C.E.O

Dagrin
Chief Executive Omo-Ita (CEO)
Remarkable rapper of YQ’s Efimile fame, Dagrin, has released yet another studio album. He must have furiously returned to the studio perhaps to assert his claim to the Nigerian Mic and air waves after the disappointing outing of his first effort.
A 10 track album with three bonus tracks, one being the instrumental of one of the previously featured song, Pon Pon Pon, this album is suffused with enough energy to power a clubhouse. The upbeat tempo of most of the tracks reminds one of youthful exuberance which is perhaps the only short-coming of this album.
Summarily on track six, the artist enunciate the purpose of this L.P—OWO, IGBO, ASHEWO, all remarkable articles of wild life often attributed to the young. But one can’t put this album down on this premise. Dagrin, as a lyricist, is witty, brave and very stylistic, although his offerings are reminiscent of the dimunitive Lord of Ajasa. Dagrin is taking dialectical rap beyond boundaries, his vocals are almost entirely in his mother tongue and his word plays are still on point. This puts him in the same realm with the likes of 9ice, fellow proponents of the Yoruba language.
The first four tracks are my favourites. They are filled with the energy that hip-pop seem to have lost to what is obtainable on the radios of late. These tracks are wholesome takes on his life, survival and hustle which characterize the “Nigerian dream”. “Everyday”, a pretty much short track thrives on gross experimentation and rather than bury Dagrin’s craft in the graveyard of Sampling, it exalts him as a quintessential rapper with an important voice.
Pon Pon Pon’s delivery is similar to 50cent’s Get rich or Die trying album. It’s perhaps the most Hip song of the year: real hard core stuff replete with gunshots and off-the-cliff word plays. Kondo is easily a Nigeria version of Magic stick but has the high-school charm of J-kwan’s Tipsy. Other remarkable tracks are Hola with Isolate, who sounds a lot like 9ice; the gospel- appeal song with West African idols’ Omawunmi and booty song with Lala, Nla.
This album is perhaps a remake of the typical Brooklyn rap album packaged as a Nigerian version with our definition of hustle and sensibilities. A good L.P!!!

On The Abyssinian Boy and the Boy who wrote it.

