KWAM1, Pasuma and the Currency of loyalty (2), By Oladeinde Olawoyin
“If Taye Currency’s latest claim in 2024 is nonsensical …, Pasuma’s claim in 2004 (which he withdrew after he was called out) was no less ahistorical.”
On October 21 1993, two important things happened in the life of Wasiu Alabi Pasuma: he launched Recognition, his debut album, and had the naming ceremony of Baraka, his second daughter.
Since Abass Akande Obesere was already popular at the time, having released two albums, the lewd merchant was the “star artiste” at Pasuma’s album launch at LSPDC Estate in Isolo. Although they had had a somewhat cordial relationship in the years prior (with Obesere playing the “big brother” role), that event would mark the genesis of an artistic relationship fraught in subtle, largely unexpressed battle for supremacy.
In the years that followed, up until the second half of the new millenium, Obesere would exhibit his mastery of lewd lyrics largely outside the shores of the country, making a lot of money while at it. On his part, Alabi Pasuma, upon releasing a sequel, Choices (1994) , and then Orobokibo (1995), a monster hit, never looked back in his near-total dictation of what constituted the zeitgeist among younger Fuji buffs across the Southwest and beyond.
So even though Obesere paved the way for his generation before plying his trade abroad for the most part of the decade that followed, Pasuma took the game a notch higher, shattering records within and outside the Fuji industry. And more than any artiste of his generation, Pasuma’s appeal—both in the realms of art and fashion & style—went beyond the Fuji circles.
First, when he came out with “Orobokibo” and “Kiboroki”, a corruption of ‘keep on rocking’ which influenced bread, soft drinks, and women’s descriptions, the street literally took ownership of the lingo. Again, when he introduced the Kangol hat, the streets went haywire and everyone who had some “fashion sense” among Fuji buffs adorned it. Then he went ahead with “Nautical” shirt, “Desperado” cap and all that—all of which the “streets” accepted amid loud ovations.
When he adopted “Aliyah” as the name of one of his children, nearly every Fuji lover in Lagos and elsewhere became “Popsie Aliyah”—same way they adopted “’Baa Baraka” before it.
Outside of the Fuji world, Pasuma took the gospel of the genre further, featuring in some of the most important, culture-defining Afro-pop collaborations on the cusp of the millennium and afterwards: think ‘Jealousy’ with the Remedies, ‘Konko Jabele’ with Artquake & Ruggedman, “Ati jelo” with 9ice, among others. He even changed the game completely, recording a pop album titled “My World”, featuring Tiwa Savage, Patoranking, Phyno, QDot, among other acts.
Decades prior, he had had an impressive outing on Celebrity Takes 2, a Nigerian version of “Dancing with the Stars”, among other important cultural projects.
So in terms of star power, especially outside the traditional Fuji fanbase, until recently when others are now attempting a sea change by deliberating appealing to fans outside of their traditional base, Pasuma stood head and shoulders above his peers.
In all of these years, Obesere was barely in the country, even though he was also a force to reckon with among Fuji buffs—and also featured in quite a number of Afro-pop projects, notably Kennis Music-promoted ‘Idan’ with Rasquie.
The dynamics of their respective places in popular culture would later define their relationship: while Obesere struggled to sustain the old, pre-1993 big-brother relationship with practiced indifference, Pasuma made every attempt to stay outside Obesere’s big-brother—and indeed “mentorship”—umbrella.
Although he agrees, if grudgingly, that Obesere came to limelight before him, he does not mince words when rejecting every narrative that places Obesere as his superior. And if there was any doubt about this silent rebellion, Pasuma put paid to it sometime in the 2000s.
II
In 2004, Pasuma threw a grenade, almost literally, into the Fuji arena and everyone scampered for safety. At a live show staged at Alesh Hotels, Ajah, he infamously claimed that after KWAM1, there isn’t any artiste more important than him in the Fuji hierarchy:
“Leyin K1… k’osoluwa re o J’ibola…” he quipped—-a grossly ahistorical heresy to which his fans cheered in wild jubilation, as he pounced across the stage in his trademark kangol cap. At the time, K1 made no notable intervention to the controversial discourse.
Interestingly, last year, exactly twenty years after, perhaps the most offensive of Taye Curency’s outbursts in his latest tango with Pasuma was the performance at Bottles Lounge in Bodija, Ibadan, wherein Taiye Currency claimed, among other things, that apart from K1, he pays little to no respect to all other artistes——Pasuma, his godfather, inclusive.
Again, that was another ahistorical heresy.
