Pasuma and the currency of loyalty (1), By Oladeinde Olawoyin

Pasuma

In recent months, the furore between Pasuma and Taye Currency has generated all sorts of discussions, some bordering on issues of originality, imitation, betrayal, loyalty, identity formation, protectionism, and, even, longevity. Many of the fans are enraged that Taye said Pasuma borrowed from Obesere’s art in the early years. Many called for his head; not a few others called him an ingrate, a betrayer. But anyone with the faintest idea of what’s playing out beneath the surface knows that the furore isn’t necessarily about the purported claim of “imitation”.

I

Fuji, in its pristine form, draws inspiration from storytelling. So we could begin with stories of the late 1980s, set in Ariya, Las Vegas and Chicago hotels, all in the inner crevices of the Lagos ghetto, Mushin, because that’s where the journey began. But it may not capture the entire story of a Lagos boy who wrestled with obscurity and later found fame and fortune by turning a masterful blend of street slang, irreverent lingo, and social deviance, into high art.

Perhaps we could go back in time and plot the story around the first half of the 1990s, when a skinny Wasiu Alabi (& his Fuji Cabaret) experienced a major turn-around in his career, on the back of a nomenclature change suggested partly by Tayo Adeolokun, and the late Jimoh Erinfolami (aka Jomo Kenyatta), his manager. But that may not give proper insights into the journey of a boy who understood the zeitgeist quite early in life by appropriating the brand name of a popular energy-boosting stimulant of that era, “Pasuma Strong” — from which he coined the sobriquet “Pasuma Wonder.”

We could begin somewhat from the middle, precisely on 21 October, 1993, when he launched his debut album, Recognition, at LSDPC Estate in Isolo — marking the beginning of a journey that has come to define the place of Fuji music in contemporary Nigerian sounds. But that may also not capture, quite aptly, Pasuma’s place in the Fuji hierarchy and its significance to the currency of loyalty in Fuji lore.

So a most interesting historical juncture would be sometime in that same year, 1993, but this time at NTA Ibadan, where he adopted and publicly endorsed Taye Akande Adebisi Currency — otherwise known as ‘Taye Paso’ — as his protégé. At the time, alongside his younger sibling, Tana, now deceased, Taye Currency was an obscure disciple of Ademola Commy Jackson, his elder brother, in the backwaters of BornPhoto and Foko areas of Ibadan.

To be sure, prior to the historic NTA Ibadan endorsement, Pasuma wasn’t necessarily the most important Fuji artiste on the radar; no, scratch that, he wasn’t even the biggest name in Mushin, his immediate neck of the woods.

From Akala through Ojuwoye to Idi-Oro, marquee names in that hotbed of crimes and haven of creativity at the time included Akanni ‘Deshina, Adisa Alasela Coslyfar, Easy Ajani Kabaka, and the late Wasiu Ajani Tekoye (Mr Pure Water).  And when Pasuma eventually burst onto the scene, headlining local shows and influencing nightlife on the streets of Mushin, he was in the limelight with Mr Pure Water, Akanni Bayo Ojuyobo and Sunny T “Idan Armani” Adesokan — all deceased now.

But ever the golden fish with no hiding place, Pasuma has always shone like a bright star among his peers, sometimes even while doing the bare minimum. And it’s a testament to his star power, even in those early years, that his endorsement of Taye Currency marked a turning point in the life of the Ibadan-based act — who would later shatter records with an album titled Turning Point, as well as ‘No Story’, Agbalagbi, Hauwa, etc.

Yet, everything that happened in the chaotic streets of Mushin and at NTA Ibadan pales into relative insignificance in the larger context of Pasuma’s public recognition (pun intended), beginning with the day he released his debut album, a most important phase that offers invaluable insight into the currency of loyalty in Fuji lore.

Why?

Well, er, because several kilometres away from Mushin, in the topsy-turvy streets of Ebutte-Meta, another important figure loomed large.

Obesere.

