Not
much separates the Yoruba rap scene from guerrilla warfare. It transcends
dialectical renderings of social commentary. It is a body of art, a body of
personality, or personalities as the case may be. Olamide Sneh sat down on a
swivel chair watching the city from a skyline. The city ebbed like an
overactive nerve, setting off sparks and streaks of red, left and right.
Olamide
Sneh sneered at the city. Theirs was a love hate relationship. The city had
courted him like a hopeless romantic only to dash his dreams over and over
again. The city was like a Sumo wrestler, it did not subdue with an elevated
skill set, it subdued with sheer weight, with brute force, it attacked you and
didn't let up.
Olamide Sneh sneered again. He sneered because
he had learned to fight back.
It all began when he was 17.
He
was done with the studio session. He gave the producers hand one last grateful
squeeze and set upon the skeletal streets of Surulere. There was a spring to
his step. A spring he didn't have when he left his house that morning. It was
the spring of destiny fulfilled, or destiny begun. It was all he could do to
keep a smile from his face. He was elated. But unfortunately he would soon come
to find, that the law of gravity applies to emotions as well. If you're feeling
high, you would very soon, come crashing down again.
It
was a masquerade, a ghostly giant of a man garbed in native apparel from head
to feet. On his head was a hat. To the painter he would've been a work of art,
but to the rapper, he might as well have been a monster with whip in hand.
Olamide paused, the pause of deliberation.
The masquerade paused as well; he seemed to be
sizing up Olamide’s personality, deciding if he was pedestrian or prey. The white
hands reached up-but it wasn't Casper trying to execute a high five-the
masquerade was positioning his whip for a beating. Olamide recognized the movement. He shifted his weight to his left feet and
dashed off in the opposite direction.
The
masquerade followed, his costume shimmied and if you had an aerial view of the
scene it would’ve appeared that a great white speck motioned to consume a small
black dot.
It was epic.
People watched from the safety of their
verandas and the other side of the street as the Tom and Jerry spectacle
unfolded before them. Olamide was running like a well trained sprinter-putting
one leg in front of the other rapidly. His pursuer did not seem to be slowing
down or giving up. If anything he appeared to be gaining on him.
Olamide
was frantic now, for a brief moment he recalled his favorite childhood pastime of climbing trees. But now he was in Surulere, there were mostly Mango
trees, tall and looming Mango trees that would take too long to mount. He opted
for a more sophisticated move.
Deftly, like a tennis ball, he pushed his
weight against the tar road and sprang into the air. It was like a scene from
the Matrix. Olamide practically walked vertically up a fence and flipped over its
barbwire.
This
made no difference to the masquerade. He walked in through the gate.
Olamide darted through the large compound,
knocking things down as he went, trying to obstruct his pursuer.
The masquerade didn't mind, he walked calmly
over or around the clutter.
Finally,
in one great feat of athleticism, Olamide jumped on the bonnet of a car, used
it as a springboard to launch into the air, grabbed hold of a lamp-hold, swung
upright onto a window pane, then leaped majestically onto the veranda. Looking
down on the masquerade Olamide Sneh sneered.
His
victory lasted for about three seconds.
Olamide
watched to his horror as the masquerade lifted off the ground, slowly like a
feather being carried by a soft wind. The masquerade elevated till it stood
(on thin air) face to face-or more accurately-face to mask with Olamide.
Olamide
would never forget the beating he received that day, a beating of epic
proportions, the sort that drove demons out. The masquerade threatened him and
warned him to never again tread the tar roads of Surulere, or else.
However, years later, it was not the scars
that remained, nor the threat. It was the conviction. The conviction the ordeal
spurred in him, a conviction not unlike stubbornness that is found in all Lagosians.
It is the unfaltering, unrestrained will to succeed. Olamide continued to chase
his dreams, despite the dread of whatever masquerades may have chased him in
return.
These
are the thoughts that never make it to paper, the occupants of the hinder parts
of his mind that are never vocalized at the studio. These are the lost tapes.
"Remember,
no matter what happens, you are made for good." -Dev Patel Chappie.
wayne samuel! you amaze me evrrytime. nice work bro
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