There is no longer any such thing like fiction or non-fiction; there’s only a narrative. This were the exact words of E.L Doctorow, a reputable American author which holds true in The Abyssinian Boy, debut effort of Onyeka Nwelue, one of the youngest Nigerian novelists .
It is startlingly remarkable that Mr Nwelue penned this manuscript before age twenty, a time when his peers are beleaguered by the consequences of hormonal fluctuations and are decisively bothered with trendy ways of combating them and asserting themselves as indeed a generation with a difference.
Even more remarkable is the fact that at such a nascent stage, Mr Nwelue could dip his imaginations in the dyes of reality so much so that what he achieves is refreshingly familiar. The streets he describes, the people that populate his fictional world and even the emotional concerns of his characters are so real that his characters could be next door neighbours. His fiction is indeed a potent and genuine remake of reality which can neither be centrifuged nor decanted by analysis.
A part of this novel unfurls in India, in fact it in India we meet our characters in their “usual state”, before the essence of the story creeps in. This part of the novel is an amazing love song of India. The author takes readers on a virtual tour of the aesthetics of the World’s second most populous nation, romanticizing even its dregs in crisp prose. Easily, this part of the novel evokes colorful scenes similar to the kind in Bollywood movies. It is not surprising that the author wrote a decent helping of his manuscript in India and his narrative must have been roused by familiar sensations.
The major characters are the members of an “international” family comprising of a South Indian essayist, his East Nigerian wife and their half-caste nine-year old son, David. The most toward action in the novel’s plot is a visit to the wife’s home country Nigeria by the family and their encounters thereafter. Through Mr Nwelue’s ornate and sometimes faltering narrative, we plumb the detail of their lives. We see their imperfectness, their mistakes, misgivings, misadventures and even the weird relatives with whom they co-exist albeit idyllically.
We delve into their pasts often to relive their experiences, sometimes immaterial to the denouement, but all the same experiences thrust on us by the author’s prerogative. We traipse through refreshing anecdotes and comic vignettes that are perhaps posers of the author’s overseas experience.
The voice through which this story is told is controlled. And convincing. One sees Mr Nwelue toeing the lines of great predecessors like Amos Tutuola in his attempt to birth a language for his works. Even though one is not particularly convinced that he achieves this in The Abyssinian Boy, one can be sure he has set a template which would become a centerpiece attraction of his subsequent fictional endeavours.
The syntax of this work gives it the nuanced feel of a work in translation and the liberty with which the author deals his expressions might herald a new trend in sentence constructions. However the hyphenated depiction of expressions that are supposedly descriptions in this novel— you-are-very-stupid-and-hopeless-eye, so-what eyes—though heaps on the reader’s plate of humor are puerile nonetheless. Encountering invented adverbs like Neverthemore is shocking but hints readers on the poetic license the author has compelled to his prose.
More than anything, the thematic concerns enjoy a multiplicity that does not correlate with the length of the novel. Often, it seemed like the author’s artistic attempt to flare his connoisseurship and grant opinions on pertinent issues that have garnered cultural concerns and had become denominators cutting across humanity. However these issues are tackled fleetingly and often leave the reader with opinionated rather than holistic insights.
Colourful characters also abound in this novel. Easily the narrative becomes a marketplace where all sort of characters are introduced, perhaps in an attempt to achieve a sub-plot which doesn’t entirely work into the “big” narrative. These characters, with peculiar idiosyncrasies and sometimes phonations, interact with themselves and grapple a cast of human conditions such as religion, sexuality, cuisines, amongst other cultural concerns.
Also are the mystic overtones that lend the magical realism tag this novel sometimes bear from previous reviews. The recruitment of Nfanfa, an imaginary albino dwarf that fuels David’s hallucination is reminiscent of similar illusionary characters in Helen Oyeyemi’s The Icarus Girl, another first novel by another remarkable young Nigerian that dwells on homecoming and the troubles thereafter.
Mr Nwelue, no doubt, has penned a moving tale that underscores the issues of racial integration and culture clash. He has shown his promise and his flair as one of the important emerging contenders of the Great Nigerian Novel and readers can still expect the masterpiece tucked up his sleeves.

