What happened to Fuji music’s wonderkids?

By 2005, the list had gotten quite long: Wasiu Aiki Container, Rando Riliwan, Eva Water, Konkolo Wally-G, Global “T” Tunapa, Muri Ikoko, Rasheedat Omo-Ilu, and a number of others who were not fortunate enough to make it to TV.

Along with the arrival of the teenage crowd came that famous advice from Pasuma, who urged them to combine the craft with schooling. “Eyin omo kee-ke-kee te n ko Fuji o, lasiko yi ara mi,” (Dear young Fuji artistes of the moment) Pasuma sang, before reeling off names, ending the line with an eternally memorable footnote: “E k’awe kun-un… kun’she o.” (Get some education while honing your skills.)

If Pasuma’s detractors felt that advice came against the backdrop of the threat these kids meant for his generation, his fans had evidence to prove it was an extension of his famed big-brotherly role in the Fuji scene. In any case, Taiye Currency and, before him, Alao Malaika were on the scene, loud as testimonies.

Yet if Shanko and his disciples really listened to Pasuma’s piece of advice, it was unclear whether they understood its import. And so, curiously, after they all left the Fuji radar, many never showed up in the classroom. Naturally, their near-total disappearance, both from studio and classroom, throws up the one question: what went wrong? Quick answer: youthful exuberance.

To be sure, such simplistic diagnosis may not capture the complexities surrounding the kids’ odysseys but it offers some insight and may not be far from the real causes. Frankly, it’s quite difficult to divorce infantilism from the controversies that defined the short-lived careers of the kids, most notably Shanko Rashidi, who got entangled in record label crisis.

Shanko, at the height of his glory, dumped Alphabet Records for DAAM Music and later Olasco Films and Records. He promptly released an album titled ‘Agreement’, marketed by Olasco, prompting Alphabet Records to obtain a court injunction to stop the release of his subsequent albums.

The young lad would later accuse Alphabet Music of manipulative tendencies, arguing that the controversial 10-year contract he signed was due to the record company’s deceptive proposals. By the time the dust settled, fans and foes had moved their gazes away from the promising star.

His closest rival, Wasiu Aiki Container, wasn’t as successful as Shanko, even though his fans would never agree he was not a better talent. He, too, had a deal with Olasco shortly after Shanko’s rise, appeared in a few Nollywood flicks and, soon after, faded away. Muri Ikoko and Global “T” had similar record deals kerfuffle as Shanko’s, with varying degrees of misfortune. In all, Fuji music marketers received negative judgments.

Yet there is the big question of whether these kids indeed had the gift. A significant part of their appeal hinged on their naiveté as kids and their unusual rise as a group, and not necessarily on the awesomeness of their art. Many an enthusiastic fan got carried away by their juvenile innocence and paid no attention to the core of their art. While the fawning fan looked the other way, Konkolo Wally-G, for instance, quickly padded his lyrics with improvised nursery rhymes, delivered with a husky Fuji-esque voice.

And so, at the heart of their meteoric rise and fall is the talent question.

Today, Shanko has a certificate from a polytechnic even though he battles with obscurity as he makes effort to integrate pop into his brand of Fuji; Wasiu Container remains out of the radar as he struggles to stage a comeback; and Konkolo, reports claim, never left school even after the klieg lights moved away from him. Others didn’t show up—in the studio, the classroom and, curiously, elsewhere.

Apparently, the kids couldn’t sustain the tempo of their rise, as envisioned by enthusiastic fans in the 2000s. In the end, Pasuma’s prophecy that they would be handed the baton may have been ill-conceived. Or maybe it is not dusk yet.

If we strip the narrative of political correctness, there is an industry-wide contribution to the rise and fall of these kids. If the kids themselves couldn’t contain their unbridled juvenalism—or perhaps many just couldn’t give what they never had, even as radio MCs hailed them to high heavens—very few among the philistines masquerading as music promoters could hide their own rapacity.

In the end, with the disappearance of the kids, it prove to be a lose-lose situation for both parties. And Fuji music is the worse for it.