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17
Abuja, Nigeria
72
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An ode to music
<p>Music is the ghost that refuses to stay buried. It prowls the air in different masks, slipping into our ears like a secret we didn’t consent to but cannot escape. Some nights it arrives as the low, relentless hum of drums—ancestral, bone-deep, a reminder that long before language, rhythm was already writing our history in the dark. Other nights it drifts in as violin strings, trembling with grief, sounding like a candle guttering in a cathedral where no one prays anymore.</p><p><br/></p><p>There is jazz, sly and crooked, bending notes like smoke curling from the lips of some ghost in a back-alley club. It doesn’t ask permission; it seduces, unsettles, leaves you drunk on something nameless. And then comes blues, dragging its chain of sorrow across the floor, singing like it has seen every grave and still refuses silence.</p><p><br/></p><p>Rock enters like a storm. Loud, broken, unapologetic. The electric guitars are not instruments but blades—slicing through the stillness, cutting the world open so we can hear its veins scream. Hip-hop answers, not as an echo but as a pulse, sharp and precise, syllables like bullets finding their mark. It is the poetry of the streets, the scripture of survival, the loud refusal of those who will not disappear.</p><p><br/></p><p>Classical music still haunts the grand halls, but not as a relic. It lingers like a phantom, reminding us of symmetry, of divine order, of a time when we thought beauty alone could save us. Yet even beauty here is unsettling, because beneath the precision lies a hunger that centuries could not quiet.</p><p><br/></p><p>And then there is silence—the music no one names. The pause between notes, the breath before the song breaks, the space where absence itself becomes sound. In silence, we hear the echo of all music at once: the heartbeat, the grave, the cathedral, the scream.</p><p><br/></p><p>Every genre is a different mask, but beneath each, the face is the same: longing. Longing to be remembered. Longing to prove that the air once trembled with our voices. Longing to leave a mark deeper than stone.</p><p><br/></p><p>So call music whatever you will—melody, noise, memory, spell. To me, it is death’s favorite trick: the way something invisible can outlive us all.</p>
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