I met a man who said his life was changed by Olamide. Here is his story.
“Bros how far?” I asked him as he took a drag from a blunt. He looked up smiled and took another long drag. The weed was his preferred companion, and it was doing a great job. As always.
At the Olamide concert, I was in the crowd at the main bowl of the Teslim Balogun stadium. The mood was joyous, and everyone focused on dancing, raving and generally just celebrating under the banner of music joy and being alive.
This was Olamide’s fourth annual concert in a row. The rapper was moving his show from Eko Hotel & Suites, to the Teslim Balogun stadium. It is a bold move from the rapper who was attempting to make live music in a bigger venue. The security was tight, the mood was perfect, and the crowd hyped.
Except for this guy who was sitting on the turf and dragging his lit blunt with all the seriousness of a soldier at the war front. I watched him for a while. While everyone danced and sang to the numerous stars who hit the stage and moved the crowd, this guy could not be bothered. It was him, his blunt, and his private world.
After the first one was done, he dipped his hand into his breast pocket, lit it with impressive skill, and dragged one. This time he looked to the sky briefly, and continued smoking. He was in a zone that was personal and private. But my curiosity did not allow me to respect that. I moved closer.
“Bros how far?” I asked as he took a drag from the blunt. He looked at me, smiled and took another drag blew out the air with finesse. This man has had enough practice with weed, and he was showing off to himself. And perhaps to me.
I pulled closer and sat beside him. He stretched the blunt my way, a clear indication that my presence was welcome. I pulled out my pack of cigarettes, telling him that although we were both smokers, our choice of poison was different. Instantly there was a bond, and while he lit one, I lit one too. Different poisons for different folks.
“Why are you on the floor, why are you not enjoying the turn-up?” I asked.
He smiled again, and responded. “No be all these people I come this stadium to see, na Olamide carry me come here.” And he took another drag.
I was startled. In all my years of event coverage, I had not witnessed a person who was so focused on their choice of live music. Was he a music hermit? Or did he have OCD? Or perhaps Olamide was his brother. Or he just didn’t like Nigerian music that much.
He noticed my mental permutations. And reached.
“Bro you no go understand.” He spoke pidgin English in a thick Yoruba accent, the type you pick up when you are from the ‘streets’ of Lagos. Those corners where life is basic and the standard of living isn’t the best. There was a scar on his left cheek. It told tales of injuries and physical harm. This man had seen something.
“I don see something for this life and if no be for Olamide, I for don kill myself.” He said, narrating his story.
His name is Idris, and he has lived his entire life in Ajegunle, a popular slum in Lagos. Idris was born into a family of 6, and while his parents had no money to fund his education past secondary school, he made decisions that cost him years.
After secondary school, Idris met a band of guys from the neighbourhood who were known for their affiliation to crime. It wasn’t anything grand, but they engaged in petty theft and burglary.
“I been no say na bad thing I dey do. But na small pikin dey worry me. I thought it was the life. One moment, I don carry TV go sell make money. And the friends I been waka with, bad people.”
Just as he was speaking, Tiwa Savage was performing a hit song, ‘All over’. The crowd yelled around us, and the dancing intensified. My instincts for live music kicked in, and I wanted to jump up and sing along to the opening lines of the record: ‘Make we scatter this place tonight….’
But I couldn’t. Idris, my new friend-in-bad-habit, had to get this off his mind.
“So one day na so Olopa catch me,” he continued. “And na there wey my trouble start.”
Idris and his gang had gone to break into a house, but luck ran out on them. He was caught by a patrolling police unit, as he escaped, and taken to a station. There he was given the beating of his life, and spent his entire 20011 in jail.
He was released in 2012, but life was never the same for him. His parents, who were now aged, wanted nothing to do with him, and he had nowhere to go. After his arrest, his friends had fled the area and cut off communication. He was alone in the world. Without a pillar to lean on. Life was bleak.
And then he discovered Olamide.
“Na for one barbing saloon like that. I been dey there dey cut my hair, na so them begin dey play am. Instantly something touched me.” He begins to rap a single off Olamide’s 2012’ “YBNL” album, ‘Jesu O kala’. He also mentions ‘Illefo Illuminati’. Those records made him buy the album, and from there he began to have a rethink.
Idris and Olamide have parallels in life. They were both from humble backgrounds, chasing a better life. Where Olamide chose music, Idris went the wrong way. But seeing Olamide’s success inspires him. If he could do it, Olamide could do it too. “Na only one head wey him get. Me too na only one head,” he says. And then he drags again.
Idris isn’t at Olamide’s level, but he’s found a way to clean up his life. He’s a bus driver now, has a girlfriend he intends to marry, and build a family. He is far from that guy who was busted by the police. And for that, he owes a lot to Olamide’s existence as an artist.
“Na why I just dey here dey enjoy my SK.” He says. SK is a slang for skunk weed. “Na only when him perform wey I go turn up. All these people no concern me.”
After my cigarette was burned out, I shake hands with him, telling him that it will be well for all of us. He wished me the same, and asked what I do for a living. When he learned not to be named and his photograph taken. But he gave permission to share my story, “If I like…”
“You no know who go see am now, come remember say I been fuck them up. New trouble go come start, and I want am” he explained.
I agreed. Gave him my word, and walked away, while he went back into his world, anticipating a performance from his favorite artist.
This is the beauty of the music. This is how art changes lives. For Idris, Olamide’s existence and music have had a positive impact. It has helped him deal with a dark time, and given him the inspiration to find the light. And if this isn’t the magic of music, I don’t know what else is.
Olamide would later go on stage to perform to give an electrifying performance. I went searching for Idris, but he was gone. The man, his smoke and his story had moved. Perhaps forward into the crowd, where he could finally light one, while vibing to Olamide, his chief inspiration.