”
“How do you”
“Just kneel down, go on my dear little cleaner, and give praises to your lord and savior who saved you from the hands of human-wolves. And let your dad’s gentle soul rest in perfect peace. Because if he were to be alive and board the bus with you, he would have done nothing to prevent you from the hands of those one-chance guys were they in their horrific mood.”
“Thank you very much but…”
“Seeeeh! May God be with you all the time. And be careful next time. Look very well and be sure before you board any bus next time.”
“Amen. Thank you.”

Ayanada Abeke
Rumour Networks,
Lagos, Nigeria.

ONE CHANCE

(This short-piece is dedicated to all literary victims of "One Chance Syndrom")

As it has been established that nothing accepts sacrifices like the mouth, then man must work daily to complete the ritual offered to the mouth. Fortunately I always got all the sustenance I ever wanted in life from my parents, who joyfully backed in my pre and post primary school days, even when toys were my first attraction. What a wonderful blessing to have parents who care, as mine did. They cared not only for my education, which is the best legacy, they believed, but also monitored my health strictly. I can still remember vividly the series of syrups I had to take every morning after my bath and the long minutes spent eating at the dining-table. My sweet and pretty looking mother washed my school uniform every holy evening and ironed it each early morning even before I was awake to assure my neatness for the school day. I was renowned for my chocolate padded portable bag. Creamy, brownie, yellowish of assorted colours and different tastes. And for my high level of chocolate consumption, Mr. Ajose, my dad’s childhood friend, nick-named me: Chocolate-teeth. I danced energetically to his rhythmic and seasoned voice. My parents’ devotion never depreciated at any point, but rather appreciated each time I added a year to my existence. It used to be all fun at my birthday ceremonies. Elaborate cakes with inscriptions of my name and my age…I remember those good days and their memories usually lingered for days in my pierced heart.

Ah, but death also needs to taste. If only he was still alive. For death, you came just before dawn to take my precious away without prior acknowledgement. You ejected sorrow and heartache into the marrow of a happy and joyous family. You couldn’t think of anything more rewarding than to cut short the life of a beautifully looking flower, endearing even at the depth of sunrise. Bowofola Binuyo. Hereafter, wherever you reside now, forget not your pretty precious and devoted wife and you lovely children. We will make sure your name is elevated and vindicated here on earth if you do not desert us. Su n re o.
After my dad’s death, everybody in the family became a tool of industry, a commercial vessel. We worked so as to keep the family going. I was not exempted from the early morning’s rigorous tasks before going to school, despite being the first born, nor any others that promptly awaited me after hectic hours of lecturing in school. Many times, the attendant record would close before I resumed school. At the end of the last term, I was failed because of my late comings, as it was boldly written on my report sheet. But I sang:
“I can’t be loved all the time”
“I can’t be hated all the time”
The great Bob Marley sang.
And re-sang:
“I can’t fail all the time”
“I can’t pass all the time”, rephrasing Bob Marley’s lyric and this ever since has been my golden principal.

As a matter of fact, after my 0’level exams, I undertook a job, office assistant in big Insurance Company, B&B on the Island. And as the assistant and a partial office cleaner, I had to wake up early in the morning, I mean by 5 a.m, jump up on my fragile feet, do what had to be done, before I finally bounced out at quarter to 6 a.m. Then I was off to the bus-stop close to my house and off to my glorified office. But the act that was performed during the road-stage, on the very last day of the very last month before I moved on to taste a new life in education was a sacrifice that my mouth can hardly speak of. At barely 6:15 a.m. on a breezy Thursday morning, I was at the bus-stop waiting. It wasn’t long before a bus arrived with the conductor calling Obalende at the very top of his Indian-hemp shaped voice, even smelling of the stuff, and since this was my destined fate, I boarded the bus with two other ladies and an old man.

The rough haggard looking conductor had collected his fair from virtually everybody with the exception of two cool, well-dressed young men. Just as we were about to climb the third mainland bridge, the young men simultaneously brought out cool-steel pistols and asked every one of us who boarded the bus from Ojuelegba to surrender our valuable possessions. Although, having heard series of cruel stories perpetrated by the so-call “one-chance” I still couldn’t believe my being a victim that morning.

Ayanda Abeke
Rumour Networks
Lagos.