The Origins of the Onomatopoeic Intertextuality of Hausa Popular Culture

Prof. Abdalla Uba Adamu
Department of Mass Communications 
Bayero University, Kano – Nigeria
(Vice-Chancellor of the National Open University of Nigeria)
auadamu@yahoo.com

His name was Tijjani, with a nickname of Ma’aslam. He mainly lived in the Sabon Sara ward, Kano city, but was a common sight along the Mandawari junction to Kasuwar Kurmi corridor in the 1960s. 

Everyone considered him nuts. Apparently, he built a single-storey building without stairs to access the upper floor. He did not think a door was necessary to any structure either, so the building had no doors. He simply jumped up to the upper floor at night, and jumped down in the morning.  It was enough for the ward head to report him to Jakara magistrate for him to be locked up on insanity charges. During the hearing, he was given a basket to fetch water. He simply laughed at the judge, informing him that only a madman will attempt to fetch water in a basket. The judge threw the case out, declaring him perfectly rational. He may be nuts – although eccentric was more apt to describe his behavior. But then it takes a certain amount of nuttiness to be an innovator. And he was an innovator. 

As children – and I am talking 1960s inner city Kano – we simply referred to him as Ma’aslam. He, I would argue, planted the seeds of onomatopoeic intertextuality in Hausa popular culture, at least in Kano. This was the process of picking up an element of popular culture, say, a song, converting it side-by-side, into a different language (intertextual), using ‘sound-alike’ of the original (which is onomatopoeia) into a new one. A quick example was the Bob Marley hook:

Get up, stand up,
Stand up for your rights

Sadi Sidi Sharifai, a Kano onomatopoeic super star, converted this to: 

Jallof, Jallof,
Jallop, sai da rice

Try singing both the original and Sadi’s interpretation, and you have become onomatopoeic star yourself!

In 1967, the American super soul star James Brown & the Famous Flames recorded the stunning live double album of their concert at the Apollo Theater, New York. It was, perhaps unimaginatively enough, titled, ‘Live at Apollo.’ A standout track on the album was ‘I Feel Alright’. Its choral hook was:

‘Hey, hey, I feel alright

One time, uh!’

The album of the concert was released on 16th August 1968. I was 12 years old then, and as still now, totally wired in music, complete with an Ukulele guitar, given to me by David Hofstad (author of Tabarmar Kunya play). My Dad, an avid music lover, noting my attachment to the song which was played on the radio, simply bought the double album for me at Musa Zamani Record store in Fagge (are there any old codgers who remember this record store?). I played it to death on the old Grundig music player we had then. 

Back to Tijjani Ma’aslam. With his eccentric behavior categorizing him as loony, Ma’aslam started reciting the ‘Dalailul Khairat’, a celebrated manual of salutations upon the Prophet Muhammad (SAW), written by Muhammad ibn Sulayman al-Jazuli in 15th century Morocco. What was unique about Ma’aslam’s open air recitation, however, was that he adopted the James Brown meter in the song, ‘I Feel Alright’ as his chorus. He rendition of the hook for his recitation of the Dalai’lu was:

Mujibun, Mujabun,

Afiyan, Afuyan,

Rasulillahi

Ahlan wa Sahlan

Rasulillahi

This was accompanied by James Brown dance moves (shown on Television’s Soul Train which was available in a few houses that he might have access to). Maybe he was not reciting the salutations in their structured order, but at least his verses were discernible, as the Dalai’lu itself was recited in a song form by many reciters in Kano. What he did, and did it differently, was using a foreign music meter to make it more accessible. This formula was to be adopted by Ushaqu Indiya group of devotional singers in the city of Kano (actually along the same neighborhood as Tijjani Ma’aslam). More of this in subsequent postings. 

Tijjani Ma’aslam’s delivery mode was intertextually onomatopoeic to ‘Hey, hey, I feel alright’. The chorus was ‘Rasulillahi’. Ma’aslam was usually followed by a gaggle of kids echoing the chorus while he merrily led the way, clapping his hands, dancing and reciting the names of the Prophet from the Dalai’lu. Elders were bemused at the spectacle and simply labeled Ma’aslam crazy. He might have been. He certainly was not following the sequencing of the salawat from the book. But his performances opened a door. 

