Opinion

Between Fela and Whizkid…. 2

Published

7 months ago

February 4, 2026

Chigozin Obinna

By Bola BOLAWOLE

Michael Jackson has now arrived in Jamaica for a meeting with Bob Marley. Read on!

“Kingston, Jamaica, October 23rd, 1978. 8:30 p.m: The exclusive Pegasus Hotel’s penthouse suite was buzzing with quiet conversation when Michael Jackson walked through the heavy wooden doors… Michael had an agenda beyond social pleasantries.

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He wanted to propose something that would reshape both (his and Bob Marley’s) careers forever.

The contrast between the two men was immediately striking. Michael wore an expensive silk shirt, perfectly tailored pants, and his signature sequin glove, representing everything successful about the American music industry.

Bob, in contrast, wore simple jeans and a cotton shirt, his dreadlocks flowing naturally, embodying the authentic spiritual energy that had made him reggae’s most respected voice…

Bob looked up as Michael approached, setting down his guitar with the measured calm that characterized everything he did. “Michael Jackson,” Bob said with a slight smile, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. “The prince of pop music. Bless up, brethren.”

Michael slid into the chair, immediately struck by the difference between this intimate setting and their brief backstage encounter three years earlier.

Here, face-to-face, he could see the profound intelligence in Bob’s eyes—the spiritual weight he carried, the way he seemed to be listening to something beyond their conversation.

“Bob, it’s an honor to finally sit with you properly”, Michael said, his nervous energy evident despite his attempt to appear confident. “I’ve been hoping for this opportunity for years.

Bob’s expression remained warm but curious. “What brings the King of Pop to Jamaica, Michael? What’s on your heart?”

Michael leaned forward across the small table between them, his excitement building as he outlined his vision. “Bob, I want to propose something that could change music history. A full collaboration—an album, a world tour, maybe even a concert film. We could combine your consciousness with my reach, your message with my platform.”

Bob studied Michael’s face carefully, reading not just his words, but his intentions… “Tell me more about this vision,” Bob said, folding his hands on the table.

Michael’s excitement grew as he painted his picture, gesticulating with typical enthusiasm. “Picture this: your spiritual lyrics with my melodies and production values. Your authentic message
reaching mainstream audiences who have never heard conscious music. We could reach 100 million people with messages about unity, love, and social justice.” Michael outlined the scope of his vision with genuine passion.

Record executives had estimated the project could generate over $50 million in revenue.

The tour would hit every major American city, introducing reggae to audiences who had never heard conscious music before.

Bob listened intently, occasionally nodding, but his eyes never left Michael’s face.

Across the table, he could sense Michael’s genuine enthusiasm—but also the fundamental misunderstanding that lay beneath the proposal.

“And how would this collaboration work practically?” Bob asked quietly. “Would my message change to fit your audience or would your audience change to receive my message?”

The question hung in the air between them like smoke from sacred fire.

Michael hadn’t expected such a direct philosophical challenge, and Bob’s steady gaze made it impossible to avoid the deeper implications of what he was proposing.

“We could find a middle ground, hopefully” Michael suggested. “Keep your message but make it more accessible to mainstream audiences who might not be ready for the full intensity of Rastapharian philosophy.”

Bob leaned back slightly, creating physical space that somehow made his next question more powerful. “What does more accessible mean, Michael?”

Sitting across from Bob in the intimate setting of the suite, Michael felt the weight of having to articulate something he’d never fully examined.

“Maybe less political content, more universal themes like love and unity that don’t make people uncomfortable—songs that can play on mainstream radio without causing controversy.”

Bob’s response was gentle but penetrating, his voice cutting through Michael’s commercial enthusiasm like truth through illusion.

“Universal love that avoids uncomfortable truths isn’t universal love, Michael. It’s comfortable love. And comfortable love never changed anything.”

The face-to-face setting made every word feel more significant, more personal.

Michael could see the compassion in Bob’s eyes, but also the unwavering commitment to principles that couldn’t be compromised for any amount of success.

Bob continued with an insight that would haunt Michael for years. “When you perform, Michael, what are you trying to accomplish? What do you want people to carry with them when they leave your concert?

Michael straightened in his chair, suddenly feeling like a student being examined by a master teacher. “I want to entertain people, make them happy, give them an escape from their problems, and I want to wake people up.”

