The Strange Genius of William Onyeabor

Throughout his music career, Onyeabor, who died in 2017, was a recluse. Now, being out of sight for specific periods is a trait shared among artists. Though the reclusive tag has been thrown around quite loosely, Onyeabor embodied the word. Noisey, a music-focused platform could barely get footage of him for their 2014 documentary, Fantastic Man; with Onyeabor appearing in only a single scene where he politely declined to speak with the filmmakers.

There’s a YouTube video with Onyeabor’s name in the headline, which infers sole proprietorship, but the clip turns out to be a compilation of songs directed by an Emeka Nwosu. Nwosu also directed the Nollywood films Akpu Nku and Official Fracas, among others. I find this association interesting because when Onyeabor finally appears in the YouTube-sourced video, it’s within a setting that mirrors the conventions of Nollywood. Its didactic vision carries into the empathetic nature of the scenes as Onyeabor sings about the suffering plaguing mankind. His song, ‘This Kind of World’, while reflecting his signature funky grooves, also bleeds with bleakness. That sense of bi-polarism is captured also in dance, a part of the video that appears so frequently, it almost misses the mind’s notice.

Onyeabor’s subsequent appearance reflects a tighter grasp on melancholy. Titled ‘Anything You Sow’, the record boasts quintessential Onyeabor qualities: moralistic, fatalistic, brooding. Its loopy notes establish a rhythm reminiscent of cartoon soundtracks; and starting off the scene, Onyeabor walks down a flight of stairs, his tall frame covered by a swaying red gown with white dots. The camera moves, first towards his face and then backwards, capturing the picture frames placed on both sides of the staircase. A photograph of Jesus is prominently in view, and there are several others of his family, baby pictures alongside the stoic gazes of adults.

It’s a striking set of montages. The accompanying notes to ‘Anything You Sow’ partly supply its mystery, suggesting as to how Onyeabor tried, quite successfully, to shield the workings of his inner life. Achieving great commercial acclaim starting from the 1970s, he became a bona fide celebrity in Nigeria. Or rather, his music—the quaint vocals and the jumpy synths; the euphoria—became a worthy tool through which he parsed the national atmosphere. In some ways, it is reflective of the notion that rhythm—and consequently dance—is the Black person’s default mode of reflecting emotion.

When I was an undergraduate at a federal university located in the south-east region of Nigeria, my friend’s mother passed away. This friend was greatly helpful in the early years of my schooling, and, beyond that, always seemed to be in good spirits. I and some of his other friends would converge at his place, making conversations heated by ambition. Sometimes we would sing. It took a while for me to reconcile that vibrant figure with the voice on the other end of the phone when he answered my phone call. I commiserated with him—a close one’s death is no easy experience, let alone the death of one’s mother. While we talked, my mind was roving in its usual manner, switching positions to better understand his pain. It was to my greatest surprise then, when we travelled between states to attend the burial and our mates who had come along were partying in between what, quite truthfully, must have been a period of sustained mourning. Long, sad lines drawn on the faces of the welcoming village, the exuberance seemed a much-needed distraction.