Up the road from his haunt and covering the same zone was the Palace cinema. This was built and completed in 1951 and opened in 1952. Palace cinema became an instant hit with youth, closeted in the city and without any visible means of night time entertainment. Before its opening, and still a carryover from the World War II years (1939 to 1945), curfew used to be imposed on city residents at 8.00 p.m.  With the relaxation of the curfew, the few neighborhood plazas (dandali) that offer games for youth (both boys and girls) were no match for the sheer spectacular of a massive screen accompanied with loud music. The predominant films shown in the cinema were cowboy or mainstream European films. However, after independence in October 1960, Indian films started to be shown from November 1960 in Kano cinemas. Early films screened included Cenghiz Khan, Jaal, Sangeeta, Raaste Ka Patthar, Waqt, Amar Deep, Rani Rupmati, Dharmatama, Dost, Nagin and thousands of others. The one that caught massive imagination in Kano inner city, however, was Rani Rupmati, originally released in India in 1957, but only found its way to Kano cinemas in the 1960s. 

Like all Indian films, at least from what the industry refers to as Bollywood, Rani Rupmati had a lot of songs – in fact, its overall screenplay is based on two people united by their love of music. However, two songs from the film caught Kano inner city imagination, ‘Itihaas Agar Likhna Chaho’ and ‘Phool Bagiya Mein Bulbul Bole.’ Interestingly, there was no choreographic dancing in these two songs, unusual for general Bollywood films, but typical of earlier more historical and artistic ones. 

The first, ‘Itihaas’, sung by Lata Mangeshkar, has a great hook that, thanks to Tijjani Ma’aslam, became domesticated by kids along his sphere of influence and Palace cinema zone. It goes something like this:

Itihaas agar likhana chaho /

Itihaas agar likhana chaho /

Azaadi ke mazmoon  se /

…

To seencho apni dharti ko /

Veeroon tum upne khoon se /

Har har har Mahadev /

Allaho Akubar /

Har har har Mahadev /

Allaho Akubar /

Sung within the backdrop of a band of warriors getting ready to go into a battle, led by a woman (the titular Rani Rupmati), it certainly gave the picture of a woman more enlightening that what was both the Hausa and Indians are used to. The film itself endeared itself to Hausa through the modesty of the women – shy drooping kohl enhanced eyes with long blinking lashes, fully clothed (even the swimming scene shows the singers fully clothed in the river), with sari that resembles Hausa wrapper (zani), lots of jewelry, and stunning beauty. A Hausa common saying of the period was, ‘Allah, kai ni Indiya ko a buhun barkono’/God, let me visit India even in a sack of pepper. That was how besotted Hausa youth were to the beautiful Indian women seen on the screen, giving the false impression that every single Indian woman is beautiful. 

Hausa youth, inspired by Tijani Ma’aslam, quickly domesticated the chorus of the song as:

Ina su cibayyo ina sarki / where are the warriors, where the is king?

Ina su waziri abin banza / And the useless vizier?

Mun je yaƙi mun dawo / we have return from the war

Mun samo sandan girma / and we were victorious

Har har har Mahadi / hail, hail the reformer

Allahu Akbar / Allah is the Greatest

Har har har Mahadi / hail, hail the reformer

Allahu Akbar / Allah is the Greatest

In an interesting case of lyrical substitution, the Hausa intertextual transcription captured the scene of the song as shown in the film, if not the actual meaning of the words. Loosely translated, the original verse was urging warriors to defend their land with their lives and become part of history. The chorus translates as ‘Let each of us sacrifice ourselves to Mahadev’.  

While Mahadev was a reference to the Indian deity, Shiva, this pantheistic line was followed by a monotheistic reference to Allah, the Supreme Being in Islam. Thus, two contrasting religious sentiments were expressed in the song. It was likely that S. N. Tripathi, who directed the film and composed the music, introduced the chorus to attract both Hindu and Muslim audiences. After all, while Rani was a Hindu, her love interest in the film, Baaz Bahadur, was a Muslim. The expression however, has since then been used as a slogan of communal harmony between often warring Hindu and Muslim communities in India.  

But more stunningly, the Hausa version substituted the word ‘Mahadev’ with ‘Mahadi’. The Hausa heard ‘Mahadi’ (guided one), not ‘’Mahadev’, which worked perfectly well. Substituting Mahadev for Mahadi Islamized the song, as it were. In Islamic eschatology, Mahdi is a messianic deliverer who will fill earth with justice and equity, restore true religion, and usher in a short golden age lasting seven, eight, or nine years before the end of the world.

The second song from the film, ‘Phool Bagiya Mein Bulbul Bole’ (also sung by Lata Mangeshkar, with Mohammed Rafi), also inspired onomatopoeic intertextually, but further afield from Kano, and bizarrely entered into Hausa urban legend of the 1960s. It first verse goes something like this:

Phul bagiya me bulbul bole /

Daal pe bole koyaliya 

Pyaar karo /

Pyaar karo rut pyaar ki aayi re /

Bhanwaro se kahati hain kaliya /

Ho ji ho ho ji ho ho ji ho /

Ho ji ho /

What Hausa youth heard in the choral refrain was ‘Hotiho’, not ‘Hojiho’, and the film Rani Rupmati, the lady (played by Nirupa Roy) came to be referred to as Hotiho. The Hausa griot, Mamman Shata (d. 1999) popularized the word (which has no particular meaning) in his song, Mallam Sidi, ‘Mijin Hotiho’/Mallam Sidi, Hotiho’s husband. 