Bob replied, his voice carrying the same authority that made his music so powerful. (In contrast, explaining what he seeks to accomplish when performing, Bob said): “To help them understand their problems and find the strength to solve them. Both callings have value, but they cannot be the same thing.” Bob’s voice took on the teaching quality that made his conversations as influential as his songs.

“Michael, you have tremendous talent, tremendous gifts from Jah. Your ability to move people through music is extraordinary. But this collaboration you are proposing—it would require one of us to compromise our essential nature.”

The conversation continued for over an hour with Bob patiently explaining his philosophy while Michael tried desperately to find ways to make the collaboration work.

But sitting face-to-face, seeing Bob’s unwavering spiritual commitment up close, Michael began to understand that this wasn’t about business strategy or creative compromise.

It was about two fundamentally different approaches to the purpose of music.

Bob continued with profound gentleness. “When Marcus Garvey spoke about black pride, white people were uncomfortable. When Martin Luther King spoke about justice, white people were uncomfortable. When Jesus spoke about loving your enemies, everyone was uncomfortable. Discomfort is often the first sign that consciousness is awakening.”

Bob paused, allowing his words to settle. “When you perform, you give people what they want—happiness, excitement, escape. When I perform, I give people what they need—truth, consciousness, spiritual awakening. Both serve Jah’s purpose, but they cannot be the same thing.”

“But think about the impact we could have together”, Michael said desperately, leaning forward across the table. “The number of people we could reach with positive messages.”

Bob’s response became legendary among those who witnessed the meeting. “Michael, reaching many people with a diluted message is less powerful than reaching fewer people with a pure message. Quality of consciousness matters more than quantity of audience. Better to awaken one person completely than to entertain a million people temporarily.”

Michael felt the collaboration slipping away, but he made one last attempt. “What if we could do it your way? What if I adapted my style to your message instead of asking you to adapt your message to my style?”

Bob appreciated Michael’s willingness to consider this approach, but his answer revealed the deeper issue.

“Michael, you are already perfect at what Jah called you to do. Your gift for bringing joy to people is precious and necessary. Don’t diminish that gift by trying to become something you are not. And don’t ask me to diminish mine by becoming something I am not.”

As their meeting neared its end, Bob said: “You are a star, and stars are meant to shine bright and bring joy to people. I respect that calling deeply. But I am not a star. I am a messenger. And messengers must deliver the message exactly as Jah gave it to them.”

Bob stood slowly, extending his hand across the table. “We both serve the same creator through different expressions. Your path is perfect for you. Mine is perfect for me. To change either would diminish both.”

When they shook hands, Michael felt both disappointed and enlightened. Bob had rejected the biggest collaboration offer in music history…The proposed Michael Jackson–Bob Marley collaboration never happened. But both artists went on to achieve their destinies authentically.

Michael became the undisputed king of pop, using entertainment to bring joy to billions worldwide. Bob remained reggae’s spiritual messenger until his death in 1981.

Years later, Michael would credit that face-to-face meeting with teaching him about artistic integrity. “Bob taught me”, Michael said, “that every artist has to choose between being famous and being important.”

Bob chose importance over fame every time…When Bob died in 1981, Michael was among the artistes who publicly honored his memory…The face-to-face meeting that could have created music history’s greatest collaboration instead created something more valuable—mutual understanding between two masters who recognized that their separate paths served the same goal of uplifting humanity through music.

The Michael Jackson–Bob Marley collaboration that never was reminds us that sometimes the most important artistic decisions are the ones that prioritize authenticity over opportunity, message over money, and spiritual integrity over commercial success.”

We can pigeon-hole Fela and Bob Marley together and Michael Jackson and Whizkid likewise.

Everyone is blessed with talents; everyone is used by God for different purposes; everyone is a star in his own right; everyone, like Frantz Fanon posits, discovers their mission, to fulfil or betray it, taking different routes.

There is no basis, therefore, for comparison. We cannot compare apples with oranges.

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Financial success and audience followership are poor yardsticks of measurement because conscious music (Bob Marley/Fela) is not the same as entertainment music (Michael Jackson/Whizkid).

