In recent times, the Fuji music industry has been buzzing with controversies. From Taye Currency’s public outburst at Pasuma to Saheed Osupa—whom I fondly call the Oracle—clashing with K1 De Ultimate, it’s been nothing short of a blockbuster drama. As much as I find myself voicing my thoughts, I must admit I’m no Fuji scholar. In fact, I’d comfortably place myself in the “layman” category—just someone who enjoys the occasional chaos this genre brings.

Growing up in Oyo town, my father, popularly known as Sikolly, was the ultimate music aficionado. His taste ranged from Fuji to Juju and Apala. Our living room was like a mini DJ booth, with records from the likes of Ayinla Omowura, Sikiru Ayinde Barrister, Wasiu Ayinde, Adewale Ayuba, King Sunny Ade, Shina Peters, and, of course, Chief Commander Ebenezer Obey. There wasn’t a weekend he didn’t blast the speakers with classics, sometimes to the frustration of our neighbors (and his stubborn son—me).

Back then, I couldn’t stand it. Honestly, the music felt like noise pollution. The deep beats of Apala? Annoying. The complex rhythms of Fuji? Unbearable. Even Juju with its sweet guitar strings? I wanted no part of it. I was all about the Western vibe—sharp shirts, tucked-in trousers, shiny leather shoes, and a walk that said, “This boy is destined for London!” If you ever caught me in buba and sokoto, you were probably dreaming. Sikolly and I were opposites, and I wore that badge proudly.

But life, as they say, is a seasoned comedian. By the time I entered my twenties, something began to shift. I don’t know if it was Lagos traffic that made me hear the wisdom in Fuji or one of those power outages that forced me to sit in silence and reflect. One day, I caught myself listening—really listening—to Osupa’s lyrics, and my head started nodding involuntarily. Before I knew it, I was repeating his line about life’s unpredictability like a philosopher delivering a TED Talk. I couldn’t believe it: Fuji ti di addiction!

Suddenly, the songs my dad used to play came alive with meaning. Wasiu’s poetic social commentaries? Genius. Adewale Ayuba’s smooth delivery? Iconic. Barrister’s storytelling? Masterful. Even Obey’s endless tracks—long enough to play from Oyo to Lagos—felt like goldmines of wisdom. These weren’t just songs; they were life lessons disguised as entertainment.

Now, my playlist is a mix of Fuji legends and Juju classics, and I’ve become the guy passionately defending Osupa in arguments or humming Wasiu’s “Talazo system” while stuck in traffic. I even catch myself laughing at my younger self—the boy who thought he was too cool for native attire and cultural music. If he could see me now, he’d probably roll his eyes and ask, “Who is this agbada-wearing Fuji lover?”

But that’s the beauty of life. It teaches you to embrace what you once ran from. Today, I’m proud to say that Fuji didn’t just grow on me; it became a part of me. And every time I hear those beats, I think of Sikolly—my dad, my DJ, and the man who unknowingly set the stage for my Fuji enlightenment.