Some poets only write verses, while some perform culture. AKEEM LASISI belongs to both. For more than three decades, Lasisi has stood at the intersection of poetry, performance, journalism, public relations, and Yoruba cultural preservation. Whether reciting Ijala, reviving the fading tradition of Ekun Iyawo, or weaving satire into romance poetry, he has consistently demonstrated that poetry can entertain while preserving heritage and provoking reflection. Beyond his literary accomplishments, Lasisi has built a distinguished career in Nigerian journalism, working with some of the country’s most influential media organisations, including the Sketch, The Diet, The Comet, The NEWS magazine, and The Punch. Along the way, he experienced unemployment, failed business ventures, financial hardship, and professional triumphs that helped shape both his worldview and his art. In this extensive conversation with GBENRO ADESINA, he reflects on his childhood in rural Ibadan, his journey into journalism, the defining moments that drew him into poetry, the influence of Yoruba oral traditions, the philosophy behind his celebrated romance poems, and why he believes culture remains one of Nigeria’s greatest untapped resources. The interview also explores the relationship between poetry and politics, the evolution of Nigerian media, the responsibility of artists to preserve indigenous languages, and the lessons that younger writers and journalists can learn from his remarkable journey. What emerges is not merely the story of a poet, but the testimony of a cultural custodian whose life’s work has been devoted to ensuring that Yoruba oral traditions continue to speak to contemporary audiences. The excerpt:
Q: Some people describe you as a “lover boy” whose poetry performances are largely centred on women and romance. How do you respond to that characterisation?
A: I hope my lawyers are not listening to that. (Laughs). Speaking seriously, the person made a good observation. A good number of the works I have done poetically, including Ogburo and Eleleture, are romance poems. However, my production of romance poetry was deliberate. Modern English poetry often seems to be an isolated adventure. When we were in school, many students believed that poetry was a very difficult art form. Even English Language students at the university preferred drama and prose to poetry. Only a few of us ventured into poetry. As someone deeply rooted in Yoruba culture and exposed to African oral poetry such as Ewi, Ijala, and Ekun Iyawo, I know that poetry can be very interesting. Yorubas do not shy away from poetry; they rally around it and enjoy it. Traditional poets deliver their performances spontaneously in ways that are entertaining and captivating. I discovered early enough that I had a talent for poetry. I wanted to become a poet, but I did not want to create art that would have no audience. Professor Niyi Osundare is fond of saying, “Báwo lo ṣe máa darin, kò máa ní ẹlẹgbẹ?” (“How can you raise a song and have no one to join in?”). An artistic performance or message is meant to have an audience. Osundare, my great mentor, also defines poetry as “man meaning to man”. So, I wanted to create poetry that people would enjoy. At the time, I faced the challenge of making my English-language poetry, which was meant to be chanted, appeal to the people. I can chant Ijala, Ewi, Iremoje, and Ekun Iyawo, and I wanted to do the same in both the Yoruba and English languages. To achieve this, I thought of combining my poetry with drummers, dancers, and theatrical performances. Secondly, I realised that people are naturally drawn to performances that celebrate women. For instance, Davido, Wizkid, and many other leading musicians feature women prominently in their performances. They celebrate women, and this made me realise that a well-written poem dedicated to women would also attract a wide audience. Therefore, I deliberately decided to promote poems dedicated to women in order to gain acceptance and attract people. I wanted people to listen to us, watch us, and appreciate what our group was doing. That is why some of our biggest and most successful poems revolve around romance and women. The decision was intentional. It was a strategy to attract audiences and make them embrace our work. The first poem I produced, in 1999, was