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Opinion

Tributes to Dr. Segun Osoba and Abosede Oluwayemisi

Published

2 weeks ago

August 5, 2026

Mariam Balogun

By Bola BOLAWOLE,

Dr. Segun Osoba, Marxist scholar and historian, was one of my mentors and role models. Our paths crossed long before I came face-to-face with the enigma at the then University of Ife, now Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife, where he not only taught me courses in the History department, but was also our staff adviser and comrade.

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Cerebral and unflinchingly principled, Osoba snubbed the usual hussle, if I may call it that, of many academics to attain to the professoral status, preferring to remain “Dr.” even though everyone knew he was not the mate of many a professor!

For me, Osoba’s fame travelled far ahead of him. Appointed by the Murtala Muhammed regime into the Constitution Drafting Committee in October 1975, Osoba, together with his ideological soulmate, Dr. Bala Usman of the History department of the Ahmadu Bello University (ABU), Zaria, broke ranks with the other members of the CDC to author a people-oriented draft Constitution that made the Nigerian people’s interests, aspirations and well-being its focal point. It was termed the Minority Report.

Expectedly, the conservative Olusegun Obasanjo regime that succeeded Murtala Muhammed rejected the Osoba/Bala Usman report while accepting the report of the majority members of the CDC on September 14, 1976. The CDC was chaired by Chief FRA Williams.

The majority/minority report divide apart, the CDC was not without its controversies: The sage, Chief Obafemi Awolowo, had declined to serve on the committee, thereby reducing its members from 50 to 49. There was also the debate as to what would have been the choice of a much more radical Murtala Muhammed had he not been assassinated on February 13, 1976.

Specifically because of Osoba and Bala Usman, I chose to study History in the university! And I was fortunate to drink from the fountain of knowledge at the feet of Dr. Osoba on and off the classroom. As comrades, our relationship did not end at Ife; usually, comradeship is a life-long endeavour.

In late December 2023, after a spell of ‘long-time-no-see’, four of us old students/comrades of Comrade Osoba decided to visit him at his Ijebu-Ode residence – Femi Falana, SAN; Ambassador Ayo Olukanni; Kayode Komolafe (K.K.) and my humble self.

Comrade was still his very sharp and humorous self. Despite his health challenges, he still “recognised” each and everyone of us by our voice. We discussed for hours and it was amazing that ill-health spared his intellect. He was his familiar self – analytical, even if caustic, going down memory lane and recalling facts and figures as if he was reading them from a book spread out before him.

We promised to return. Unfortunately, we procrastinated, despite Olukanni’s repeated prodding. But as individuals, we attended his 90th birthday celebration held at Ijebu-Ode on 9th January, 2025. His book, “Critical and Contentious Issues in the Modern and Contemporary History of Nigeria: Collected Writings of Samuel Olusegun Osoba”, which was unveiled at the occasion, adorns my Library. See also my “Tributes to Comrade (Dr.) Segun Osoba at 90”, published in this column in the Wednesday, 15 January, 2025 edition of the New Telegraph newspaper.

Dr. Osoba passed away peacefully at home in Ijebu-Ode on 14 May, 2026. A flurry of activities by comrades from all the nooks and crannies of this country as well as abroad celebrated his life, extolled his virtues, pledged to continue the struggle from where he stopped, and bid him farewell from this earthly plane. In this were the words of Che Guevara fulfilled: “Wherever death may surprise us, let it be welcome, provided that this, our battle cry, may have reached some receptive ear and another hand may be extended to wield our weapons (Message to the Tricontinental, 1967).”

I was unable to participate fully in some of the activities because of the tragedy that fell at my doorsteps at about the same time.

First, my elder sister’s husband, Gabriel Alani Olusola Omiyale, died on June 11, 2026 at the age of 89 years. He was a mentor. Then came the bombshell: His daughter – and my sister’s second child, Abosede Oluwayemisi – died the same month on June 29th at the age of 54!

That was massive! To say we were devastated is an understatement. If the pains that attended Bose’s death remain indescribable, the ways and manners of her husband and his family immediately before and after her death remain a puzzle. They rubbed insults on our injury.

They desecrated our Yoruba customs and traditions. Bose had heroically battled the scourge of breast cancer; after undergoing an operation, we were all optimistic she was on the path to full recovery until tests showed she needed more medical attention.

