The Prof In Professor 

  
So, I woke up this morning feeling like a philosopher. For those who don’t know what that means, well, Philosophy is defined as… Fuck it! I don’t know the definition as well, so who cares? Yeah! Yeah! What am I feeling like? Well, I just told you. Alright! That said, let’s role.
Why must the beer we love ruin the liver we need? Why must doing it raw which is the sweetest way of doing it be the one that exposes us to not just diseases but also exposes the chick to unwanted pregnancy? What the fuck does that even mean? And why must an innocent kid who didn’t enjoy the wine before the act or get as little as a peep during the act be the one to be washed away by some chemical in the hospital?

And who says he’s not lucky? I mean, while depressed, I sometimes wish my parents were college undergrads when I was conceived. I mean the kind with enough heart to abort me. Why are you not thinking I could be mad? 

Why would the body system need at least ten hours of sleep daily when having that number of rest daily is approximate to being dead broke? Why must the God who claims he loves us more than our father, threaten to send us to hell just for living in the sin we cherish more than his holy gospels and house? Come on, he loves us more than our father; yeah? And he knows everything; yeah? Why the hell would he place that evil fruit in the garden when he knows the serpent would tempt Eve who would in turn tempt his dumb-ass husband? 

Why would the black man have long dick but empty brain? And why is there not a dick or fucking competition so we black people could lead at something? And they say nature is not partial. Oh! I forgot, we lead in whimpering and blaming the whites for what we keep allowing them turn us into. Why must every great man be either a prick or an arsehole or a perfect imperfect combination of the two? Why haven’t you stopped reading this shit yet?

Why must the human heart be given double responsibilities? Did it say pumping blood ain’t enough for it? And why can’t scientist discover that part of the body that really controls our emotions so I could go for a fucking surgery and rip the shit out? Why must everyone thinks he has more problems than the next person yet believe he’s better than that same person? Why must joblessness not be a job; I mean, how easy it is to spend the whole day, doing Nothing? Why must there be too much competition in the world when it takes monopoly to actually lead?

… And why must I get high before I could be this philosophical or crazy rather? And why would you be so gullible as to believe that or to doubt it now?
And why are you not feeling insulted right now?

ICOTWCNCM

I know you’ve read a lot of philosophical publications. I know you still remember every verse of Plato’s writings and you could quote all William Shakespeare’s lines worth knowing. But hey! We are not here to hear about that. And I know I know nothing…

I know you probably grew up among men who played The Beatles, girls who loved Boys II Men, university students who banged to the beat of 2pac’s ‘California Love’ and I know your mom loved Onyeka Onwenu and probably had a crush on Sunny Okosun. But hey…! This is not your growing up days, the name Sunny Okosun means nothing to my girl-friend, my nephew doesn’t have any connection to ‘Changes’ or ‘Dear Mama’ and lots of my age mates would be bored to death if they happen to be forced to listen to any of The Beatle’s album. You know why? In Ten seconds, Usain Bolt could go from being worried about winning a race to having people around him, hugging him for breaking yet another record. If that could happen in such short time frame, you can only imagine what would happen or had happened in decades.

I know you think Wizkid is overrated. I know you’ll rather spend your whole day dreaming of having a great burial when you die than listen to Olamide. I know you hate Davido’s guts and you think Yemi Alade does better showing off her cleavage than singing something worth listening to. And I know you can’t remember the last time you asked yourself ‘Who the fuck am I?’

I have issues with people who call any form of art commercial. I really don’t know what commercial music, painting, movie or literature means. Yeah… Yeah… I know you think J. K. Rowling is shallow but some kids would rather freeze to death, waiting for her next magical publications than read your greatest author’s work. So, let’s get real.

Don’t get this mixed up. I love arts, from every dumb painting I see by street corners to award winning movies and block-busters. I just don’t love people who think that the art they feel too intellectual to like are mundane, dumb or commercial. I really hate it when you think Iyanya should get a life, or curse Timaya, say trash about D’Banj or hate on my lovely Seyi Shey.

