Ènìyàn L’aṣọ Mi: Memories On A G-scale

Tobi-Makinde Melody,

4:32 pm,

February 15, 2078,

Recovered letters forwarded to herself before the final destruction of Earth by an asteroid.

It’s 2024, it’s 4 PM, and my internal alarm clunks loudly in my head, reminding me yet again of the things I swore I’d do today. However, here I am, washing my toenail with a cotton swab filled with 6% hydrogen peroxide. My eyes slowly follow the up-and-down movement of the swab applied with my hand to help with the condition of my toenail fungus.

My fridge is mostly filled, but I still feel the need, as a Nigerian, to visit the African store and purchase some pepper. It’d be a taboo not to have stew or pepper in a Nigerian household; I wasn’t about to break that tradition.

Across the hall of my hostel, I hear music. At the sound, I pause the swabbing, and a smile spreads across my lips. You see, I never had the thought to find out what the name of the song is; all I know is that I recognize this song anytime, anywhere.

I also know the instrumentals by heart all thanks to my aunt – let’s call her A. Aunt A is one of my favorite people on earth, and knowing her means learning to know what she likes and becoming familiar with them. The music I just heard is, you see, Aunt A’s ringtone. I thought it was weird, different, and unusual the first day I heard it. But as I became accustomed to Aunt A, it became something I unintentionally grew familiar with and perhaps have grown to love.

As I held the 6% hydrogen-peroxide-soaked cotton wool, smiling to the song, the floodgates of memories opened. I could picture Aunt A mouthing off to the classical song in her cherished studio, which will forever be home. I could hear her saying: Ah! Melody you’re missing out on not knowing such a beautiful song. I, on the other hand, would bestow her with an almost cavillish look through my glasses, my nose turned up. She would respond by bursting into laughter, which I love dearly because it reminds me that I’m home.

You see, to be loved or to love is to absorb and be open in the sense of vulnerability. Picture the ‘touch me’, ‘touch me not’ flowers. They close up immediately upon the caress of a touch; our minds are like that. They constantly pick up something from every single person we’re fortunate to meet in the monkey-bars-like experience that is life. Now imagine the things you’ve picked up from friends, lovers, and family members.

Aside from the many paradoxes, ironies, and metaphors that make me who I am, I have always prided myself on having a wide taste in music. Lol, I listen to Fuji, Apala, pop, K-pop, C-pop, Afrobeats, reggae, hip-hop, and so on. Aside from the joy that the variety of music brings me, there is, of course, the pride; my wide-ranging taste in music is a result of the many people I have had a direct and indirect brush with in this journey of life.

 

🎼🎼🎼

 

My love for afrobeats came to be in the 2000s. On a fateful evening, my mom came back from work and began prepping for dinner while I dealt with my assignment in quantitaive reasoning. A few meters from our house, there was a party going on and they went all out for the loudest speakers. All the songs the DJ had played so far while I worked on my assignment seemed like noise and gibberish to me. What I grew up with were church songs, hymns, and spiritual melodies. So, as I basked in the joy of getting the right answer to a question, a song came on with an intro that was so catchy it had me at alert. My attention was piqued. The song had these lyrics, “Awon boys yii, kamikaze on a retro level,” followed by the hook “Yahoo oo”. I started nodding my little head to the song and mouthing the hook alongside the singer. A few days later, I would come to put a name to the song, which is Yahooze by Olu maintain.

My love for afrobeats started from there. It opened my eyes to my own personal rebellion and to an entire galaxy of music. The effect of being Melody went into motion that very day I heard that song, and music grew with me till it became a lover, a soft reminder of people and fond memories.

 

🎼🎼🎼

 

Music puts me in such an emotive space that I pause movies or certain scenes when they remind me of a particular artist’s song or lyrics. I pause the scene to listen to the music and combine my thoughts on what I just saw and listened to. Interesting, right? Music has the imprints of so many people. The igbo Nigerian Christian song Jehovah Chim me nearly brings thin moisture to my eyes whenever I hear it because it reminds me of my mom. I’m many miles away from her, but whenever I hear that song, I can nearly hear her swaggering around the house in her loosely tied wrapper, singing songs of thanksgiving to God and trying to make me accept her kisses.

The same goes for how I discovered k-pop, all thanks to the ethereal Aminat.

My fluid and versatile taste in music has the footprints of friends, neighbors, random people, bus rides, and so many other circumstances. Each song has a story, albeit short, that reminds me of someone or a group of persons. My love for Chike came as a result of a visit.

 

🎼🎼🎼

 

One of the many things I’ve loved about Shina would be the many hidden stories written within his eyes. He never shares them, and I never pry. The ebb keeps flowing between us either way. How can someone be so expressive and inexpressive at the same time, I often wonder? And it is quite funny because I’m exactly like that — ask my mother. She claims I’m the coldest of her children.

