By Bimbo Esho
How time flies! Eighty years would have marked another remarkable milestone in the life of my beloved father, Baami Esho, the great Doctor of Music. Though death has taken him away from our physical presence, it has never succeeded in taking away the memories, the laughter, the wisdom, and the priceless lessons he left behind. Today, I woke up with a heart full of nostalgia, reminiscing about those beautiful, unforgettable moments we shared and the extraordinary man who shaped so much of who I am today.
One of the most fascinating things about Baami was his uncanny ability to turn songs into medicine. To him, the songs in our repertoire were never just melodies, lyrics, or musical recordings. Each song had a life of its own, a story to tell, an emotion to stir, and, sometimes, a problem to solve. He made me understand that music was more than entertainment; it was an experience, a language of the heart, and, in his hands, almost a prescription for life’s many troubles.
Looking back today, I cannot help but smile at some of the unforgettable encounters that earned him the affectionate title of Doctor of Music.
I remember a gentleman who came to our office desperately seeking a song that could help him appease his wife. Apparently, their marriage was going through a rough patch, and he had exhausted every other means of reconciliation. He needed something special, something that could melt a heart that had seemingly turned against him.
Who else could he turn to but Baami, the man who seemed to have a musical remedy for almost every situation?
Without hesitation, Baami reached into his treasure trove of musical wisdom and brought out a song by the legendary Baba Eto, Adeolu Akisanya, titled “Gbemi S’áyà Rẹ” (Put Me on Your Bosom).
He played the song for the man, who left our office armed with his unusual prescription.
When he returned, his testimony was nothing short of hilarious!
According to him, the moment he got home and played the song, his wife began hissing and exclaimed in Yoruba, “Olórun ló mọ ibi tí o ti rí orin òsì yìí!” — meaning, “Only God knows where you found this stupid song!”
Hahaha! I can almost imagine Baami’s reaction as he listened to the man’s account.
But here was the magic: the wife, who had reportedly not spoken to her husband for months, had finally found her voice! The husband seized the moment, embraced her, and, as the story went, the night ended on a much happier note, with the song providing the soundtrack to their reconciliation.
That was Baami for you! He knew that sometimes, the right song could achieve what countless words, apologies, and explanations had failed to accomplish. His remedies were unconventional, but his understanding of human emotions was extraordinary.
Then there was another unforgettable incident.
One night, a client called Baami in the middle of the night with a deeply personal request. He wanted a song that could comfort his wife, who had been struggling with the pain of childlessness.
“Of course!” must have been the spirit of Baami’s response. After all, the great Doctor of Music never seemed to be short of a prescription.
He went straight to his archive and consulted the musical wisdom of his time. There, he found a deeply moving evergreen by the legendary Roy Chicago, titled “Olúwa L’Ó Ń S’ọmọ” — Only God Gives Children.
It was a song that spoke directly to the hearts of women waiting on God for the fruit of the womb. It carried a message of faith, hope, patience, and the acknowledgement that some of life’s most precious blessings are beyond human control.
But what touches me most about this story is that Baami’s compassion did not end with recommending a record. On the woman’s fiftieth birthday, he showed up in person and sang the song live on stage for her.
Just imagine that moment! A woman who had endured years of waiting, perhaps carrying silent pain that only she could fully understand, being serenaded with a song that acknowledged her journey and offered her comfort.
That was more than music. That was empathy. That was a fatherly gesture from a man who understood that behind every song was a human story, and behind every human story was an emotion that deserved to be acknowledged.
As I remember these moments, I realise that Baami’s greatness was not only in the size of his musical collection or the depth of his knowledge. It was in his ability to connect music to life itself. He understood the emotional power of songs long before many of us could articulate it.
And then, of course, there were the political prescriptions!
I remember one prominent politician, now late, who travelled all the way from Ondo State to seek Baami out. He was convinced that my father possessed a particular song he had been searching for.
The song was the famous political satire “Etike Revolution” by Tunji Oyelana and Professor Wole Soyinka, in which the duo delivered their sharp musical commentary on the government of President Shehu Shagari.
Hahaha! Even in the world of politics, Baami’s archive was a destination. People knew that if a song existed and had made an impression on the Nigerian social, political, or cultural landscape, there was a good chance that Baami either had it or knew where to find it.
What an extraordinary life! What an extraordinary gift!
Today, as I celebrate what would have been his 80th birthday, I find myself wishing I could have just one more conversation with him. One more opportunity to sit beside him, listen to his stories, watch the excitement in his eyes as he explained the history behind a record, and hear him describe the hidden meanings and human experiences woven into the songs he loved so dearly.
I miss the father. I miss the teacher. I miss the storyteller. I miss the custodian of musical memories who could reach into an archive and retrieve not just a record, but an entire chapter of someone’s life.
Baami taught me to listen beyond the melody, to look beyond the lyrics, and to appreciate the lives and experiences that songs preserve. Through him, I came to understand that every record in an archive is a piece of humanity waiting to be rediscovered.
As I celebrate you today, my dear Baami, I thank God for the privilege of being your daughter and for the beautiful memories that death cannot erase.
Happy 80th posthumous birthday, Baami Esho!