But this time, due to his centrality to the entire discourse, K1 intervened—-a move that would, quite ironically, open him up to scrutiny in the hands of some other artistes, most notably Saheed Osupa.
Yet between Pasuma and Currency, the mutual idea of placing only K1 above the bar of respectability, first, in 2004, and later in 2024, is quite understandable: the Arabambi uprising took shape, first, when K1 adopted Pasuma as his Otunba in his commodious palace, and, when the Olufimo battle got to its crescendo, both artistes (Arabambis 2&3) were notable voices in the K1-led Arabambi camp.
But if Taye Currency’s latest claim in 2024 is evidently nonsensical by every stretch of the imagination, Pasuma’s claim in 2004 (which he withdrew after he was called out) was no less ahistorical.
For, apart from Iyanda Sawaba Ewenla, Ilori Wahabi, and others who were no less big names alongside K1 at some point, there is a whole generation of artistes who came before Obesere opened the door for Pasuma’s generation on the cusp of the 1990s.
On the radar screen were voices like Rashidi Ayinde Merenge, Aremu Kamulansa, Alamu Shamson, Ajao Lukmon, Alao Sefiu Cardoso, Adewale Creator, Wasiu Ejire, Toyin Adio, Lateef Ilori (Fuji Tutuye), Adio Sulaimon Erinlakatabu, Muri Karisi, Arike Musili, Abefe Ganiyu, Adisa Owala, Ayinde ‘Simiyu Karube, Love Idris Adisa (aka Penicure), Saura Suraju, Sikiru Kolotiti, among others.
Now, if Abeokuta-based Cardoso, Ilorin-based Owala, and Ibadan-based Merenge had geographical limitation as a plausible impediment to their success, media visibility, and all-round respectability, there were other marquee names like Musbau Alani Comma, Adewale Ayuba, Akanni Sir Shina Scorpido, Easy Ajani Kabaka and co——all visibly active and popular names who made wave in Lagos and environs at the time.
Let’s cut to the chase: Alabi Pasuma and, to some degree, Taye Currency’s self-inflation isn’t much of a surprise. The danger this time is that where journalism fails to provide contexts, emotive fans shape the colour of such conversations——and bloggers throw in more confusion and chaos.
As in rap and most other art forms, Fuji can’t be separated from rivalry and supremacy battles—-at the centre of which is braggadocio and self-inflation. In the early years, the art had its roots in open competitions in the heart of Lagos Island and environs, wherein artistes came out to proclaim their supremacy in the craft before earning accolades, fame, money and street cred. Those were tough battles that, sometimes, metamorphised into acrimonious struggles and eternal enmity.
As the art graduated from street competitions into the realm of the studios, the battle for supremacy intensified, becoming major determinants of sales record, patronage, all-round visibility, and ultimate survival.
While some artistes are quite measured in their self-inflating projections, others are rash and borderline irrational. But that notwithstanding, from Agbaakin Sikiru Ayinde Barrister through to Shanko Rashidi, self-inflation is an integral part of the art—-even among those considered “humble” in some quarters…again, like Obesere.
One of the oft-forgotten aspects of Fuji evolution was Obesere’s numerous battles in the early years, first, with Easy Ajani Kabaka, with whom he wrestled for the ownership of the moniker “African Fuji Michael Jackson”. If his troubles with Kabaka were largely lyrical, the one with Rashidi Ayinde Merenge were far more chaotic.
On a few occasions, per some accounts, Obesere would assemble boys to go disrupt Merenge’s shows in Ibadan, and he even add lyrical verses abusing him with health challenges. After exploiting the physical by taking the battles to his adversaries, he took it higher in the lyrical——and perhaps, er, spiritual——realms, waxing easily one of the most memorable diss-amplifying beats in Fuji history:
“Talaso Ibadan
O ti d’eni abuku
Wa jiya, waa j’eweya…”
In effect, to separate Fuji from rivalry—and even acrimonious supremacy battles–is to strip the genre of its magic.
So when the Pasuma-Taye Currency tango began, Fuji buffs knew it was just a traditional ritual. But interestingly, the Pasuma-Currency fewd has Obesere’s name boldly written underneath as a subtext, with Tiri Leather appearing merely as a willing, fame-hungry pawn. And to understand the anger of Pasuma and his fans, you need to study Pasuma himself closely, and perhaps how branding works in the Fuji world.
In Fuji, as in most other musical genres, the politics of street credibility—and to some degree, “respectability”—is built around exhibitionism, showmanship and braggadocio, which could be subtle or otherwise. Interestingly, nobody has mastered the sublime art of ‘humble-brag’ like Alabi Pasuma.
