Urhobo Nation: Why Do We Neglect Our Musicians While They Live, Only To Crown Them When They Die?
By Eki David Greg, MKO
There is a cruel custom creeping through our communities, and it is carving cracks in our culture.
We crown our musicians with wreaths only after the final funeral dirge.
We pour libation on their graves, but never poured patronage into their cups when they were thirsty.
We chant their choruses in remembrance, yet we refused to respond to their cries in need.
This is the Urhobo paradox.
And it is bleeding our identity dry, one silent string at a time.
A NATION THAT FORGETS ITS FIDDLERS
From the riverbanks of Warri to the sacred soil of Agbon, Urhobo music has never been mere melody.
It is memory molded in music.
It is morality moving through meter.
It is the mouthpiece of our ancestors, echoing across eras.
Yet today, the very hands that hewed that sonic sanctuary are stretched out, empty.
Late Chief Dr. Okpan Orhibo, alias Iminiyo_ gave us rhythms that taught history.
Late Chief Sally Young_ gave us lyrics that carried our language across borders and beyond shame.
Late Chief Prof. Johnson Adjan, The Ogburine_ gave us a lifetime of cultural conservation, note by sacred note.
And how did we repay them?
Prof. Adjan, the archivist of our ancestry, the guardian of our groove, died on a sickbed begging for assistance.
A cultural colossus collapsed in quiet, while the nation he nourished looked away.
Patoranking warned us plainly: “Celebrate me NOW when I dey alive. No be say when I leave this life, you go dey fake am for my back.”
That line should be chiseled on every town hall gate in Urhoboland. Because truth, like a talking drum, sounds loudest when it is beaten in real time.
THE MIRROR FROM OTHER NATIONS
Look left. Look right.
The Ijaws rally round their own. The Yorubas raise, resource, and revere their minstrels.
They sponsor, they spotlight, they sustain.
They understand that culture cannot survive on claps alone. It demands cash, care, and commitment.
Meanwhile in Urhoboland, we boast millionaires and billionaires. Banquet halls burst with laughter, while studios suffocate in silence because our upcoming artists cannot afford the instruments to play.
The shame stings: report after report confirms our rising stars are hiring instruments for every event.
Borrowing beats to build a legacy.
Begging for bass to birth an album.
Renting rhythm to preserve roots.
Is this how a great nation treats its griots?
TORCHBEARERS STILL BURNING
But hope has not hung up its microphone. The music still moves.
There are sons and daughters standing tall on the stages their fathers built:
- Okpan Junior, Agbarho — a living echo of his father, a carbon copy in cadence and conviction. He is set to launch an album dedicated solely to His Excellency, Rt. Hon. Elder Sheriff Francis Oborevwori, JP, Executive Governor of Delta State. If you truly love the Governor and truly love Urhobo heritage, this is the moment to match music with money by reaching out.
- Ase Adjan, Nathaniel Oruma, Expensive Lucky Okwe, Evang. Solo Kings, Solo Marvis, Madam Florence, Omote Udu, Korokoro, King Enakpodia, Dr. Mimi Raham, Theowaco Omoruvwie, Dynamic, Young Prof. I.D. Ubiri, Oviedje, Sir Goddy, and many more.
Names that nurse our narrative.
Voices that vaccinate our values against vanishing.
They are not asking for eulogies. They are asking for equipment, exposure, and encouragement. While they breathe.
LIGHTS IN THE DARKNESS
To be fair, some have refused to fold their arms.
We must salute those who have thrown lifelines to our legends:
UPU London, Multiple Chief Godwin Omote Agofure, High Chief Peter Osievu, Chief Abednego Agofure, Olorogun Samson Gordon alias the White Lion, Chief Tony Oboroh, Comr. Mamus Oseri of Omamus Hotel and Suites, Rev. Anthony Ogugu, Chief Fred Majemite, Chief Roland Oseawhere, Urhobo Social Club, UPU USA, UPU Warri, and others.
Your kindness is kindling.
But one candle cannot chase away the night. We need a wildfire of support.
A CALL TO CONSCIOUSNESS
To our political leaders: Policy without culture is a palace without pillars.
To our traditional rulers and Palace Chiefs: A throne that forgets its troubadours trades tradition for tragedy.
To our business tycoons and stakeholders: Wealth without wisdom is a well without water.
To our religious leaders: A blessing not shared is a blessing buried.
To every son and daughter of Urhobo who loves the sound of home: The time to act is not after the last bow. It is before the final breath.
We cannot keep allowing poverty to pluck the strings of our preservationists.
We cannot keep watching our identity die in penury while prosperity parades in our palaces.
Let us rewrite the story.
Let us buy the drums while the drummer is drumming.
Let us fund the flute while the flutist is still blowing.
Let us celebrate, sustain, and support our own, NOW.
Because when the music dies, a people die with it.
And Urhobo must never, never go silent.
