Saheed Osupa is an old man. In a realm– different and higher than here–he’s not 54 he claims. That 54 is a mere arithmetic. He’s an ancient man. Isn’t he Babatunde? What’s Yoruba belief on that odd name? The body of his composition is not coming from the frame we see wearing a bushy and almost dreadlock hair style. I had a rough bout with sleep last night. I lost the fight; was awake. Then, I decided to explore the world of Osupa’s music. Honestly, he’s whom he calls himself. He’s music in a human body. Deep. Down-to-earth. Philosophical. Prolific. Until I find out that he keeps– behind the curtain–a band of old composers like others allegedly do, he has my respect. But he shouldn’t be complacent. He shouldn’t be overconfident. These twins are hazardous to his rising career. He should work harder with a mindset that his market is becoming more competitive with the array of his sound-alike. He should also talk to his exploding weight and tell it to calm down. Besides, he must work on his voice, which is not as sharp. His voice. His life.