Ever wondered why Shakespeare wasn’t appreciated by his contemporaries when he was still alive. Ever wondered why critics hate Michael Bay as much as American Teenagers and kids love his movies? Art’s feet are swifter than Bolt’s. That’s why you don’t need a doctorate degree in music to get the highest download on I-tunes. All you need is a deep connection to your art, a deep connection to your immediate society and a deeper connection to the universe.

Wizkid’s voice may not be rated over Djinee’s or Etcetera’s or what’s the name of that guy who once won some West African music reality show? His lyrics may not be as intellectual as Bez’s or Cobham’s or Mode 9’s. But kids and Teenagers love him. Coz he’s a fine boy? I bet Timaya is too…

Life is enough nightmares. When we shut our eyes, we only want to dream. Sometimes our dreams seem too hard or impossible to reach, so we don’t want to waste time struggling to achieve them. Sometimes, they seem too shallow, dirty or evil, so we keep them to ourselves and avoid sharing them with others.

Then, someday, someone from nowhere gets high or becomes courageous enough to hop to a booth, scream about those dreams and slice the melody into some toe-trapping beat. What choice do you have but to dance to it and pretend you’re lip-syncing to some music, whereas you are just projecting out loud; your suppressed desires and dreams. When that nobody puts on some cloth you can’t afford, hang around some naked bodies you wish you could cum on, hop into a ride you use for your wall-paper and drives out from a house that can only be in your most colourful dream, you would be left with no choice but to play that video till you start feeling you could have them all. With that, your day is made and you wouldn’t worry about the traffic in Lagos, our regular power interruptions or your bitchy girl-friend.

So, don’t tell me that those guys sing trash. You just don’t understand Carl Jung’s Analytical Psychology. Don’t tell me the world scorns at intellectualism, the world only scowls at people too interested in showing what they know to care about what the world longs for. Wizkid and co may not understand a hoot about the subconscious or unconscious mind, the id, ego and other psychology terms, but they’ve associated with enough people and have minds open enough to unconsciously flow with the average guy’s fantasies. That is what every music critic should respect about them. And don’t be surprised when in twenty years’ time, people study Tuface, Tiwa Savage, D’Banj, Yemi Alade, P-Square, Chidinma, Wizkid, Seyi Shey, Banky-W, Waje, Don Jazzy, Omawunmi, Olamide, Simi, Phyno, Davido, Iyanya and co in school. That’s impossible, right? Study history, the classics of today were yesterday’s contemporary art; in many cases, yesterday’s trash. The popularity or general appreciation of art has nothing to do with logic but everything to do with universality. The teenagers and youths, who grew up enjoying those seemingly trashy songs, grow up, defining their taste of music with them in mind. When old, they’d still fall back to those songs and hate on the changes new comers are bringing in to the art. So, while old, an average guy of my age may still hold 2face and co as his standard of good music. But then, it would have changed to something else. In other words, is the style of the music the problem or your old fashioned music taste?

Now you may want to blame our music taste on Nigerian audience’s intellect. But we still listen to Asa. We loved Bez’s Stupid Song, shout aloud with Nneka when she sings ‘Heart-beat’, go moody with Darey whenever he performs ‘Not The Girl’, wish to be Rich and Famous when we play Praiz’ magnum opus, and cudgel our blames when Cobham Asuquo strikes his keyboard. You know why? The attachment we have for music goes beyond their genre to how they speak to us. And when a song has universal or cultural elements and sound intellectual too, we would play it and ask Google the genre afterwards.