In the film, there was no marriage between Rani and Baaz Bahadur, because she said she was ‘married to her music’, despite living with him after running away from home to avoid death from a chalice of poison given to her by her father to avoid the shame of her rejecting a chosen husband. In all their dialogues, Rupmati and Baaz Bahadur stress on their shared love for music, not their love for each other. So, Shata did not accurately describe the relationship in the film. However, such deep film analysis is not important to the transnational interpretation of Shata of Baaz Bahadur as a signature tune for a hen-pecked husband. Shata’s interpretation of the actor who played Rani’s lover was certainly in order as he was effeminate, and obsessed with music, rather than empire building, despite being heir to a throne. It was even Rani who led their army into war. He was wounded in the battle and run away. 

Another Hausa griot, Ali Makaho (d. 1984), known famously for his anti-drug song, ‘Mandula’, briefly referenced Rani Rupmati in another of his songs.

Za ni Kano / I’m going to Kano

Za ni Kaduna / I’m going to Kaduna

Mu je Katsina lau za ni Ilori / Let’s go to Katsina and Ilorin

Na je Anacha / I will go Onitsha

Ni ban san kin zo ba / I didn’t know you have arrived

Da na san kin zo ne / If I had known you have arrived

Da na saya miki farfesu / I ‘d have bought you [pot of] pepper soup

Hitoho hotiho /

Hotiho hotiho /

With a comedy skit thrown in, Ali Makaho’s rendering uses the Phoolbagiya’s meter to narrate a series of anticipated travels over northern Nigeria. As an intertextual comedy, it worked and remained of his most memorable skits. 

A third Hausa griot to adapt a song from Rani Rupmati was Abdu Yaron Goge, who played the goge (a large fiddle played with a bow). Abdu picked ‘Raat Suhani’ from the film for his adaptation. Since, unlike the other griots who used the elements of the songs from the film, Abdul was a musician, he used two approaches – first was rendering the symphonic structure of the opening bars of the actual composition, Raat and playing it on his fiddle, then secondly, he onomatopoeically appropriated Mangeshkar’s lyrics as Hausa version. The original lyrics were as:

Raati Suhani /

djoome javani /

Dil hai deevana hai /

Tereliye /

Tereliye /

These lines were pure expressions of love the protagonist has for her lover, especially ‘in the beauty of the night’ [raati Suhani]. Abdu Yaron Goge’s rendition was as follows:

Mu gode Allah, Taro / We should thank Allah, people

Mu gode Allah, Taro / We should thank Allah, people

[These lines vocalized the opening bars of Raat]

Duniya da daɗi /This world is nice

Lahira da daɗi / The hereafter is nice

In da gaskiyar ka / If you are truthful

Lahira da daɗi / The hereafter remains nice

In babu gaskiyar ka / If you are untruthful

Lahira da zafi / The hereafter is blazing 

Thus, in a single verse (which he kept repeating over and over till the end of the performance), Abdul Yaron Goge borrowed a popular musical motif from another culture and domesticated it to Hausa entertainment. At the same time, he delivered a message totally different from the original meaning.  

There were of course, many other onomatopoeic intertextual interpretations of Indian film songs, but the three songs from Rani Rupmati, predated by Tijjani Ma’aslam’s innovative use of foreign motifs were the definitive pioneers in music. In Literature, look towards Abubakar Imam and Magana Jari Ce. The intertextual origins of Hausa arts, of course started in the 1930s; but its migration to music was certainly in the 1960s. It spawned a Hausa Cinema industry which was labeled ‘Kanywood’ in 1999, few years before the term ‘Nollywood’ to refer to the Nigerian English language cinema, was created. 

On a final note, Nazeer Abdullahi Magoga, a Kano ‘Indian’ (speaks the language fluently, to the shock of BBC Delhi who sent a crew to interview him in Kano, in Hindi) composed a song for Center for Hausa Cultural Studies, Kano which I was heading, but which I had to pause due to lack of funding. He used the Raat Suhani meter, and used both Hausa and Hindi lyrics in his wonderfully beautiful tribute to the Center. A link to the song on YouTube is given below. To really appreciate Nazeeru’s performance, listen to the original Raat Suhani, from the film, Rani Rupmati, also provided in a link.