not a romance poem. It was a posthumous poem in honour of late MKO Abiola. That was our first studio-recorded performance, produced after he died in 1998. He remains one of our heroes of democracy. After that, I felt we needed to repackage poetry performance. To attract an audience, we first produced Ogburo. We also produced Eleleture, Udeme, Deadlock, The Penalty Shot in Your Eagle’s Eyes, Asabi Alakara, Ododo, Marigold, and Owereke. Owereke is a tribute to Angelique Kidjo and falls within what I describe as African citations. Through African citations, I experiment with the Yoruba Oríkì tradition by poetically celebrating distinguished personalities. I dedicate poetry performances to each of these individuals. This experiment is intended to achieve two objectives simultaneously: celebrating these personalities and recreating the Oríkì genre. I have heard people say that my poetry is largely about women. Beyond that, I use my poetry to promote my tradition and culture while also recreating aspects of Yoruba heritage that many people may have forgotten. I did Ekun Iyawo to revitalise the old bridal poetry tradition. The Ford Foundation supported me on the Ekun Iyawo poetry project, and I remain deeply grateful to the organisation. I started working on Ekun Iyawo in 2001, and it remains on the front burner to this day. After its production, I was delighted to see young women, who had watched my Ekun Iyawo video, chanting it even though they had never witnessed it being performed in villages or at traditional marriage ceremonies. Some brides now ensure that Ekun Iyawo is performed during their wedding ceremonies. Following the research supported by the Ford Foundation, I produced both a book and a video on Ekun Iyawo. Years later, I produced another version of Ekun Iyawo, featuring Nollywood stars such as Khabirat Kafidipe, while her sister performed the chants, and Feyikemi Abodunrin played the role of the mother. The Ekun Iyawo productions we made in 2001 and later in 2013 or 2014 will outlive even the Ford Foundation, which sponsored the project. Whatever I do with my art is deliberate. For instance, my first published collection of poetry, Iremoje: Ritual Poetry for Ken Saro-Wiwa, was published in 2000. In that work, I portrayed Ken Saro-Wiwa as a hunter. In Yorubaland, there are two principal oral poetic forms associated with hunters: Ijala and Iremoje. Ijala is the social poetry of hunters. It is a vibrant, secular oral poetic tradition chanted by Yoruba hunters to entertain, relax, and celebrate themselves and their exploits. Iremoje, on the other hand, is the ritual form. When a hunter dies, his colleagues dedicate a night to chanting Iremoje. It is a sacred and mournful variant of Ijala, performed specifically during midnight rituals and funeral rites to bid farewell to a deceased hunter. I also produced a poetry collection from Ekun Iyawo titled Night of My Flight: The Poetry of a Lady About to Wed, published in 2026. The earlier version of Ekun Iyawo was based on chants we collected from women in Osogbo, Iragbiji, and Ikirun in Osun State in 2001. For the new version, which I produced in 2004 or 2005, I had to imagine myself as a bride and compose an original poem based on that tradition. The point I am making is this: if we are worried that Yoruba culture and language are gradually going into extinction, what is each of us doing individually to preserve them? If we do not take deliberate steps to protect our culture and language, the fear of their extinction could become a reality. If we do not preserve our cultural traditions and teach our children about our heritage and language, we risk losing them. We must move beyond lamentation. We have to make a conscious effort to preserve and protect our culture, heritage, and language.
Q: Did you use poetry to woo your wife?
A: Ironically, I didn’t. However, I had used poetry to toast some other ladies. At the time, we didn’t have much opportunity to exchange poetry. After we got married, though, she began to enjoy the poems I wrote for her.
Q: How does she feel about seeing you perform poetry with other ladies?
A: That is another story. She wasn’t comfortable with it initially, but eventually she accepted the reality that this is what her husband does and that there is nothing more to it.
Q: What does Udeme symbolise?