Concerning Tile-Tile and Other Children Stories

I am not against censorship for children. I think parents must be careful about what their children are exposed to especially in this time and age when sexuality ooze from all orifices—and the media does not help matters much. The contents of the Media which, is often solicited, as slowly morphed into home-delivered pornography in the guise of liberty of expression. Now radios blare lewd and explicit innuendoes and picture that best cuts the result is that a five year old singing to her uncle, with appropriate body wiggles, Tu-face’s Flex, it’s time to have sex, flex…
There are no two ways to say pathetic. And sympathy would not cure the danger the child is exposed to, for the child is not only endangered, he or she becomes a danger to him or herself. Much as parents review what their children are exposed too, at a critical stage their efforts are thwarted especially when a child gets into school, or any similar arrangement of its kind.
When my nephew was enrolled at a day-care, he started bringing abusive phrases like “bitch”, ambiguous cuss words like Oloriburuku—Just imagine!—home to the utmost surprise of his parents. But little could be done about this because much as some parents try hard to censor what their children are exposed too, some parents are lax in their (in)actions and the school, a meeting place, un-achieves parental efforts by and by.
At this stage very little can be done. Sex education could be employed but with extreme tactics and care. The parents would have to ensure a painstaking re-education of their children at regular intervals to purge them of both peer and societal mis-education. This might thrive in the early ages but the divide teenage years herald can be disastrous. The confidence of parents at this age becomes dubious to the young adolescents who are wont to lean on peers in his quest for propriety and social acceptance.
The adolescent, in defiance to his parent’s instructions, does exactly the opposite of what he or she is told at home. He listens to what the media proffers him; he thinks that rap music is hip; that it’s cool to “sag” his trousers below his gluteal cleft; that it’s absolutely cool to make female friends, in spite the parents’ admonitions in the favour of his academics. Terry-G with his dyed air and his habitual love for marijuana adopts the adolescent has a nephew with televised ease. And his avuncular instructions are obtainable from the lewd lyrics the adolescent pitches in the bathroom, in the unabashed company of his nakedness. And the impact, the sexually awakening that result could leave dire consequences.
It’s not that I don’t like Terry-G. I find his music and production skills top-notch perhaps that is why his status is an enviable one in the Nigeria Hip-pop Scene where he governs and churn out his brand of music to meet unsolicited record sales and massive radio play. Terry-G is easily Nigeria’s Lil Wayne in acoustic delivery and, I think, the only person that stumps his chances as Nigeria’s Producer Laureate is Don “Baba” Jay.
His art is impressive, and replete with the controversy that distinguishes any proponent of an art form. Artists have the tendency to become social dissenters, breaking norms and crossing mores with the liberty that their fame affords them, but I, as an individual, can separate the man and his works. I can assess his music without being perturbed by his life-style, love for extravagance and exuberance. I can enjoy his music, strip it of all authorial labels and relish it as an art form, even though it does not particularly fall in the category of higher arts.
But my little nephew cannot. He is not aware of the marked difference between the honeyed voice that brands a typical Nigeria girl, “Tile-Tile” and the reprobate who bears a bohemian haircut and basks in fumes of cannabis. So he would think calling a girl “Tile” or “Omo-Ele” is cool amongst many other sexually- implicit innuendoes obtainable from Terry-G’s, nay most Nigerian musicians lyrics. Soon he would ask his peers what Terry-G is smoking, and when they call it Mary. J, he would be obliged to attempt it. Like all inquisitive individuals, he is inclined to experiment. Now what I ask myself is who is to be blamed? The Bible says teach your child in a way of the lord so that he would depart from it. But I think again: the didactic role of parent is inherently inadequate, in the light of several opinions posited earlier. However I have resolved that whenever I am around my nephew and am urged to sing AY.com’s pass me your love, I would stifle the desire, hide my tongue under my palate and in my best tenor lisp the first few words of Panam Percy Paul’s Bring down your Glory—Lord, we are sorry.

Saraba on Issuu

Open publication - Free publishing - More saraba

Saraba!

i daresay this is the most succesful of saraba's outing. its mad good.

interview with Niran Okewole, essays from Eghosa Imasuen, reviews from Jude Dibia. short stories , great short stories form emmanuel iduma and ayo Famurewa. Its just too full! try download it, abeg. and pass on to your friends--and enemies.http://www.sarabamag.com/assets/saraba_issue3.pdf

Has Carl Found His Voice Yet?

Unarguably, Carl Thomas remains my best soul singer. This is can be wholly attributed to the artistic success of the Emotional Album, especially his track Summer Rain. But beyond that, Carl has a penchant for making good music. Good music being the kind of music that appeals to several experiences. Thus, his albums are eclectic in their outreach and, even though his genre of music is loosely based on emotion, Carl distinguishes himself as consummate professional.
Born in Aurora, Illinois, Carl left home, hiking to New York in his quest for fame and fortune, with his impressive vocal skills as the only item on his résumé. Lines fell in pleasant places for him when he met with P.Diddy, a renowned talent scout who could seek a pearl in a sprawling landscape of garbage.
Under the Bad Boy Label, Carl released his debut album, Emotional, in 1999 which met with widespread approval and impressive record sales—it even went platinum. I still listen to Emotional even though ten years has passed since its release. What draws me into this album is its originality. The blend of Carl’s fusion is so complete that it’s hard to decipher who he sounds like, hence his authencity. Great tracks abound in that album, in fact every song as the temperament and occasion it suits. And on a whole, it’s a smooth, long ride down the alleys of acoustic perfection.

