Trench Music: Salve For Your Pain

An essay chronicling the inner cities of Nigeria’s south-west with focus on the dynamism and philosophy behind “mama said”

One hot day in 2018, you finally get home from work or school or wherever you spent your day, after enduring a two hour dose of classic Lagos traffic. You lie on your bed to go to sleep, but it’s Friday, so you opt to waste the remaining energy on your phone on Instagram before you fall asleep. Then the post. A group of 7–10 teenagers. The setting is outdoor, somewhere that looks like Agege or Mushin. The kid in front is free-styling, the top of his hair dyed (gold? blond?) in homage to 2016 Olamide. You imagine the person behind the camera must have missed film-making 101 as the camera is slanted very uncomfortably in what film-makers call the Dutch angle. The free-styler’s language is a Frankenstein’s monster of English, Yoruba and Pidgin. You pick a few words.

“who knows, who knows//who know how tomorrow go be”

You pay attention. His melody is catchy, and his words, poetry. Over the next few weeks of your life, you see more and more of these types of videos. Shot in the Dutch angle as if intentional, a group of kids with a singular task of hyping, a main character front and centre. The main character is usually very talented, sporting different accessories in videos, as if to distinguish himself from others.

Then one day, as you try to catch a Danfo at Computer Village, you hear it. ‘It’ is playing from a set of large speakers on the balcony of the Techno store. ‘It’ is a studio-recorded version of the same freestyle you watched weeks ago.

“who knows, who knows//who know how tomorrow go be”

I doubt that Zinoleesky knew that his tomorrow would involve recording in a studio, not to talk of his music being played at Computer Village, the mainland’s unofficial Billboard, denoting which song has blown or has mainstream approval.

Just as it was for Zinoleesky, it was for several other acts. Teenagers and young adults who would become pioneers of what is now known among many as Trench Music. These kids sing about the same thing: Pain. Pain that stems from acute poverty. Their music delves into poetic motivation, sage advice, and warnings against bad behaviour. All channelled through the recurring phrase: “Mama Said”.

On “Different Conversation (Live 4)” by Lyta and Seyi Vibez, the two troubadours engage in a conversation, philosophising on what they live for. “Oluwaloseyi, what you live for,” Lyta asks. Seyi responds “Kíní mummy ma je is what I live for.” Both share the same outlook on life as Lyta had responded earlier to the same question, “Make mama happy is what I live for”. Their mums’ welfare, the compass that guides their philosophy.

Seyi Vibez also sings on “God Sent”: “mama call me yesterday, kú ojó méta, she say hello — show me your friends and i’ll tell you who you are//if you give them a chance, they will do you anyhow”. His mum, yet again a compass. This time, on navigating life and relationships.

On “Sometimes” featuring Olamide, TI Blaze sings, “When no one to ginger me I ginger myself — Boy Blaze remember what mama said//Sooner or later them go hear your cassette.” His mama’s words motivating him through a dip in his life.

Olamide’s role in Trench Music cannot be glossed over. The actual origins of Trench Music are highly debatable, no true genesis is agreed upon, but it is no doubt that the templates of what we know today as Trench Music was laid down by Olamide. Most of these artistes were seriously influenced by Olamide’s music. Olamide himself said on the intro to his 2016 album, The Glory, that “The streets only bang with me ‘cause nobody else tó ń fún àwon tèmi ní platform,” but Olamide’s influence transcends just a platform. It runs deeper. As deep as directly or indirectly kindling the fire of the confidence of these artists by championing the “Street Ti Takeover” movement that dominated airwaves from 2014 well into 2017. The movement that gained the mainstream’s rapt attention after Olamide’s outburst on The Headies stage in 2015. A truly historical moment.

Also in 2015, Muhammad Buhari won the election to become President of Nigeria. I am definitely not a politics pundit, but it is very obvious that Nigeria took a turn for the worse, right there and then, towards a 7 year period that would go down as one of the worst in Nigerian history. A business day report [https://businessday.ng/agriculture/article/food-price-index-soars-215-6-under-buhari/] states that Nigeria’s Consumer Price Index (CPI) rose from 176.3 in May of 2015, to 556.4 in August of 2022 when the report was made. A 215.6% increase in the price of food alone. In contrast to Naija, CPI was 100.2 in May of 2015 in the UK, and 123.2 in August of 2022.