A: Udeme enables my poetry to achieve a kind of balance and, as the saying goes, to kill more than two birds with one stone. We dedicate the poem, the song, and the performance to a lady, but beneath the surface, the poetry is a political satire. The poem uses Udeme’s beauty to convey a political message to the people. It is one of my most successful poems. Ironically, the very politicians the poem is meant to criticise often enjoy it. One day, I received a call from a senator. He said, “I am watching Udeme now. Do you think you are not talking to us?” We both laughed and joked about it. In 2015, the then Minister of Information, Alhaji Lai Mohammed, visited our office for a press briefing. The moment he saw me, he pleasantly surprised me. I was not expecting the honour he accorded me. He immediately rose from his seat and began singing Udeme and reciting parts of the poem in the presence of about 14 journalists. What I am saying is that although Udeme is intended as a critique of corrupt politicians, many politicians themselves enjoy the performance. There was also a day in 2016 when I visited Professor Wole Soyinka at his office in Freedom Park with my friend and colleague, Kabir Alabi Garba, the Weekend Editor of The Guardian. As we entered his office, to our amazement, Professor Soyinka started singing Udeme. Udeme is one of the works that many people would categorise as a romance poem. Beyond that, however, it is a satire. It exposes the ills of society.
Q: One might wonder what problem Akeem Lasisi has with legislators. Apart from Udeme, which focuses on corruption among legislators, another of your poems, Onarebu, does the same. Why is that?
A: Onarebu was inspired by the reaction of some people in Ilorin to a poem written by Professor Niyi Osundare. In the poem, Osundare satirically criticised the emergence of a senator as Senate President through the back door. Later, the Osundare Poetry Festival was scheduled to hold in Ilorin, with Professor Osundare expected to attend. However, some influential people in Ilorin opposed the event. They argued that they could not allow Osundare, whom they believed had insulted their son, to come to Ilorin and be celebrated. As a result, the programme was moved to Ibadan. It was against that background that I composed Onarebu to satirise the senator who emerged as Senate President through the back door. Am I always after legislators? No. Besides, while I was at The Punch, I had a colleague and friend whom I often sang to whenever we were joking together. She worked on the Business Desk, while I was on the Arts Desk. She was a bit robust, unlike the Udeme in my poetry, who is slim. She is the original Udeme.
Q: Between the Udeme in your office and the one in your poetry, which of them could qualify as your pick?
A: I would rather not compare the two of them in that context. If you are asking what kind of women usually attract me, I still won’t answer that question. What I place greater emphasis on is a woman’s intelligence.
Q: Now that both of them are intelligent, who is your choice?
A: (Laughs). I am going to answer that question and send it to you. Many of my works have their roots in real-life experiences.
Q: Onarebu goes beyond legislators because you also mentioned ministers. Invariably, you are talking about corrupt politicians generally. There is also a part of the poem where people protest?
A: (Cuts in). Yes. The legislator and his wife were the only ones enjoying everything while everyone else was left out. Eventually, the people protested. However, the protest did not last as long as it should have. In the end, the protesters relaxed, and the senator rose again towards the end of the poem. In other words, the poem tells us that we must sustain our protests until we achieve the objectives for which we are protesting.
Q: What is the message in Laye Olugbon?
A: It is intended to celebrate Yoruba culture as well as the poet himself. In the Yoruba poetic tradition, poets often celebrate themselves after celebrating others. Olarewaju Adepoju, Ogundare Foyanmu, and Alabi Ogundepo do this extensively. They also present themselves as seers or prophets. Likewise, Ayinla Kollington and Ayinde Barrister had distinctive ways of praising themselves in their works. Self-praise poetry is rich in artistic expression and craftsmanship. It can be deeply poetic. In Laye Olugbon, I recreate both the song and the poetry so that those who have known the work for many years can reconnect with it.
Q: But your poetry is also laced with political themes?
A: Yes. Politics is also part of the life of an artist. My poetry goes beyond romance. We have to use art to benefit society and to pursue lasting and meaningful change. There are two works I have completed but have not yet released. My work on the late Chief Bola Ige has remained unreleased because of the emotions it is likely to generate. For tactical reasons, we are also still holding back our album titled Bamubamu.
Q: What did you seek to achieve with Asabi Alakara?
