Lagbaja is a term for “somebody” or “anonymous” in the Yoruba language. More than being the stage name for Bisade Ologunde, it is an entire identity, such that Ologunde refers to his masked alter ego in the third person. Nameless and faceless, he represents the ordinary man. Beyond philosophical messages and Lagbaja’s disinclination to stardom, […]
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1 year ago
Lagbaja is a term for “somebody” or “anonymous” in the Yoruba language. More than being the stage name for Bisade Ologunde, it is an entire identity, such that Ologunde refers to his masked alter ego in the third person. Nameless and faceless, he represents the ordinary man.
Beyond philosophical messages and Lagbaja’s disinclination to stardom, being faceless can come in handy when you’re a musician living under a military government and taking shots at them, which Lagbaja occasionally did.
While political activism and social justice were paths that Lagbaja’s character naturally lent itself to, the majority of his discography explored lighter material like begging for the affection of an indifferent woman, painting the picture of a combative neighbourhood or simply asking a woman to move her elaborate gele. Simple, sometimes humorous stuff. This was what drew him to Lagos’ budding music and nightlife culture, and establishing his lounge, Motherlan’ in 1997, seeking to recreate the feel of the village market square as the centre of entertainment.
Lagbaja released his eponymous debut album in 1993, setting the ball rolling for what has turned out to be a prolific career. Here, we present six songs that define his artistry. Most will be familiar to you, if not for their longevity then for the frequent inspiration they have provided to modern Afrobeats acts
Konko Below
How low can you go? No, I’m not talking about seeking revenge on someone who has hurt you. When Lagbaja tells you to pade mi ni sale, or meet him at the bottom, and he and Ego, his lead back-up vocalist, urge you in a call-and-response to bend lower and lower, how low can you go? How strong are your knees? Simple as it is, that is the premise of this song, which recently resurfaced into public conversation after it was used as soundtrack to a video from 2023’s Ojude Oba festival.
As you go further down this list, you observe that Lagbaja does not need the most intricate themes to hold a listener spellbound in excess of six minutes, especially when he has these instruments behind him. Lagbaja and Ego are as synergistic as ever, and they play the song’s unforgettable chorus— konko below, kon below/ konko below, kon below—like a tennis ball that no one wants to drop. Underneath them, dundun and bata drums are locked in their own conversation, and piano keys rattle with precision to follow the singers’ rhythms. Each new element thrown in the mix is another reason why Konko Below will not be forgotten anytime soon.
Skentele Skontolo
The next natural addition is Skentele Skontolo, where Lagbaja is in a similarly playful mood. This time his focus is not on dance but on fashion, and he dwells on the elaborate headgear, or gele, that women wear to parties. It was released five years after Konko Below, but it carries most of its spirit, including the back-and-forth chorus and the interwoven talking drums.
There is an added humorous angle here that is better appreciated in the video. Lagbaja is driving a car with three women and cannot see through his rearview mirror because he is impeded by their geles— which he calls satellites. It is funnier when you remember the geles here pale in comparison to the sizes popular at Owambe these days, so one wonders how long this song would go on for if Lagbaja saw those.
Suuru Lere
In 1999, Nigeria was ready to give democracy one more try. It took a bumpy few years to get there, especially as it required a fortuitous heart attack to escape Abacha’s lifetime presidency plans. As a Civilian government had now been elected with Obasanjo as its head, the first in six years, Nigerians were understandably overcome with expectations for what could come.
Lagbaja enters the scene urging everyone to calm down a little. Suuru lere roughly translates as ‘patience is profitable’, so Lagbaja and Ego are unhurried in their intro—they spend the first minute playing their voices like musical instruments, while a cartoon satirically outlines a brief history of Nigeria’s recent political happenings. It is a much slower-paced song, reflecting the heavy material before him. Se’jo lawa f’aye gbo? Ki lawa se? Se b’aye lawa je n’ibi, Lagbaja inquires, asking the listener to stop complaining and enjoy life a little, but the wavering in his own voice suggests he is not completely sure of the future. In uncertain times Lagbaja stood as a calm in the storm, and the music is as hauntingly beautiful as the situation warranted.
Never Far Away
By 2005, Lagbaja and Nwakaego Ogbaro, or Ego, had spent over a decade working side by side in his band, and the chemistry between them flourished with every new collaboration. On Lagbaja’s Africano album, they reach deep into this chemistry, producing a love song that is not afraid of being vulnerable, where tender emotion need not be disguised with humour.
Ego is in the driver’s seat here, and it is her voice that most readily comes to mind when you recall this song. Her delivery is at once soothing and passionate, allowing her to balance the joy of memories shared together with a longing for something more. Under it all, the production is stirring and animated. Lagbaja creates a soundscape where rousing strings and euphonious talking drums can sit together; his vocal role is much smaller. Lagbaja and Ego enjoyed a professional partnership for thirteen years, in which time rumours lingered that they were involved romantically.This was, of course, the work of people with vivid imaginations and matchmaking tendencies, but with a perfectly crafted romantic ballad like this in their locker, can you really blame them?
Nothing For You
Lagbaja is the persistent lover in Nothing For You, a 40-year-old man trying to convince a younger woman to see him as more than an uncle figure. The production is noticeably devoid of Yoruba musical influences, and you get a standard set of drums as against the more expressive talking drums. Lagbaja compensates for this with saxophone solos in between verses.
Either way, his love interest is not impressed. They practice another form of call and response, where her “Lagbaja nothing for you” is the stock response to every new proposal he poses. That is, until the very last one. Nothing For You misses some of the traditional elements you would ordinarily expect from a Lagbaja song, but its stripped, breezy production is perfect for its theme.
Gra Gra
To not be familiar with “no do gra gra for me” would imply that you missed two standout tracks from two generations, this, and Davido’s If that borrowed those lines from here. Here, Lagbaja once more favours studio instruments over hand-beaten drums, as he dips into Afrobeat waters with his sight on modernity. Its video is a portrayal of the squabbles you can expect in a densely populated, resource-bare neighbourhood. This video also sees a young Basketmouth make a cameo before he launched his career in comedy.
Lagbaja was born six months before the country’s independence in 1960, and perhaps that explains why his takes on Nigerian issues carry the lived-in imprint of someone who has seen it all. He is familiar with age-long political tricks and how the masses suffer for them. It is probably why he can sing about them with such relatability, and also why he prefers light, humorous material if given the choice. The country is already hard enough as it is, why not laugh and dance a little?