On the day of the visit that led to my love for Chike, I went to our family house and there Shina was in his Jalabiya (a long kaftan), bopping his head along to some music. I sat, and with a look, we exchanged pleasantries, and he did his thing. Silence was never awkward for us. Silence is home for me, but sometimes it can be awkward with people. With him, it’s rather welcome. My silence on this day was because I was shy due to the unknown people seated in the house. A few minutes later, his eyes lit up like the constellation of stars which called out to mine. I burst into laughter and he understood.

“So, have you listened to Roju by Chike or the album Boo of The Booless?” he asked, with his palm stretched out for me to take. I nodded my head in response (no), and he proceeded to play the song through the speakers in the house. I loved the song and the album and the soft, coarse timbre of Chike’s voice. There, my love for Chike began.

 

🎼🎼🎼

 

My brother had everyone at his beck and call right from when he was born. His tiny mutiny, in the form of wails, made me realize he was going to be a little shit. He still is. Over the years, my brother carved his path in music from his childhood. I believe my brother knows only four christian songs, and I’d like to think “Oke nla shidi Oke nla (“Thou mountains become nothing”) is his favorite. Whenever I hear a stranger singing the song under their breath, I’m reminded of the song, my brother, and his amazing ability to move his body. Whenever he sings that song, there’s such innocent joy on his face that it usually makes me scoff. He finishes with beautiful dance steps that I’m sincerely jealous of. For God’s sake, I can’t somersault for the life of me! My body feels like it was molded by the strongest of adhesives — too stiff, too rigid.

 

🎼🎼🎼

 

A few days ago, I came across Funbi’s post on Instagram about the course his life took after his unplanned break from his musical career. He explained it all in a reel featuring the very song that made me know him as an artist. More importantly, I was swept away by the memory of how I discovered him.

I was transported to Queen Elizabeth Hall 2. It was the year 2018, and I left the perimeters of my room to that of Precious Oladipo’s on block E, for Wattpad movie recommendations. After sharing the latest fantasy recs she had for me, she told me to check out the song Hallelujah and mentioned she’d had it on repeat for days. Intrigued, I started with the song first. The infectious melody of the guitar greeted my ears, and I was sold. The simple yet whimsical baritone layered beneath the vocals was rich and flavourful. To this day, the song holds warm seat in the cold recesses of my heart because Funbi captures the turmoil he has faced in life and how God has been his anchor. I’m particularly in awe of how he combined folksy notes with Afrobeats, creating something you can’t categorically call a christian or a spiritual song. It’s neither here nor there — just a colorful masterpiece.

 

🎼🎼🎼

 

I remember staring at Dolapo’s face on Valentine’s Day, as he announced his babe on Snapchat with an intense video of them kissing. He was one of my many crushes in school. After I got tired of staring at him from behind my glasses, I walked up to his seat shyly. And what do you know? Within minutes, we were giggling and exchanging shy glances. Our crush didn’t progress into anything more, but he introduced me to Jalolo by Sean Tizzle and gifted me an intense friendship built on music and musical discussions. Jalolo is a nostalgic, lyrically deep song in my native tongue, Yoruba, delving into about folklore and his outlook on life.

Music holds wispy notes of unique memories — random things I associate with people. It could be words, sentences, expressions, or even the rhythm of a moment.

I could honestly go on and on. Jeje by Falz, Unforgettable by Swae Lee have the balls of my feet in a smooth rhythm. Baddest by Dj Neptune ft Olamide and Stoneboy makes me feel like a badass when I spit the fire bars Olamide dropped in that song, his vibrant voice adding extra flair. My soft spot for these three songs is all thanks to Tofameh Isumonah. Beyond these songs, he introduced me to other artists I can’t remember right now. Our friendship adhesive is a culmination of many things — but especially music.

 

🎼🎼🎼

 

Back to the moment where I hold my 6% hydrogen-peroxide-soaked cotton swab and a smile spreads across my lips. The sleek voice of Roddy Rich spitting out his truth with the following words “Pullin’ out the coupe at the lot, told them fuck 12, fuck swat,” from somewhere in the hostel reminded me that I’m yet to head to the African store as the hand of the clock reads 6 PM.

Here I am, looking for a bag to take along to the store as the spell of all that music holds for me gradually fades away in wisps and intimacy. All in all, ènìyàn l’aṣọ mi — I’ve come to realize that the proverbial meaning consolidates context and not necessarily clothing alone. I’m an atom of every individual molecule I’ve come across in life.

Selah! My beloved cat is here. I must take a pause and attend to his needs.