(On the flipside, when put matter-of-factly, there is a sense in which Rashidi Ayinde Merenge’s famed humility impacted negatively on his street cred, and his position in Fuji hierarchy, so much so that he is being perennially placed below Sir Shina Akanni, something he considers belittling and he indeed attempted to correct—ironically in his trademark “humble” manner—in a recent interview following Shina Akanni’s proclamation of his desire to also become the “next king” inside Fuji’s commodious palace of commotion. But that’s a topic for another day).
To be sure, in everyday human interaction, Pasuma is indeed very, very humble; and he is a jolly good fellow. But he is smart enough to separate daily life from his art, a dichotomy so subtle it takes a careful observer of trends to separate the chaff from the wheat. So in effect, whenever Pasuma the artiste grabs the microphone, only the discerning could decipher that he isn’t exactly the same Wasiu Alabi Odetola who just sauntered into the studio, bowing before everyone, beaming with smile. He is the type that brags without necessarily being seen as bragging.
In Faze 2, the popular live tape marking his 50th birthday, Pasuma acknowledged before his fans that Obesere, Ayuba and Sefiu found fame before him. He specifically mentioned Obesere, acknowledged his trend-setting position, but added, almost in the same breath, a caveat: When it comes to age, he knows his age mates; and when it comes to fame today, he is the talk of the town, the “Omo to n so”.
Yet that argument is flawed, at least on one particular ground. For,even though Obesere’s celebration of his 60th this January may have shattered the argument completely, age isn’t even a full measurement of seniority in Fuji world, but longevity in the craft. Too many Fuji artistes don’t get their big breaks until decades after oiling their craft underground, and the fact that they spent years in obscurity makes it difficult to ascertain seniority, leaving objective viewers with fairly measurable metrics like years of album release, street cred, popularity, media visibility, concerts appearances, awards and recognition, etc.
Again, during his 50th birthday celebration, Pasuma narrated how he adopted Sule Alao Malaika as a “protegee” for being “loyal”. Then he lamented how he became Otunba and his contemporaries rejected the title and Malaika, shockingly for him, pronounced himself the king of “new generation” and added Pasuma among his palace chiefs and court jesters. He considered it insulting and disappointing, given that Malaika benefitted from what had earlier soiled his relationship with Sule Adio Atawewe, an old ally.
@officialpasuma)
Yet Pasuma’s show of theatrical disbelief, in a way, only tells a part of the story of his relationship with Malaika, one that is as complex and complicated as Pasuma’s relationship with Obesere. Prior to their recording of Fuji Gyration (a Saheed Balogun-Bayowa Films project featuring Adex and the late Father-U-Turn) in 2001, both had recorded Appreciation in 1998, cementing a relationship that was forged, partly, on the back of the need to push off external threats from Saheed Osupa and his rampaging Ajegunle boys led by Muri Thunder (Remember Malaika’s memorable diss track satirizing Osupa’s presumed misfortune at the time– “Saidi Saridon P Oniranu!”– and Muri Thunder’s own dissing: “… Iyen ni iko awugbe… iko awusubu… E sa fun Malaika Abirun akorin…”?)
At the time, Malaika—who had just had a name change from “Tekoye”—wasn’t quite conscious of the dynamics of his relationship with Pasuma, even though Pasuma clearly considered him a protegee. By the time he too realized, plenty waters had passed under the bridge and when things would finally fall apart, he limped out of the relationship with an “Alayeluwa” crown, proclaiming his kingship over a generation he so cleverly exempted Obesere from, but included those who came afterwards, prominent among whom was Pasuma!
Such hilarity.
In essence, the complexity of interactions among these artistes explains, in part, the fluidity of loyalty in the Fuji world. Apart from collaborations and the frictions that shape such interactions, in the way patronage and loyalty work in Fuji, “respectability” can also be shaped by the murky waters of politics and political affiliation. K1, a talented artiste through and through, enjoys some level of respectability—some may say “notoriety”, depending on perspective—also on the back of his politics, garnering fame and fortune along the way. Taye Currency brags endlessly about and reaps scorn, too, partly on the back of his relationship with Makinde in Oyo.
But as history has shown in the Fuji kingdom, the currency one pays for loyalty and respectability isn’t denominated, ultimately, in such things as money, fame, power—-or even enforced, performative demand for respect. The currency of loyalty is earned from open-mindedness and large heartedness, respect for even the tiniest of talents in the ecosystem, while delivering enduring arts that stand the test of time and appeal to all generations. That way, warts and all, nearly everyone respects or is loyal to you, or your arts—–or both. Whether alive, or even in death.
Like Sikiru Ayinde Barrister.
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