II

Within the periods Pasuma attempted to hog the limelight, Abass Akande Obesere, frontline lewd merchant, had already cemented his place in the consciousness of Fuji buffs, having released two important albums —Introduction and Mr Magic — establishing himself as, er, a frontliner, an Asaaju. And stripped of hyperboles and pretensions, Obesere’s frontline position among that generation of artistes was never in doubt; because, way before anyone among the young turks of that era escaped obscurity, he had already captured attention with a provocative style that broke free from and shattered the conservative ideals of Fuji artists who emerged in the decades before the 1990s.

Think Sikiru Ayinde Barrister; think Ayinla Kollington; think Iyanda Sawaba Ewenla…Adio Fatai, Akanni Ramoni, Love Azeez, BokuOte Raimi, etc.

In effect, Obesere opened the doors for young artistes of his generation whose artistic gaze shifted — radically— away from the relatively slow-tempo folklores and all-round conservatism of the decades preceding the Ajisari years, and tethered on the edge of lewdity, nudity, street slangs, irreverence, and all-round delinquency. Interestingly, this man who had a million sobriquets for the phallus also sang about civic issues…

Even those who came behind — Wasiu Ayinde Kwam1, Ayinde Rashidi Merenge, Akangbe Wahidi, Akanni Sir Shinna, Adewale Ayuba, Comma Musbau, Alao Sefiu Cardoso — maintained relative fidelity to the old conservative ideals.

Where Barrister and his disciples focused on teaching morals, folklores, and civic responsibilities via historical storytelling, amid occasional supremacy battles couched in traditional lyricism and spiteful innuendos (with K1 and Ayuba throwing in feel-good vibes somewhere in-between), Obesere came and lifted the veil off raunchy, explicit conversations about sex and coital adventures. Although he had indirect progenitors in Akere Suraju (Saura) and Larape Ilori Lateef, both Saje exponents, their art wasn’t as risqué, popular, and widely accepted as Obaadan’s. By the time he would release his sophomore album, he had cemented his place in the consciousness of younger, coitus-loving, more adventurous Fuji buffs in Lagos, Ibadan and adjoining city-states, with his never-seen-before stagecraft, weird dance steps, and boundless energy.

In effect, Obesere opened the doors for young artistes of his generation whose artistic gaze shifted — radically— away from the relatively slow-tempo folklores and all-round conservatism of the decades preceding the Ajisari years, and tethered on the edge of lewdity, nudity, street slangs, irreverence, and all-round delinquency. Interestingly, this man who had a million sobriquets for the phallus also sang about civic issues, and he wasn’t stingy with his avant garde offerings — he served them a la carte, ultimately giving everyone behind him the liberty to pick their choices. Having recorded immense success, very few of those who came behind him went for uncensored lewdity, while others had their arts draped in street slangs layered on head-bursting beats.

But Obesere’s footprint wouldn’t be best captured without two important, often neglected aspects of his legacy: an irreverent fashion sense and unusual stagecraft.

Between 1989 and 1990, threatened in part by a rampaging Sir Shina Peters and his fast-tempo Afro-Juju vibe, young Fuji artistes needed to go beyond the Barrister-Kollington folkloric dimension to capture the hearts of a growing young, city-dwelling audience. While Ayuba, the acclaimed darling of “educated” listeners, had many hooked on his “urbane” melody, he had limited influence among Fuji’s traditional audiences — the street butchers, bus conductors, artisans, etc. Alao Sefiu, fiercely loyal to his Egba roots as ever, had the burden of geography dangling around his neck like the Sword of Damocles. And so came Obesere, with a glistening, dripping jheri curl, sunshades and a not-so-subtle recreation of Michael Jackson’s style — all with a blend of lewd lyrics, Àsàkasà.

Expectedly he didn’t get all-round positive reviews; there were reservations about his style and some even questioned his Nigerian-ness (he had to make a disclaimer, debunking tales of Ghanaian identity… screaming “E ma pe mi l’omo Ghana mo o!”). But he attracted attention, all the same.

So in Obesere, a popular, much-talked-about star with growing street cred was born!

The energetic (nay, chaotic) stage performance he popularised, too, became the zeitgeist: in places where Adewale Ayuba before him introduced choreographic moves layered on patterned dance steps, Obesere came with outright chaos and stage disruption. That chaos would graduate into arty braggadocio, and was later modulated and popularised by many of those who came after him.

