It was past holy hours, but sleep had left my embrace.
The divorce between sleep and I was a consequence of the choking heat that dewed hot water around my neck as punishment for shutting down the window panes of my room for fear of invading anopheles, popularly known and addressed as mosquitos.
I drew a plastic chair and sat outside the vast compound to enjoy the cool breeze blowing all the way from Apa to Site and maybe down to Igumale and even up to Otukpo!
My body received the breeze with glee, the water that covered my body dried out instantly and I began to feel good, but that was when the breeze decided to add another package I never anticipated.
From what appeared to be coming from distant lands, a melody struggling to rent the air could be heard.
Music at that time of the night? This was past 2 am. It was unbelievable!
The sound wafted through in wheezes and initially I thought someone had forgotten to turn off his music box.
But the melody grew stronger with each passing wind.
I was able to recognise the voice as it continued, it was unmistakably that of Ogaba Oyapi, the Agila minstrel with the nack for reliving folktales with powerful imageries.
The song soon filled the atmosphere, making the birds to take a chill pill. His sonorous voice drowned even the susurrations of the breeze, the enabling serendipity adding allure to the rhythm.
The music hit me. Bob Marley, I thought, must have lied when he said, ‘one good thing about music is that when it hits you, you feel no pain.’
This one hit me and I felt pain. It was the pain you feel when you feel you can get the better of something but you’re unable to.
I was angry that I was not near the soloist enough to feel the vibes of his rendition l.
I know his house. It’s no more than a three-minute walk from where I was seated.
How would he know that a fan was up at that time enjoying the serenade and wishing it doesn’t stop if I don’t go to join him?
I stood up to do so. But the big trees at the ofpu discouraged me. Their branches capered, or so it seems, silhouetting against the tenebrous background, made them appear larger than life, forming pareidolias of frightening proportions. I respected myself and sat back.
I couldn’t hold back my emotions however when Ogaba Oyapi launched into a popular dulcet, Iwilojo, a folkloric, made popular by his late brother, Sunday Onmonya, known more by his stage name of Sly Hardin, who unarguably is one of the greatest musicians Agila had ever produced.
I sang with him.
Eba gànyó e na ga tsan ma, anun wi Iwilojo!
Someone should please tag Ogaba Oyapi for me, he made my night.