There is a very vivid parallel line between this development (or the opposite) and the rise of Trench Music. Olamide’s outburst in 2015 lent confidence to a group that isn’t typically paid attention to. Coincidentally, the economic life of said group grew ever worse. They took their newly found confidence, and used it to channel their frustration with the opportunities (or lack thereof) that the government has given to them. Invariably documenting the effects of our President’s organisational woes and its impact on their reality.

Poetry, according to Dead Poets Society, isn’t something you write because it’s cute. Poetry is an art that allows us humans to express some passion that is inherent in us. Plain old language approximates, reduces, lies. We conjure words, swiping and swinging like a blind swordsman in the general direction of what we’re trying to say and lose the point in the process. Poetry skips information and jumps at truth. It doesn’t approximate, it simplifies. Unfortunately, poetry in a language that is not English tends to be slighted in our part of the world. Even the poets themselves gloss over their work sometimes.

On “Places” featuring Mayorkun (a song by Oladips), Mayorkun, a relatively mainstream artist taps into Trench Music with the following hook:

“wón ní n relé onífa, kí n re òdò adáhunse//erù yií wúwo, bàbá jòwó bá mi gbe//se mí lólólá, káráyé má pè mí ní òdè boy//kín yé wo sòkòtò àti aso kan fún òsè kan.” If these four lines had been translated to English verbatim before it was sung, it is easily a Pulitzer contender.

“they said to me, go to the home of a shaman, or the abode of a diviner//this burden is heavy, father lord lend me a hand//drill my pockets deep, that the world doesn’t call me a fool//that i don’t don the same trouser, and the same shirt for a whole week”. Lamenting the travails of an ordinary man, Mayorkun prays for abundance.

Oladips himself is no stranger to poetry. On “Lagos Anthem remix,” an energetic song featuring 7 of Trench Rap’s pantheon, they all chronicle the wide canyon that divides southwestern Nigeria (money), but Oladips’ verse stands out. He tells the story of an uncle that is quite wealthy but pretends not to be, even though he owns six Mercedes Benz cars. “Truly, a student would not whip out his belt to beat his teacher, but…” he raps in Yorùbá, trying to say he doesn’t mean to be disrespectful.

In the original “Lagos Anthem” song, in a call and response pattern reminiscent of Fuji music, which is now a staple in contemporary Afrobeats, Zlatan explores Lagos’ surrealist nature. Ijoba (government) wey no get pity, I wan blow wey no sabi sing, and airport wey no get AC are few of the characteristics of Lagos that he illustrates.

These are only few of the themes that artists that dabble in Trench Music explore lyrically. Sonically, it is another ball game entirely.

I was walking the streets of Birmingham one night in 2021 when a car stopped for the red light a few feet from me. ‘Kilofeshe’ by Zinoleesky was playing from the car, toward its end. Smoothly, the string section erupted into a burst of staccato greatness. I fell to my knees in the middle of the road as I could not handle the dopamine rush.

Niphkeys burst several eardrums with his production of ‘Kilofeshe’. An Amapiano inspired hit that shot him and Zinoleesky into international limelight. The dynamism in his work; fusing classical music seamlessly with Afrobeats, using the log drum as an electric alternative for the talking drum, the marimba/bell melody that is reminiscent of Fela, the way he utilises the brass section to mimic lyrics. It’s just brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

Rexxie is another beatsmith that propels trench music to its glory. With an album and several production credits to his name, Rexxie came into the mainstream’s full view when “Able God” featuring Lil Kesh and Zlatan Ibile, a song by Chinko Ekun, was released in 2018. A culture-defining hit that literally defined how street pop was going to be made for the next few years. It wasn’t Lil Kesh’s energetic hook or Zlatan’s ambitious verse that made “Able God” so iconic. It was Rexxie’s production. A lot of producers today still bite off inspiration from that piece of art to make mainstream hits.

Once or twice in a month, another trench kid goes viral on social media, his Dutch-angled freestyle video catapulting him into fame. Some of them receive offers from labels and leave the trenches, others remain underground reiterating what their mama once said. We’re nearing the end of the year, and my wish for 2023 is that Trench Music gets more attention; massive funding, a wider audience, and for the artists to hone their craft, take branding seriously, and treat their artistry like it’s all they have in the world. Because it might be all they have in the world.

GLOSSARY

1. kíní mummy ma je- what will mummy eat.

2. kú ojó méta- long time no see/hear.

3. tó ń fún àwon tèmi ní- that is giving my people.