In our compound, there lived an Igbo guy who called himself an Igbo rapper. Nobody took him seriously, and he craved attention. One Saturday evening, he went door-to-door, knocking and begging for gum to post a banner with his picture on it. His real intention, however, was to spark curiosity about his banner.
When he knocked on my door, I opened it and told him I didn't have gum, but offered him fufu instead. He accepted and invited me to his show at a venue just opposite our compound.
On Tuesday night, we gathered to support our compound brother. The MC introduced a Yoruba rapper, a Hausa rapper, and finally, our Igbo rapper. As he sagged his trousers and climbed the stage, we cheered, thinking he'd surpass 2Pac Shakur.
The Yoruba and Hausa rappers delivered impressive performances. Then, our compound brother took the mic and shouted "EYO!" six times. He repeated, "They are talking about me," over ten times. The Igbo people behind us grew restless.
Yes, they're talking about you!" they shouted. "What did they say you do?" Our guy continued, "They are talking about me." The crowd's frustration mounted.
The MC intervened, collecting the mic and praising our rapper for mustering the courage to perform. We laughed, still reeling from the awkwardness.
Just then, a drunken Igbo man interrupted, shouting, "Excuse me, Igbo rapper! Never set foot here again! You're a disgrace to Igbo people!" Our rapper beat a hasty retreat.
I haven't seen him since that Tuesday night, and I don't have his number to share a motivational quote. His brief moment in the spotlight ended in humiliation.
Comments