By Kola Johnson/
I remember the Ramadans of the good old days. Though meant to be a season of fasting and prayers, they often transformed into something more—a carnival of high excitement that painted the streets with energy and lifted spirits to great heights.
Those were times when the line between day and night blurred, merging into one long, continuous stream of activity. The streets never truly slept, animated by an unbroken buzz of liveliness, largely sustained by the Ajisaris—devout young men who, in their zeal for the faith, barely indulged in sleep. With their rudimentary instruments, they would take to the streets, rousing fellow Muslims to their religious duties, chanting slogans with infectious enthusiasm.
Words can hardly do justice to the exuberance that defined Ramadan in those days. The energy was almost tangible, as though it could be seen and touched. The spirit of the season was electrifying—flowing like an orchestrated rhythm into the sky—while the sense of fraternity, goodwill, and brotherhood was as exemplary as it was inspiring.
In those times, Muslim devotees were particular about breaking their fast at home, unlike today, where a more relaxed “anywhere-goes” attitude prevails. By 3 p.m., the city would begin gearing up for the evening Iftar, and before one could say J-A-C-K, the streets were already abuzz with thick, high-wire traffic.
As expected, the markets—always reliable indicators of the Ramadan season—throbbed with life. Stalls overflowed with buyers, and a sudden proliferation of food businesses emerged, offering delicacies like pap, kunu, akara, oranges, moin-moin, and more. The streets teemed with hawkers, each adding to the vibrant Ramadan commerce.
The Scent of Home and the Warmth of Tradition
I remember the familiar houses in my neighborhood where we, as street boys and girls, would go—either on our own accord or at our parents’ behest—to procure local delicacies. The moment fasting began, these houses would transform into bustling hubs, with long queues of eager patrons awaiting their turn to purchase their cherished post-fast meals.
One particular house on Willoughby Street in Ebute-Metta, near my Oloto Street residence, stood out. Just a few doors from the very house where the Redeemed Christian Church of God (RCCG) began in the 1950s, this house became legendary for its Tuwo. The queue would snake from deep within the compound, spilling into the street, an astonishing sight that captured the essence of communal Ramadan traditions.
Not far from there, at Kano Street and Evans Square, the colonies of beggars were an equally unforgettable spectacle. During Ramadan, they were treated to an abundance of rich, sumptuous meals—so much so that even a casual observer might momentarily envy them.
In those good old days, even Christians and animists were drawn to the fervor of Ramadan.
Take Alhaja Abayomi, for instance—the grandmother of former Lagos State Deputy Governor, Femi Pedro. A devout member of the Ahmadiyya sect, she took my mother, my siblings, and me in as her own, showering us with a love that defied verbal description. It was through this close bond that I often accompanied Taiye and Kehinde Pedro—my intimate friends and now esteemed finance technocrats in the U.S.—along with their grandmother to the customary Islamic Waasi (sermon) at the Ahmadiyya branch near Oyingbo Market.
These sermons, held after Iftar, were an intellectual and spiritual delight. None was more captivating than those delivered by Alhaji Y.P.O. Shodeinde, an eminent Islamic scholar whose unmatched erudition, humility, and saintly disposition left a lasting impression. As a revered Ahmadiyya missioner and the longest-serving columnist in Nigerian journalism (through The Guardian newspaper), he remains irreplaceable even decades after his passing.
From Ramadan Chants to Fuji Music: A Serendipitous Evolution
Amid this festive atmosphere, a unique group emerged—the Ajisaris, a youthful band of town criers dedicated to waking fellow Muslims for their early morning Sahur meal. What began as an individual practice soon morphed into an organized movement. With barely any sleep, these young men infused the streets with rhythmic chants, setting the city aglow as they performed their daily duty.
In those days, even the devout faithful slept with one eye open—not out of fear, but in eager anticipation of the sacred call to fast.
But what no one foresaw was that these simple street chants—born out of religious devotion—would lay the foundation for something monumental. The animated, lyrical awakenings of the Ajisaris gradually evolved into Were, a folk Islamic musical style. And from Were emerged something even greater—Fuji music, which would later redefine Nigeria’s musical landscape.
This unexpected transformation owes its brilliance to the legendary Alhaji Sikiru Ayinde Barrister, whose creative genius birthed Fuji. Could anyone have predicted the explosion of this genre, its formidable army of devoted fans, and its dominance of the entertainment scene? Today, Fuji stands as a cultural force, wielding immense economic influence and propelling countless artists to stardom.
Think of superstars like Wasiu Ayinde (K1 De Ultimate), Saheed Osupa, Alabi Pasuma, Akande Obesere, Kollington Ayinla, Iyanda Sawaba, and Shefiu Alao. These celebrated musicians owe their fame and fortune to Fuji. Yet, how remarkable it is that this powerful genre sprang from the humble tradition of early morning Ramadan chants!
Ask them what their fate might have been had they not stumbled upon Fuji, and they would likely shudder at the thought.
Fuji: The Genre That Changed Everything
Fuji did not just emerge; it took the Nigerian music industry by storm. It gripped and ultimately dethroned Juju music—a feat that even the Sakara style of Yusuf Olatunji, the Apala of Haruna Ishola and Ayinla Omowura (Egun Mogaji), or the Awurebe and Waka genres could not accomplish.
Juju, once the reigning genre, struggled to compete with Fuji’s raw energy and street appeal. The up-and-coming generation of musicians could not resist Fuji’s pull, choosing its vibrant beats over the dwindling allure of Juju. Ultimately, Fuji accomplished what no other genre could—it chased Apala into near-oblivion.
Serendipity: The Beauty of Chance and Purpose
The pathway from Ramadan rituals to Ajisari chants, then to Were, and finally to Fuji is a testament to the power of serendipity. This English word, coined by Horace Walpole from the fairy tale The Three Princes of Serendip, describes the art of making fortunate discoveries by accident.
Serendipity teaches us to stay open to the unexpected, to embrace life’s twists and turns, and to recognize the beauty in chance encounters. It reminds us that greatness often lies hidden in the simplest of beginnings—waiting for the right moment to unfold.
As Orison Swett Marden wisely said:
“Don’t wait for opportunities. Seize common occasions and make them great. Weak men wait for opportunities. Strong men make them.”
Indeed, Fuji is a perfect testament to this philosophy.