Don’t get me wrong. You could play your Whitney Houston, or even dig up some Mozart but please, don’t curse or insult those young people who literally live in studios and slave themselves to provide young Nigerians’ insatiable need for entertainment. Leave their songs for them if you don’t like them but don’t call them formless. They may not fit into all the genres of music you’ve studied but that’s not enough reason to call them trash. If they should be termed anything, they should be…

This is how I want to end this long talk. Listen, lemme play you some Simi before you start asking me some ‘Jamb Questions’…

The full title is ‘In Critique of Those Who Criticise Nigerian Contemporary Music’

Are You…

 The best word that describes me is not ‘Crazy’; it’s ‘Arsehole’. I’m so mad; sometimes I wonder where I’m from. Some say it’s probably mars but hey, do I look like Bruno? Oh! Shit! I don’t know why I tend to over-write. Now, straight to why I’m writing this.

I wish we could someday have a world where it makes sense to approach a girl and say without mincing words ‘I love your fat arse and large boobs; and it would really make sense if you could let me fuck you; I’ll try my best to make you cum; what do you say?’

Life would have been a lot simpler like that. That way, you don’t have to spend your precious time wooing a girl with dumb chats and fake smiles and laughs. That way, you don’t need to feign you care a hoot about her. That way, there would be no word like ‘break-up’. When you think about it; that shit always proceed a built up relationship. That way, a niggar would have as much sex as he wants with as many girls as possible and not feel bad about hurting someone. I know what you’re asking yourself right now ‘What about someone to lean on?’. Why the fuck was the heart attached to human’s body? Why the fuck was that ape they claim we sprung from wasn’t smart enough not to grow a heart? Why the hell must we have emotions? The world would have been a better place without emotions. Right? Yeah; I’m right; right? How come I feel otherwise?

I think its daunting staying awake all through the night thinking about some dude who cheated on you or worrying about some girl not picking your call or being trashed by someone you’ve spent some days, weeks or years of your life developing feelings for. It’s worse getting over that and falling back into it after some break. The killer is the fact that, once the first experience is had, there’s no going back; only worse shows.

At a point you tell yourself you’re done with people. So you throw your heart into some art, science discovery or business, hoping that you’ve hopped into a ride in Disney land. First, you meet your beginners’ luck.

Some smiles…

Some dancing around..

Some parties…

Instagram pix…

Tweets and

Facebook posts…

… You feel like a rock-star.

And then…

Click… Click… Click… A toy story gradually springs to the middle of avatar and soon, you’re watching the end of Romeo and Juliet. And while floating in the mix of emotions, you hear some idiot say ‘And there would never be a story of more woe than that of Juliet and her Romeo’.

So, you walk out from the theatre telling yourself you’ve seen it all. Nature smiles at you, and you feel like you’re up again until another click… And you realise that yeah, Romeo and Juliet was just some story from a bard’s mind and life really has more woes than could be written by Shakespeare or cinematographed by some Janus Kaminski.

And down at that road, you lose your sanity. And that girl you wish you could just ask for a quickie becomes the shoulder you need to lean on. So, once again, you’re wishing you could get more than just a release of sperm. And when the spotlight has been taken off her, and you see that beyond her large shoulder are some pimples, some stretch marks, some bitterness as much or more than yours’. And you who needed to be saved are gradually becoming a saviour who needs to be saved.

So, you shut your eyes and dream.

Flash lights…

Thrones…

Angels…

Leonardo’s strokes…

Marylyn’s charm…

Mozart’s melody…

Enya’s voice…

And then…

Click… Click… Click…

It’s morning once again. You have deadlines. You love your bed but it’s time to go…

Once again, you wish you could dream on. But that is the path to a grave. It’s not like you love this zone but you’re just scared of the hell that leads to heaven, the heaven that leads to hell or the quagmire-like float in purgatory.

So you sink in self-doubt or delusion, glower in your over-blown dreams or walk in complete denial while I ask heavens ‘Why the fuck did you make the mistake of creation!’

I’m done.

Fuck this shit! Or beam me a warm smile and say ‘Hi’; if you’re pretty though.

Are you?