A: We were not overtly political with Asabi Alakara. Our message is that it is easy to criticise politicians, even though we may not be very different from them ourselves. If pastors, teachers, and other critics were placed in the positions occupied by the politicians they criticise, they might not behave any better. In fact, they could even perform worse. There have been many professors who ended up performing terribly in public office. Also, no one should assume they are above temptation, especially in matters of adultery and fornication.
Q: Can you perform a poem for us?
A: Let me explain what I do. I perform poetry in both Yoruba and English. If I find myself in a setting where English poetry is not the most appropriate, I perform in Yoruba. Even when I chant Ijala, I usually incorporate a little English for the benefit of members of the audience who do not understand Yoruba. I love the Yoruba language more than English, and I promote Yoruba more than any other language. In 2010, I was invited to perform poetry in Berlin, Germany. I was introduced in a compact but inspiring hall filled with many white people and some Africans. As soon as I announced the title of my poem, Correct Pricing, the audience interrupted me and began asking for Ijala. Before I arrived, they had researched my work and discovered that I chant Ijala. That was what they wanted because it was something new to them. If I had been unable to chant Ijala, it would have been one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. From their perspective, what kind of English poem could I have recited that they had not already encountered? We often say the world is a global village, but the real question is: what are we taking to that global village? The only thing people will truly appreciate is what is uniquely ours and new to them. Ironically, what is new to them is often what is old to us.
Q: Are you saying that the government should do more to promote our culture?
A: The government is not serious about revitalising, promoting, and marketing our culture. Sadly, the government has had little or no impact on the growth of Nollywood. Likewise, what contribution has the government made to the global success of our musicians and the transformation of Nigerian music? What exactly is the government promoting and projecting?
Q: Can we ever make meaningful progress with this kind of government attitude?
A: If the government genuinely wants us to grow, it must invest in Nollywood, our culture, and our languages. It should take the promotion of our indigenous languages seriously. There is virtually nothing children cannot learn if they are properly taught, including our indigenous languages. Languages complement one another. A child is capable of learning three or four languages at the same time. At the moment, we face a major challenge. If our children cannot speak Yoruba fluently, how will their own children be able to speak it? The government has to be deliberate about reintroducing our indigenous languages, our culture, and the arts to younger generations. Our culture deserves to be taken seriously.
Q: Your admirers would like to know more about you beyond your titles?
A: I am very proud to say that I was born and raised in a village in Ibadan. I was born on June 6, 1967, in Makanjuola Village, also known as Asiwaju Village, in the Idi-Ita area of Lapite. My parents were farmers, while my mother also sold ẹ̀kọ (corn pudding). That environment played a significant role in shaping who I am today. I had my primary education in the village. I attended Ibadan District Council (IDC) School, Solalu; Iroko Community Grammar School; and Oyo State College of Education, Ila-Orangun, where I studied English/Yoruba Education. I was fortunate to have been taught by some outstanding lecturers. In fact, the College of Education had the greatest influence on my academic development. Our lecturers gave us their very best. I was privileged to learn from distinguished scholars such as Dr Oladapo, Dr Olasunkanmi, Baba Faniran, Dr Bayo Adebowale, Dr Pariola, Baba Dipo Gbenro, Mr Aworanti, and Adele Bolaji.It was there that I first encountered Ekun Iyawo. One of our classmates, Iyabo, was an exceptional chanter of Ekun Iyawo. Between 1985 and 1988, I was exposed to the tradition and became deeply involved in it. We used to perform Ekun Iyawo during Yoruba Week, and I was one of the most active participants. Some of my classmates from that period, including Bade Ojuade, would testify to what I am saying if they happened to watch this programme. I later attended Obafemi Awolowo University (OAU), Ile-Ife, where I studied English. Thereafter, I proceeded to the University of Lagos (UNILAG), where I earned a Master’s degree in English Literature. I served my National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) in Plateau State. After completing the programme, I returned to Ibadan and was fortunate to secure a job as a proofreader at Sketch newspaper. That was my first experience in journalism. Unfortunately, following the