I.K Dairo’s gigs were simply too good to miss. He drew huge crowds because his was sweet, almost heavenly. But there was a problem for me.

I denied having sex with any prostitute. Sadly, this did not stop the jibes until the news got to my mother. She was very sad about the development and decided to watch me more closely. She also enlisted the support of neighbours, who monitored my movements and gave her information on forthcoming gigs.

As any gig approached, my mother, brother and sister would go and wait on the e way to the venue. It worked for me until some musicians told me I should be leaving well ahead of time. Some musicians also kept an eye on the movement 9f my family and neighbours on gig dates. On such dates, I would leave home in my school uniform and lie that we were having extra lessons. But I would have packed clothes to be worn at the gig. My musician friends would then tell me what route to take to beat those who might be waiting to take me back home. When returning from such outings, I would be met at home by my brother and sister. Their faces would betray their anger; questions would follow: ‘Where have you been? ‘ ‘ Did we not see you sneaking off with some musicians? ‘ My response was a standard one: “The person you saw only looked like me.”
They never believed and I always got punished.

I got tired of the punishment and one day , I decided to tell my mother that I wanted to be a musician. The words hit her like violent punch. She looked dazed and said nothing. But her eyes revealed disappointment, despair and resignation. When she broke her silence, it was with tears not words. The tears streamed down her face, turning it into a mask of grief. I was shattered. But my mother rarely gave up, even in the worst situations. She proved this by suddenly regaining her voice, saying I would not become a musician as long as she was alive. Seeing her resolve, I told her that I was only joking. She believed me, but not totally.

That day IK Dairo was coming to play in Osogbo and I begged my mother to allow me go to his gig. She refused. I pleaded that it would be the last show I would attend . She eventually gave in, but warned that I should be be back home by the evening. I told her that I would be unable to return that time because the show was billed to start in the evening. In anger she said I should return at 9 p.m . I was forced to promise that I would return by 10. That sat well with her and allowed me to go.

I.K Dairo’s gigs were simply too good to miss. He drew huge crowds because his was sweet, almost heavenly. But there was a problem for me. Because I was still a child, nobody would sell me a ticket even if I had money. I had to devise ways of beating restriction. What I usually did was to get to the venue long before the show would start. It worked a few times when policemen did not insist that everyone should go out and present their tickets for readmission into the venue.

With time, I was forced into more desperate measures. Once I heard that IK Dairo was bringing his band to Osogbo, I waited for his arrival at the end of the town. There, I would stand with other children in the hope of familiarising ourselves with the members of the band. On the arrival, the band would be driven, slowly, around Osogbo to promote the gig. From the end of the town, we would jog behind the vehicle ,following it over distances. Once in a while, they stopped to acknowledge cheers from crowds that would have formed on the streets. These brief stops afforded us the chance to meet with them and introduce ourselves. Paying and perspiring heavily, we would them that we were available if they needed anyone to run errands for them during the show. Such errands included buying cigarettes for those who smoked and passing their messages to women they admired. We also offered to help carry their instruments whenever they’re unpacking.

Of course ,this was a design to catch their attention so they should get us into the venue of the gig without paying. I always reminded them I was the one running errands for them so they could protect me from being thrown out of the venue by the policemen. Sometimes, I got lucky to be remembered by band members for whom I had run errands. Other times, it was the opposite, particularly when the police failed to listen to any story on errand running.
Once they came , they simply threw out non-paying customers and the people for whom you had run errands would be more concerned with getting ready for the show than bother about your eviction.

Evictions never killed my desire to watch the band play. If I got thrown , I simply went back in, over the wall. I would get tossed out again, but after a while. Sometimes, I landed right in the middle of policemen who did not care if I was a kid or not and I would be be back outside, instantly. Basically, I had little times for studies,as I sometimes played in clubs or be at gigs everyday, apart from from Monday.
The sleepless nights ensured that my eyes were ever bleary. Nature,my eyes attracted quest. Any time I was asked why my eyes were red, I would blame it on malaria.

My favourite in the band was Gani, a drummer. Everyone called him Gini. Though everyone wanted to hear I.K Dairo play, they also loved to hear also loved to hear Gini strike the tomtom. Once he started, the audience would go wild. He was a genius and I mastered all his styles just by observing him.
I was struggling to cope in school and I knew something had to give. Sooner than later, I quit school, but still made out- out of fear of my mother’s reaction- that I was in school.

Happy 75th Birthday To Africa’s Finest, Emperor Dr Sunday Ishola Adeniyi Adegeye MFR, The Golden Mercury Of Africa, Long Live The King of World Beats.

Story Credits: KSA My Life My Music Memoir
Thanks to the author and the management in charge of the production and distribution of this fantastic book.

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