Naturally, she was devastated but, gradually, she built up the confidence and strength required to see her through. No stone was left unturned by her extended family who did not leave the load for the husband and his family to carry. All hands were on deck.

The extended family had always been there for Bose. Her siblings had been wonderful; never allowing her husband’s unstable job situation to show or affect Bose’s treatment and other needs, including her children’s education and welfare. I also played my part. I am grateful to everyone who responded to our clarion call in many ways.

We were hopeful we would all pull through it and that Bose’s case would be another testimony that cancer can be beaten. All she needed – as much as medicare – were words of encouragement and support. That, however, became the weakest link!

Act one: Against the best advice of her mother, my niece was made to consume a concoction that turned the tide. According to her husband, the concoction was procured by his own brother in Akure, Ondo state, taken to a church for prayers after which it was dispatched through a motorpark! Bose drank this concoction and started vomiting. In his own testimonies, Bose’s husband took her to a hospital where she was given drips, which gave her some strength, but because the doctor was late in coming, he took her back home despite the fact that the test they ran indicated that she had a blood infection! That night at home, she started vomiting again and, according to the husband’s testimony, he took her again to the hospital by 1.30am. She was left unattended until late afternoon when she fell into a coma! Bose’s blood infection was never treated until she passed away!

Act Two: Our standard practice had been to always double-check whatever a doctor said or prescribed, but on this fatal day, Bose’s husband kept all of us in the dark. We were not told of the blood infection. We were not alerted when she started vomiting again in the night. We were not informed when he took her again to the hospital. According to him, Bose walked with her own legs into the hospital, climbing the row of stairs all by herself.

Act Three: At the hospital, the husband took Bose’s phone and locked it in the car parked downstairs. So she had no access to her phone – to call out or receive in-coming calls. She was held incommunicado. And there was no one else there with the husband and wife. He called noone; he also snubbed repeated incoming calls into his own phone, including from my elder sister, who is Bose’s mother.

Act four: Later that afternoon, the husband called me to say Bose was not responding to treatment and that I should start interceding for her. I was aghast! I had been waiting all day for them to link up with me for a scheduled appointment. Later, a female voice using the husband’s phone called me to quickly come to the hospital. I was on my way there when Bose’s second child, a girl writing exams at the Obafemi Awolowo University, called me, sobbing! “Daddy, what is happening to my Mom? My Daddy called me and said my Mummy is in coma” Coma! “Yes, sir”, the girl replied, “and my Daddy said my Mummy is dead!” I almost lost control of the wheel because I was driving.

Act Five: On getting to the hospital, they had already started embalming Bose! I screamed at the husband, but the hospital staff restrained me. Why the haste? Without any of her family members present! A thousand thoughts ran riot in my head. At 6.28 pm, Bose’s mortal remains were deposited in the morgue and we left.

Act Six: While we were agonizing about how to break the sad news to Bose’s mother, her husband and his family had posted Bose’s death on every conceivable social media platform, breaking the news to her young children, the oldest of whom is just a little over 20 years while the youngest is 14!

Act seven: We the siblings of Bose’s mother wanted a decent burial for her. We wanted her dreams and visions for her children respected. Bose’s husband and his family spurned all of that! They weaponized Bose’s young children against us. They threw their so-called customs and traditions in our face at every turn – as if the Yoruba have no customs and traditions. They employed deceit and subterfuge and hurriedly committed Bose to mother earth without any of her family members present! We warned! They ignored and played games!

Google says Edema is a name answered by both the Urhobo and Itsekiri people of Delta state. Does their culture permit the trumping of Yoruba customs and traditions? Should a husband boast to his children – while their mother was still battling cancer – that, if she dies, he will remarry? So, expect his wedding invitation!

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Had Bose died of cancer, our pains would have been less insufferable; but she did not! Were they tired of the stress and wanted closure so they could move on with their own life? Hastened to her death! Hurried to the grave! This is to put the records straight. Our immediate attention, however, is the good health of Bose’s mother – and Daddy Omiyale’s burial slated for 29th and 30th of October this year.

Let Dr. Segun Osoba rest in power! And eternal rest grant Abosede Oluwayemisi Edema (nee Omiyale), O Lord!

(Published in the TREASURES column on the back page of the Wednesday, 5 August, 2026 edition of the New Telegraph newspaper).