Comfort: The Story of Two Earworms
It starts with the unmistakable tune of an electric guitar that is quickly matched by the steady sound of a talking drum. It sounds wistful yet bold, a combination I quite like. I start bopping my head, and even though I know what is to come, I cannot stop my fingers from twitching in excitement.
It is the most seamless transition when her voice belts out the first line of the song. I can’t but tap my feet now; my body, given over to the rapture of the sound.
Agbonmagbe ni ore lat’odo Oluwa. Eni pa’se ore ti o le tan l’Oluwa. Never-ending is the goodness that flows from the Lord. He declares never-ending goodness.
It’s the intentionality of the instruments that delightfully carries me through my morning as I hurriedly take my bath, weave through my non-existent dresser for what to wear, and style my locs to look decent. All this while, I am playfully swaying my behind to what I have since termed my favorite song. Who wouldn’t?
Without warning, my subconscious settles on a phrase like the searching hands of a new-born for its mother. I have heard it the last ninety-nine times I played the song, but it sounds new. My favorite bottle of perfume in hand, I stop in my tracks and start to nod. There is reassurance here.
Agbonmagbe l’okun. Agbonmagbe l’osa. Beeni, agbonmagbe ni baba to pa’se won. I listen again and my heart lights up like there’s a thousand fireflies aglow inside of me. Vast is the ocean. Vast is the lagoon. Vast is the one who called them to be.
I am in awe. I turn those words around in my mind. It is for a few moments but something has changed forever. I now know something I never knew; His goodness towards me is unending. I try to imagine the vastness of the oceans. But for someone with a long-standing fear of water, I can only go so far before I come up for air. It’s a lot of goodness, I think.
These days, I am plagued by relentless earworms that will only let me be when I feed them. Shola Allyson’s Agbonmagbe is just one of them; the other is Anderson Paak’s Come Home.
Feeling bored alone at home, thoughts of a desired affection swirling about in my mind, I sift through the list of movies I have stored on my laptop for days like this and select one. It opens to the gentle sound of a piano and drum that pulls me in immediately. I know the song and movie will become a favorite. I am not wrong.
So when I spend the whole day listening to a soul-cum-rap song, rap being completely outside my customary listen, I am not surprised. Likewise, when the day after it is all that plays in my ears, I am not surprised either.
Something about Come Home makes me feel wanted even though I chew my mouth through most of the song. Maybe it’s because, given my conservative background, no one expects me to listen to a song like that. Maybe it’s because I have just turned 27 and feel somewhat ready to defy stereotypes brazenly. Maybe it’s because of how receptive I am finally becoming to the fiery fires of passion. Or maybe I’m finally letting myself loose from the cord of fear that has held me bound all along. Whatever it is, I am coming home… to myself, I suppose.
After months alone at home — something I have scarcely experienced since the alienating loneliness of my service year — I run to music for comfort. However, there are days I can only be comforted by the resounding silence of my home. On those days, I tip-toe through the rooms, taking extra caution not to disturb the silence with sound.
Even so, some days are deliciously sensuous, and on those days I make a desperate sprint towards the reassuring art that is music.
In trouble it is safety.
In fear, courage.
In doubt, comfort.
And in loneliness, company.
If music will fully become these things to me, however, I need to revisit the ritual that carries it from its place on the internet to my phone and finally, my ears. If it will become a safe space, I need to prepare myself for it. This is precisely what I do when I fall in love with Shola’s Agbonmagbe and Anderson’s Come Home. I do not make a fuss about enjoying both at the same time, even though one appeals to my religious sensibilities and the other does not. Neither do I make a point of memorizing every line of either’s lyrics like I normally would to songs I like.
Both sound offers me comfort, and even if it is only a smattering of the lyrics I know by heart, they comfort me too.
So I bask in sound and lyrics, allowing it to do what it will.
God declares His never-ending goodness upon me, and I am definitely coming home to myself.
P.S.: This piece has been published previously on a different platform. Also, off Shola Allyson’s most recent album, I have found yet another earworm in Ko S’oun To Le.
