Narrative of a Convert: The Black Sherif Soja Canticle.

By: Abeiku Arhin Tsiwah

I am not a super fan of the kind of music that Black Sherif does. As a creative interest, I dwell more within spaces: — music, poetry, writing—et al; which fully captivates and captures my deepest self.

Whereas the deepest self-trajectory —a silently tender conviction that seeks for bliss, aura, picturesqueness, sublimation and palpable beauty out of any creative masterpiece. That has forever remained the haven and periscope through which I determine an art piece as worthy for consumption.

With the dual-Sermon cruising Kwaku Frimpong to stardom, I have not for once truly identified myself with his kind of musical exploits; one that many people sincerely love.

Nonetheless, that isn’t shrewdly a blatant attempt to cast a weight of beguiling insinuation on his cracked efforts at making music for discerning minds. Far from that desolate debate.

With music and (or) poetry — sorry— I tend to bring in more of a poetic highlight because that is one element that fuels my subscription, and metric meriting of any creative stroke, metaphorically and experimentation wise.

Then ushers in its gracefulness, with its wittingly awesome twist, “Soja”. Soja? For who? Purposed at what?

Who would have imagined that a non-enthusiat of a specific artist’s work would upon a first-time listening session outrightly fall in love with not just the song but the artist; his overarching persona and enigma.

The essence of art, definely jawdropping art —good in every sense of the word— is to convert not in half but in full like John’s baptismal experience the once doubtful, non-believer. Exacting its truest incandescence, that is what Black Sherif through his latest epistle, Soja, has achieved.

Encapsulated in three phases but spreading its wings wide like a rousing eagle, Black Sherif’s Soja takes the listener through varied expositional life tales.

First, in his own crank as an artist he lays down a firm brick that exposes his journey from its genesis and the cloud of disbelief in his prowess to soar into newer heights. This is heightened in the lines;

“. . .Something wey I dey chase/For years back in the days/If you told me I would see this flag waving/I won’t believe you, no/Cos how far could I go?/How far could I go?. . .”

There is an obvious plot around which the artist cleverly draws in his listeners, instigating them to understand his ordeals a lot better. By employing the mechanism of repetition, he appeals to great sense of reflection that intimates how far he would go in his music journey.

Where the artist shines more brightly as an advocate of a sort to the creative journey, its cyclic spin of torment as it happens to newbies hoping to explore new territories – are emboldened in these lines; 

“. . .Inside me I’m celebrating/But outside them dey kill me/My own self dey kill me My own body/My own body. . .”

The killjoy dawns more in an ever-glaring fashion. He feels, he knows, that he is at the breaking point of winning (celebrating) but is met with the reality of people who do not believe in his dreams; who perhaps haven’t understood what is ahead of him. By forces outside, it culminates into what would become of his own weakness, through his body, where his strength keeps waning. 

By the second phase, it is no longer about him anymore. He carries on his shoulders a much bigger cross, laboring the nightmares of the everyday people, the ordinary; the intimidating sprinkles of young people bustling real hustles on a daily.

“. . .My own anxiety/My inferiority/What/What/What/Ah!/Them all dey kill me/Them all dey kill me. . .”

Interestingly by a conscious or an inexplicable means, Black Sherif leads a charge, a voice that doesn’t just speculates but in a crystal, tone indicates some pertinent things that clamp the dreams of many people.

The fact that he doesn’t appeal solely to his own creative line of people but fundamentally recognizes what the everyday person is experiencing with anxiety in the face of goals and dreams puts him and his magic masterpiece of Soja in a class of sociological and philosophical voyage.

Anxiety—an unpleasant emotive feeling and its twin inferiority have been one of the greatest longtime devils that thwart the convictions and greatness of humanity. To be aware of how these trace factors wheels to taunt anyone’s efforts towards achieving anything (dreams, career, skill development, etcetera) is a virtue many people aren’t endowed with. That makes Blacko a dynamite thinker.

The ultimate phase is where Black Sherif sharpens the narrative further with Soja by giving a respectable crossover insight, a sneak peak, into his life’s spectacle and the overlaying dimensions. He does this by willfully exploring metaphysical metaphors, citing instances of how things around him grows cold, dark (dead) and into the spiritual.

The anxiety of death, dawning, rearing its ugly face can be excruciating. What is even more tearjerky is having to experience the death of a relative in real time. The artist doesn’t just conclude with the death of his brother –which in any case could be an extention to anyone else; but enhances the nuance of the bleak tangency to a spiritual convocation.

“. . .Streets getting colder/They bury my brother spirit/He no fit stand proper/He dey shake o/He no fit stand proper/He dey shake o../This season is a very dark one. . .”

While at the crossroads of being whirled between deafening cold streets with its own foils, and the knifing edge of losing a brother; he still has to reinforce this dilemma to people, outsiders, who for the longest time doubt his agonizing moment.

“. . .It’s hard to believe my genna/You for see with your naked eyes. . .”

Melancholic as it is, Sherif bears his utmost truth and confront the realities of the challenging events unfolding up to his gaze of the creative journey he has chosen to be his crucifix. 

Irrespective of these foregoing analysis and scrutiny of Soja, buried in its creative craftsmanship, austere lyricism and inventiveness lies Black Sherif’s meticulous amplification of repetition in chipping through his strongest chants. Each turn is beautifully woven, not overly loud; yet so powerful in direction, purpose and conviction.

“. . .Soja Soja Soja Soja/Stand and beat your chest/They dey come/They dey come/They dey come/No make them catch you off-guard/Don’t let them touch your skin oo. . .”

It’s quite difficult to pass through a listening session without noticing oneself in these carefully written words. Like a journey of self-awareness, the listener is put through a spiritual trip that allows them to rediscover themselves every step of the way. Goosebumps! 

Through any litmus, this solidly tops itself as a soothing lyrical masterstroke. The poet in the artist takes centre stage by infusing enthralling extended metaphors, assonace, enjambment, chemistry, illumination, that flowers sane justice to the beckoning tales of every human passing through life’s moment—creatively and normally.

Inasmuch as Soja is not meant to be a chant of any imaginative misgiving, the consistent melodic supercharged refrain gives proper meaning that bolster it as a surrealistic canticle, a bettered anthem, which ignites, inspires and anchors hope. 

By his unique experimentation with different sounds, drum elements, aesthetics; writing fluidity, Black Sherif through this epical tour de force of “Soja” is advancing new grounds, dispelling uncanny criticisms; a deliberate aberration which voluminously gives off that signatory of what has and would become of him, his works and the posterity riddle he is depositing into the minds of everyone.

Abeiku Arhin Tsiwah is a Ghanaian Smartphone Enthusiast, Content Critic and Creative Writer.