Put matter-of-factly, all of the marquee names of that generation drew inspiration from Obesere’s avant-garde art, with slight moderations here and there, whether they choose to admit it today or not — like Sule Adio Atawewe, a backbencher and oft-forgotten remnant of that generation, didn’t quite say in a recent live show.

III

In recent months, the furore between Pasuma and Taye Currency has generated all sorts of discussions, some bordering on issues of originality, imitation, betrayal, loyalty, identity formation, protectionism, and, even, longevity. Many of the fans are enraged that Taye said Pasuma borrowed from Obesere’s art in the early years. Many called for his head; not a few others called him an ingrate, a betrayer. But anyone with the faintest idea of what’s playing out beneath the surface knows that the furore isn’t necessarily about the purported claim of “imitation”.

So, frankly, the main thrust of the kerfuffle is buried not necessarily in the surface-level charge of “imitation”, but in the not-so-subtle battle for supremacy, the oft-messy nature of conversations about the hierarchical structure of Fuji, and, ultimately, the currency of loyalty in the Fuji world.

First off, apart from its origin as an offshoot of Wéré expeditions, Fuji itself has its root in a chaos of borrowed sounds, notably Juju, Awurebe, Sakara, Apala, etc. The progenitor of the sound himself, Agbaakin Sikiru Ayinde Barrister, made several allusions to the fact of arty imitation. In the years since Sikiru and Kolawole Kollington popularsed the genre, it has indeed survived competitions by borrowing from elements of dead, dying and evolving arts across different eras.

In the 60s, 70s, through the early 80s, Sikiru brought raw talent, mastery of Quranic verses, and folkloric inspirations from Jibowu Barrister and Ebenezer Obey and co to the game, while Kollington, even if barely acknowledged by many, introduced new instruments from other genres at critical junctures.

Between the 80s and early 90s, KWAM1 brought in a modern flavour and jazz-heavy patterns from foreign RnB and Soul artists to live performances, and even till date Yusuf Olatunji’s influence remains unmistakable in his arts. Ayuba, on his part, refined the genre with an urbane appeal and well-choreographed dance pattern, while Obesere injected a fashion sense borrowed from Western influences, plus never-seen-before stagecraft and in-your-face lewdity.

In the 1990s through the cusp of the millennium and up until the 2010s, Pasuma drew both musical and fashion inspiration from local and foreign hip-hop acts (From Akon through Puff Daddy) to keep Fuji alive among pop culture enthusiasts, while maintaining street cred in his traditional base with the daily invention of slangs and sobriquets. Saidi Osupa, on his part, served as the bridge between the past and the future, in both sound and language; Remi Aluko improvised with nearly every Afro-pop sound of every era, most notably Ice Prince’s “Ole Ku” and Paul Play Dairo’s “Mowadupe.” Even Muri Thunder attempted a sea change with Ajegunle-based Nutty and Waffy and, later, pop star 2face Idibia.

In recent years, Alao Malaika borrowed, somewhat, from Akanmu Dauda Epo-Akara and K1’s arts, and alongside Atawewe, opened the hearts of the TikTok generation to an enduring genre; just as Taye Currency borrows from Orlando Owoh’s and others in his live performances.

In effect, at every epoch moment, Fuji relies heavily on foreign elements from other genres to maintain relevance and redefine its essence. Now if the game itself is rooted in borrowed elements, why should the players be crucified for (or be scandalised by the mere charge of) drawing inspirations from others, both within and without?

So, frankly, the main thrust of the kerfuffle is buried not necessarily in the surface-level charge of “imitation”, but in the not-so-subtle battle for supremacy, the oft-messy nature of conversations about the hierarchical structure of Fuji, and, ultimately, the currency of loyalty in the Fuji world.

Although the Pasuma-Currency tango is a 2024 conversation, the subtexts are better understood when situated against the background of events of exactly three decades and a year earlier.

1993.

So what happened in the year 1993?

Oladeinde Olawoyin, the Business and Economy editor at Premium Times, also moonlights as culture critic.