Makurdi and Radio
I still remember those days in Makurdi, when the hum of Radio Benue was as much a part of our household as the aroma of dinner from the kitchen. Back then, Radio Benue was the station in town — in fact, for a long time, it was the only FM station in Benue State. My brother, Idoko Okenyodo — known to listeners as Lee Rapmans — was one of its most popular voices. That meant our family home was a bit like a cultural hub. Artists, on-air personalities, and all kinds of creatives flowed in and out.
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If they didn’t find my brother in the record shop that he established on Katsina-Ala Street, known as Boost Productions, they would walk one kilometre down down the road to our house. There was no mobile phone, and we didn’t even have a phone as just about 200,000 land lines existed in Nigeria at the time. Tuface once lived on the same street with us then.
King Blackman Oluma and Rastafarianism
Among the regular visitors was King Blackman Oluma, tall in presence, confident in his words, and steeped in the philosophy of Rastafarianism. I can still hear him explaining it: “Ras means head; Tafari means anointed. That’s Rastafari.”
That was the first time I’d ever heard anyone break down Rastafarianism with such clarity, and certainly the first time I heard it from someone who had actually spent time in Jamaica. No one cared how long he stayed in Jamaica or if he actually did visit; his Jamaican Patois accent was convincing enough to us.
Rebel with a Cause?
Oluma was the son of Archbishop Benjamin Achigili, a respected figure in Nigeria’s Church, who was head of the large Methodist congregation in the North, but Blackman had chosen a different spiritual path. He spoke openly about how his father’s Christian beliefs didn’t align with his own worldview. It wasn’t rebellion for rebellion’s sake but was a deeply considered choice, shaped by his travels and convictions.
Thinking about this 35 years after (and having sat for lunch with Charly Boy and his father Justice Chukwudifo Oputa), I don’t know what views to hold anymore. Charly Boy alleged that one of his heady children was made from hell. The older Oputa chuckled and reminded Charly Boy about his much publicised disagreements with his dad over choice of career. His father, Nigeria’s most revered judge, would have preferred his son studying law but Charly Boy chose mass communication and entertainment. The decision was scandalous, if not sacrilegious.
Much like the two entertainers, Samuel Sochukwuma Okwaraji studied law but was more known for football. And he died actively pursuing the latter for Nigeria. He obtained a masters in international law from the Pontifical Lateran University of Rome.
Public Intellectual in Music
When Oluma talked music, you could tell he had a purpose beyond entertainment. He had just recorded “War Against Indiscipline,” a reggae track of surprisingly high production quality for Nigeria at the time, even better, I thought, than his full album titled Settle Down. The song was getting good airplay on Radio Benue, partly because it was one of the earliest pop records that told a folk story from Benue, in the tradition of Bongos Ikwue and Madman Jaga.
The lyrics of War Against Indiscipline is stuck in my head to this day:
A girl called Ada / Another one called Ene / They went fi trafficking de cocaine / War against indiscipline/
It was social commentary wrapped in a groovy roots reggae baseline, a direct nod to General Muhammadu Buhari’s “War Against Indiscipline” campaign, which was infamous for its strict enforcement against drug trafficking and other social ills. I even joined the WAI Brigade as a teenager, which led to my narrow brush with being sodomised by a commander. That’s another story.
So, social commentary; that was Oluma’s style. Like Jamaica’s Cocoa Tea, he was a singer with his finger on the pulse of public affairs. Cocoa Tea had songs like Barack Obama, New Immigration Law, and Death in the Stadium, and Oluma, in his own Nigerian context, sang about real events and social issues with a similar journalistic urgency. His Sam Okwaraji (Tribute) from the Settle Down LP was another example, memorialising the Nigerian footballer who collapsed and died during a World Cup qualifier in 1989. Oluma wrote and recorded the song in the middle of that national mourning.
The Settle Down LP, which we had in the family collection, had on Side A three tracks: Slave Water, Rub A Dub Soldier, and Sam Okwaraji (Tribute). Side B had Reggae Rumba, Settle Down, and Save And Practice. Oluma was rising alongside musicians like Orits Wiliki, Majek Fashek (who had just become a full-blown star), Peterside Ottong, and The Mandators.
Is There a Chance of Seeing King Blackman Oluma
Sadly, Oluma’s life and career didn’t stretch long enough to show us all he could have become. If he had lived longer, I believe he would have been one of Nigeria’s defining reggae voices, bridging local realities with global reggae consciousness. I don’t remember what killed him but I was saddened when I heard he had passed.
When I think back to those visits in Makurdi, I see Oluma in our room, the Boys’ Room where my brothers stacked gigantic locally fabricated speakers, confident, passionate, and unafraid to use music as a mirror for society. He was recording at about the same time as Philon Brown, though slightly earlier. His songs weren’t just entertainment; they were time capsules of Nigerian history, sung with the fire of a man who understood both the head (Ras) and the anointing (Tafari). Sometimes, I wonder, if, like Philon Brown, there could be speculations about Oluma having children somewhere. It would be nice for us to see if his stardom would be realised somehow.
As for Sam Okwaraji, he was immortalised in a number of songs, one of which was by the late highlife maestro Oliver de Coque, and whether can see Okwaraji again or not, Nigeria somehow has not forgotten. We won’t forget.
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