June 12, 1993 political crisis, the military government shut down Sketch newspaper. As a result, I became temporarily unemployed. At the time, my friend, Dayo Salako, was teaching English Language and Literature at a Victory Grammar School in Ikeja, Lagos. When he secured another job and left the school, he informed me that there was a vacancy. I immediately left Ibadan for Lagos and took up a teaching position in English Language and Literature at the school. I left the school in 1995 to go into business with a friend. I was determined to break away from poverty. I went into business with a friend because I was determined to break away from poverty. We invested in the meat business. My friend came from the Ilesa/Ondo area, where there were communal and small private abattoirs in which individuals slaughtered cows and sold meat. At the time, there was nothing like that in Lagos. We believed the idea would work there. To prepare ourselves, I spent three months learning the meat business at Oko-Oba in Lagos. Afterwards, we both contributed money to start the business. We got off to a good start. We opened a shop at Oke-Ira, Ogba, in 1996. We slaughtered cows at Oko-Oba. We sold part of the meat there and transported the remainder to our shop at Oke-Ira. Before we began operations at Oke-Ira, we sensitised residents to the business we intended to establish. We printed flyers and distributed them throughout the neighbourhood. People were surprised that educated young men wanted to sell meat, but that did not bother us. Once we opened for business, people patronised us. We bought a second-hand freezer, a weighing scale, and a few other items at Iyana Ipaja to support the business. Unfortunately, we later encountered serious problems. Some of those who bought meat from us at the abattoir, and who understood the business very well, devised a plan to ruin us because they regarded us as a threat. They were not faithful to the business arrangement we had with them. They repeatedly defaulted on payments for the meat they collected from us and eventually disappeared with our money. That was how we became bankrupt, and it forced us out of the business. My friend later relocated to Akure to continue the business and took our equipment with him. At the time, I was living in the house of my friend, Fatai Akinwale, at 29 Abari Street, Iyana Ipaja. We both came from the same area in Ibadan. His village is Ojopoode, and we attended the same primary school. After primary school, he moved to Lagos, where he learnt panel beating and became quite successful. He was the first person to accommodate me when I arrived in Lagos in 1993. He was an exceptionally good friend, specially created by God. We remain close friends to this day. Whenever I faced challenges, he was always there for me. I later rented a room in the same house. Things became very difficult because I had lost all the money I invested in the meat business. While we were in the meat business, we used to travel to Ilorin to buy cows because they were cheaper there. During those trips, I discovered that Ilorin kulikuli was particularly delicious. At the time, it was not commonly available in Lagos. After the meat business collapsed, I travelled to Ilorin with the little money I had left and bought kulikuli to sell in Lagos. Unfortunately, I made one major mistake: I did not carry out a feasibility study before venturing into the business. I assumed that the large population of Lagos would automatically make the business successful. However, I knew very little about marketing the product. After bringing the kulikuli to Lagos, I simply distributed it to traders who agreed to sell it for me. In the end, the kulikuli business also failed. So, what next? I dusted my certificates. With my qualifications, I secured a teaching job in 1996 at Providence Heights Secondary School, Iju-Agege. I remained there until 1999. While teaching at the school, I also started writing for The Diet newspaper. Fortunately, Mr Segun Dipe, a very good friend of mine and the husband of one of our teachers at Providence, discovered that I had a flair for writing. He introduced me to The Diet, where he was one of the editors. I started writing for The Diet in 1997. At the time, I combined teaching with journalism. I taught in the mornings and reported to the newspaper office in the afternoons, where I worked as a proofreader. In 1999, I left Providence Heights Secondary School and joined The Diet newspaper full-time. Mr Niran Malaolu was our editor. I was part of the period when Mr Malaolu was arrested by the government of General Sani Abacha. Later, Mr Segun Dipe informed me that The Comet newspaper was about to be launched and that the remuneration would be better. At The Diet, I was earning ₦11,000 a month. By comparison, my starting salary at Sketch in 1993 had been ₦700. When I heard that The Comet offered better pay, I decided to join the organisation. I joined The Comet as a feature writer under the editorship of Mr Gbenga Omotoso, the current Lagos State