I was first introduced to Burna Boy few years ago by my sister, Seyi, who I owe much of my musical taste to. After arriving to the United States at the age of 12, I absorbed much of what she was on at the time, having come to the States 5 years prior.
I was then re-introduced to Burna Boy by Virgil Abloh last year, by way of an instagram story of his, a screenshot of the Ye Video. This time, after the approval of Virgil, I started to really take notice. I began the “research” - glancing through his discography on Spotify, googling him to read about his early life and zodiac sign, among other things.
I had listened to Afrobeat sparingly, the occasional Wizkid, Brymo or Davido track my sister would recommend I listen to. All of a sudden, I found myself listening to more and more artists and would play songs she’d never heard before. I had become the plug.
In January of this year, I saw the video of Izzy Odigie dancing to Killin Dem. I must’ve replayed that video about 20 times. I was mesmerized by her moves, If only I could dance like her! Goddamn.
This summer I really saw the impact Afrobeat has on the world at the moment. If you had told me while growing up in Nigeria, that as an adult, I’d be dancing to Afrobeat in a nightclub in America, I would’ve thought of it as highly unlikely. But that’s exactly what this summer offered me. Walking down the street in Bedstuy and hearing Drogba (Joanna) being blasted for all to hear, brought a smile to my face.
Although it might seem as though I am jumping on the Burna Boy bandwagon, his latest album did something for me that nothing before it had done, not quite to this extent. Growing up, my nickname was Black Oyinbo, meaning Black White Person, a.k.a an Oreo.
As a kid living in Lagos in the 90s, I listened to Onyeka Onwenu, Fela, Majek Fashek, Angelique Kidjo, among many others, but nothing quite resonated. Perhaps I wasn’t of age to really understand their message, but it may also have been that at the time, I rejected everything African and aspired to Whiteness, “Abroad”, whatever was foreign seemed much nicer and classier than whatever I was seeing back then in Nigeria.
I don’t know how to speak Yoruba, my father’s language (I do speak/understand Krio, from my Sierra Leonean mother). He never spoke it to me, and the schools I attended did not allow students to speak vernacular. So I always felt a bit removed from Nigeria, even when I lived there. It wasn’t until junior year of college, after my father died, that I began to embrace my Africanness. Having not been back to Nigeria after leaving in 2003, my father’s death had birthed a newfound curiosity to my roots. Roots that I had once feared, for being too dark, too foreign, too uncivilized.
Prior to this summer, I’d never dated a Nigerian, or a first generation African. In the past, I mostly gravitated towards African-Americans, for they seemed to carry the right balance of the familiar and foreign. But it wasn’t until this guy called me an Akátá, that I really saw how far from the continent I seemed to be. I was instantly offended and told him to take it back. He did, in a way only Nigerians are capable of. Anyway, he had re-reintroduced me to Burna Boy. The way he’d talk about him and his music, comparing him to Fela, made me pay attention even more.
On July 25th 2019, Burna Boy released his latest album, African Giant.
Since the morning of July 26th, I have played that album from the top at least once a day. I remember one night in early August, I was feeling particularly anxious sitting in my room. I had ran out of CBD, after the contents of the bottle spilled in my bag. I didn’t have my usual calming blend of herbal tea that was my go-to and I didn’t particularly feel like reading a book either. I grabbed my headphones, went on Spotify and since the album was under my heavy rotation category, I clicked on it and hit play. The way his music calmed me down was quite memorable. I went on Genius and read aloud the words to each song as they played. The only other time I’ve done that, that I can remember, was to Kendrick Lamar’s DAMN album - and that, I played only once from beginning to end.
I realize now that my journey which started at age 12, is the journey to truly belong to myself, but I had no idea who I was because of my fragmented roots. Being seen as African to Non-Africans, and not being African enough to my fellow Africans. As a freshman in High School at age 12, straight from Nigeria, I learned to adapt. I tried on many faces, many ways of speaking (when I first came, I’d study the shows, That’s So Raven and Lizzie McGuire, to master my American accent). I believe I’ve gone through these many phases for a reason to arrive at where I am today. I’ve come to realize that in the journey to achieve personal/spiritual transformation, I need not add anything, I just had to remove the layers of ignorance and the false feeling of not belonging. I wouldn’t trade the years I felt lost, because only in experiencing that, do I truly value the grace of being found. This summer I was blessed with the gift of reconnecting to my Nigerian roots, by way of music, and for that I will be forever grateful. More and more each day, I thank God for choosing Africa to be my home in this lifetime.
To close, I’d like to use one of my favorite quotes ever, written by T.S. Eliot.
“We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”
Gratefully,
Ai-Creo