Let’s Talk About It, his sophomore effort released in 2004, heralds a completely different experience. It’s definitely a more urban album designed to appeal to a larger fan base. This, of course, is an ingenious attempt of Carl’s Record Label at making more money under the auspices of catapulting Carl into renowned fame. Carl produced another eclectic fusion, but of Urban R and B and soul music, a mixture that had only been attained by few, even then grossly by serendipitous experimentation.
The initial swing with which the record begins is wild and rather than sustain the thumping beats courtesy successful American hit makers, Carl ingeniously sways into his usual slow tempo to deliver tracks reminiscent of the good, old, balladic Emotional days. However as fate would have it, Carl had to back out of the promotional tour of his second album when he heard the news of his brother’s death from an accidental drive-by shooting.
In an interview, he said, he sort of “lost his voice”. The loss of a close relative is no joke. And I sincerely empathesize with his grief. It was a good reason to remove himself from further musical endeavours and creep into the warmth of family to dissolve the hurt. That move also sort of thwarted his producer’s attempt at making a global hit out of Let’s Talk About it. And it turned the hype of the album to the barest minimum.
Perhaps it is the admixtures of all these scenarios that led to Carl’s exit from the Bad Boy Label. Carl left on the premise that he was not afforded the creative liberty he was awarded for his debut album on his second, and so launched into another record label, where, hopefully, he would become the captain of his musical career sail.
The result of this detachment from his custodian of fame produced another album in 2007 titled So Much Better. Like the name suggests, So Much Better, was a sincere declaration of liberty being more acceptable in comparison to his stilted stint at Bad Boy. Hence So Much Better, fashioned out primarily as a Mix Tape, became an experimental project that showcased Carl in his most sublime state.
Sincerely, So Much Better is a good album, with the usual spectrum of emotional range, with less executive intrusion, and is perhaps a sincere tribute to Carl’s temperament. I Thought Should Know, is a noteworthy love song, Oh No is a successful experimentation of soul with reggae, replete with the “marleian” feel. Home is an unbridled emotional avalanche on the importance of family, and signature interludes, usually unfinished songs, abound in this effort. But missing is Spoken Word poetry blended with rhythms, a feature on his previous albums, and the interludes are disappointedly shabby, lacking the usual lustre and feel brimming in his previous efforts.
On the whole, I was not convinced that Carl had gotten his voice back since the unfortunate incident of his brother’s death. I was also confused with whether to ascribe the failure of So Much Better entirely to the experimental basis of the effort or the poor publicity services proffered by his new Record Label. However, I would rest my case till Carl hits the stores again with another album.

Thoughts on Geisha.

War is a terrible thing. At least that is how I felt after I watched Memoirs of a Geisha. The movie produced by Speilberg( that is responsible for its length, some 2 hrs), and adapted from a book by Arthur Golden is indeed an expose on Japanese culture. And that is exactly what movies should be: a mirror through which a people, nay a culture, can reflect upon themself.
So what is a Geisha, you should ask? And what is so noteworthy in a Geisha to deserve a memoir? There is more to it than the eyes meet or the ears hear. The western culture is responsible for most of our wrong notion on Geishas and other figments of the Japanese culture.
Contrary to our opinions, traditionally a geisha is not a prostitute. Rather a geisha is a Japanese hostess trained in the acts of entertaining men by dancing, singing and serving. Even if I didn’t take any other thing away from this movie, at least that initial notion has been corrected. And I feel if that is all a movie does, rather than engage the viewer’s few hours, it is successful.
But this movie goes beyond that. It is structured. Even though a lot of scenes were thrown into building a story and educating the viewers’ about the Japanese culture, the plot is set in motion, albeit slow motion. All aspects of human emotions and endeavour are taken care of; talk about aspirations, desire, poverty, adventure, test of filial relationships, and most important of all love, is brushed into the mix. The story is essentially the coming of age of a young girl who becomes a geisha. The story is also essentially a Japanese tale of their status quo before the war, presumably WWII. When the war came, the structures of their culture were strictured. Names were preserved but duties were misplaced. Thence a geisha became a cheap prostitute, rather than an effigy of Japanese hospitality. But one is tempted to ask if this is the product of the war or time or both.
If there is anything a movie should leave one with, it’s a topic for future discourse. No doubt, Memoirs of a Geisha does.