Commissioner for Information and Strategy. He was very good to me and has remained supportive over the years. My monthly salary increased to ₦17,000. Moving from ₦11,000 at The Diet to ₦17,000 at The Comet, an increase of ₦6,000, was significant. At the time, my house rent was about ₦400. Although the salary at The Comet was attractive, the newspaper soon began facing challenges. In my view, The Comet missed a great opportunity. There was enormous public anticipation before its launch, but unfortunately, there was not enough physical circulation at the outset. Something went wrong at the production level, and the newspaper never fully recovered from that setback. The brains behind the newspaper came from The Guardian. They included Lade Bonuola, the Managing Director; Femi Kusa, the Editor-in-Chief; and Gbenga Omotoso, the Editor. Eventually, The Comet found its footing, but the explosive impact many people had expected at its launch never materialised. That experience taught me an important lesson: whenever your salary comes, save for the rainy day. It is never easy when the income suddenly stops. Eventually, I had to look for another job. Fortunately, I secured a position with Independent Communications Network Limited (ICNL), publishers of TEMPO, PM News, The NEWS magazine, and other publications. I was offered a monthly salary of ₦15,000. Although it was less than the ₦17,000 I earned at The Comet, I did not consider it a bad offer. ICNL was a smaller organisation, but it had one important advantage: it paid salaries promptly. While I was with The NEWS magazine, I had the opportunity to make my first international trip. I was invited to perform at Poetry Africa in Durban, South Africa. It was an unforgettable experience, and the organisation gave me tremendous support. Oga Kunle Ajibade of ICNL has always encouraged such opportunities, and my colleagues were equally supportive. They included Bamidele Johnson, Adetutu Audu-Adebisi, Akinkunmi Farinto, and Bamidele Ololade, who is now with Premium Times. I later learnt that it was Professor Niyi Osundare who recommended me to the organisers. At the time, I did not even have an email address, so you can imagine how inexperienced I still was. At TEMPO, Bamidele Johnson was my Candour editor. He was an excellent person to work with. Looking back, I realise how fortunate I have been as a journalist because of the calibre of editors under whom I worked. Gbenga Omotoso, Niran Malaolu, Bamidele Johnson, and my Features Editor at The Comet, Laide Sokunbi, all shaped my career in different ways. Laide Sokunbi, the husband of Yinka Sokunbi, had a remarkable way of editing stories. Every time he worked on any of your stories, you learnt something new. Those editors also taught us how to mentor younger colleagues. I have tried to follow their example by mentoring younger journalists whenever I have the opportunity. At The Punch, I also had outstanding editors and senior colleagues, including Azuh Arinze, Steve Ayorinde, Adeyeye Joseph, and Gbemiga Ogunleye. Mr Ogunleye was just leaving the position of Editor to become Managing Director when I joined the organisation, yet he still took a personal interest in my development.
Q: I also attempted to get a job at The Punch when Egbon Gbemiga Ogunleye was the editor. Someone gave me a letter of introduction to him. He collected my CV and realised that I was a greenhorn who did not have post-graduation experience in journalism. He told me, “Sorry, you don’t have the required two years’ post-graduation experience. Anyone who does not meet that basic requirement cannot work at The Punch“?
A: That was the policy at the time. It was on my third attempt that I eventually secured employment at The Punch. During my first attempt, I passed the aptitude test but was not offered the job. Later, Segun Dipe, who was then the Business Editor, informed me that the organisation was recruiting again. I applied. Once more, I performed very well in both the examination and the interview, but I still was not offered the job. It was the Chairman of the organisation, Baba Ajibola Ogunshola, who eventually instructed that they should look for me. Even then, I still had to go through the recruitment process before I was offered employment. I joined The NEWS magazine in 2001, and in 2003, I moved to The Punch with a much better salary. The Punch was, and still is, one of the best-paying media organisations in Nigeria. Working there contributed immensely to my professional growth. The organisation has a very strict system, but it is also highly progressive and rewarding. My salary at The Punch was more than double what I had been earning at my previous organisation. I joined in August 2003, and by December of the same year, my salary had already been increased. A 13th-month salary was guaranteed at The Punch. That was when I seriously began thinking about getting married. At the same time, I continued writing poetry and publishing my books. I enjoyed every opportunity and support that one could hope for at The Punch.
Q: How do you react to the fact that many media organisations that once paid competitive salaries now rely heavily on freelance journalists?
A: We cannot look at the issue in isolation. A lot has changed. Digital media has emerged. Citizen journalism has emerged. Social media has transformed the media landscape. The challenges confronting the media industry and media proprietors today are enormous. I am not arguing that journalists should not be properly remunerated. Rather, I am saying that the issue is far more complex than it appears. Whether we can ever return to the kind of remuneration structure we had in those days is a very important question. It is one that we must address holistically.
Q: Can you talk about the defining moments that drew you into poetry?
A: I first discovered my creative writing ability through prose. The first manuscript I wrote while I was at the College of Education was a Yoruba novel, although I have not published it. I titled it Osan Olugbo. It tells the story of a 12-year legal battle my parents fought over a parcel of land in Odo Òkun, Ibadan. Later, I wrote a play. While I was at Obafemi Awolowo University (OAU), I belonged to a small literary group. My friends, Dayo Salako, Laolu Harolds, Alhaja, Remi, and I were members of the group. They usually presented poems, while I read either a short story. That was our routine until one evening when Laolu and Dayo asked me why I was not writing poetry. I told them that I did not like writing poetry because I felt it was too restrictive. I did not want to be confined by a form that I considered limiting. They insisted that I should try it because, in their opinion, I was already speaking poetry. I decided to experiment with it, and before long, poetry completely consumed me. That was one of the defining moments of my life. Another defining moment that I can never forget occurred in 2001, when the late Chief Bola Ige turned 70. I was invited to perform at a literary event organised in his honour. Chief Ige had objected to a grand celebration at the time, saying that Nigeria had only just left Egypt and had not yet reached the Promised Land. Nevertheless, he could not avoid the literary event organised for him at Booksellers, Ibadan. It was a remarkable occasion. Different people performed, and I was the only participant invited from Lagos. When I mounted the stage, I performed a poem titled This Is Not the Time to Grow Old. That performance made me realise the extraordinary power of poetry. Before I even finished the recital, Chief Ige rose from his seat, walked up to me, and embraced me. For about five minutes, the audience applauded. He then began praying for me in the Ijesa dialect. Later, when he wrote about his birthday celebration, he mentioned me by name as a young Yoruba and English poet. People read the article in the newspapers and were amazed. Even my colleagues at The Comet reacted with surprise, saying, “You, Akeem?” A few months later, I adapted the same poem for Dr Akwasi Aidoo, who was then the Country Director of the Ford Foundation. I performed it at a literary event organised to celebrate his 50th birthday at the Goethe-Institut in Victoria Island, Lagos. That was where I first met Professor Niyi Osundare in person. Odia Ofeimun also performed at the event, and the international literary community was well represented. It remains one of the most successful performances of my career.It was on the strength of that performance that the Ford Foundation invited me to its office and asked how it could support my work. It is never easy to secure funding, so I told them I wanted to research Ekun Iyawo. They embraced the idea and provided the funding for the research. That was another defining moment in my career.
Q: Which Yoruba oral tradition has influenced you the most, Ijala, Ewi, or folklore?
A: All of them have influenced me in different ways. I chant Ijala, Èsà Egúngún, Ekun Iyawo, and Rárà. Of all these traditions, Ijala has had the greatest influence on my work.
Q: Would you say you were naturally gifted in these art forms, or did you learn them?
A: I discovered that I had the talent, but I also learnt it. Talent alone is not enough.
