KSA@79: The Twilight of Genius

Femi Akintunde-Johnson

The glorious dawn of our musical grandeur is gingerly strolling towards the glittering twilight of ancestry. Our greats are ageing, one after the other, succumbing to the vagaries of mortality. Four, even five, decades of relentless pursuit of global acclaim – peppered by the usual pickpockets of controversies, and the rare scandal – are now slipping gently into fond memories, nostalgic whispers, and sometimes, sighs of loss. Yet, a few sturdy oaks remain standing tall, rooted in the soil of cultural pride, shading us with the largesse of their gifts.

  On Monday, 22 September 2025, Chief Sunday Anthony Ishola Adeniyi Adegeye, better known as King Sunny Ade, turned 79. The weight of those numbers is deceptive; for, in truth, KSA is not merely a man counting his years but an institution marking eras. He is a living tapestry of Nigeria’s musical majesty, and his legacy stretches across the globe like a sprawling African rhythm embroidered with Western ornamentation. He is not just the King of Juju; he is, as once christened, the “King of World Beats.”

  The story of Sunny Ade is both familiar and yet inexhaustible. Born in Ondo in 1946, raised within the strictures of Yoruba traditions, and tutored by the temperamental demands of Lagos showbusiness in the 1960s, he took the humble rhythms of juju, then a localised sound of palm wine guitars and talking drums, and pressed them into the service of global ears. With uncommon dexterity, he introduced the pedal steel guitar and synthesisers into what was once rustic dance music, blending them seamlessly with Yoruba percussion, chants, and folk wisdom. The result? A hypnotic, sophisticated sound that crossed continents without losing its Yoruba essence.

By the late 1970s and 1980s, when Nigerian musicians jostled for dominance on home turf, Sunny Ade had already breached the ramparts of the international scene. Signed to Island Records in 1982, he carried the hopes of African music beyond our shores, contemporaneous with Fela’s Afrobeat insurgency and Osibisa’s Afro-rock experiment. He was not a rebel like Fela, nor an exotic crossbreed like Osibisa, but rather a calm, calculated diplomat of Yoruba heritage – smiling, singing, and strumming his way into the hearts of diverse audiences from Tokyo to Tennessee.

  His concerts became legendary. Hours-long dances where he seemed tireless, dressed in flowing agbada or embroidered kaftans that shimmered under stage lights, his feet moving with the agility of a young footballer. Indeed, as he told an interviewer 25 years ago, one never feels the weight of age or the complaints of tired legs while on stage; inspiration, audience response, and sheer love of music dull the aches. Only after the curtain falls does the body remember its limitations. For Sunny Ade, the music itself has always been the elixir.

  To many Nigerians, however, the measure of his magic was not just in foreign arenas but in our own social ceremonies. In Lagos of the ’70s and ’80s, no wedding felt fully stamped until Sunny Ade’s band had played. A running joke of the era had it that couples who couldn’t “afford Sunny” would whisper excuses to guests: “No vex o, NEPA took light, and KSA no dey use generator.” Such was his grip on the social fabric that his absence felt like an incomplete rite.

And when NEPA did strike during his marathon concerts, the music proved indestructible. Old-timers recall lights going out mid-show, only for the talking drums, acoustic guitars, and handclaps to carry on in the dark. Audiences laughed, teased NEPA, and kept dancing. Juju music, it turned out, came with its own generator.

 Yet, this indefatigable showman was also a master strategist. He managed his band like a corporate organisation, navigated sponsorships before they became fashionable, and invested in younger talents. Those who accuse him of not creating direct “successors” often ignore the wide expanse of his influence. Juju, as a genre, may no longer dominate Nigerian playlists saturated by Afrobeats and street-hop, but his footprints are evident in the very globalisation of African sounds that our younger stars now enjoy. From Ebenezer Obey to Sir Shina Peters, from Lagbaja to the Fuji vanguards, and even to pop fusionists today, Sunny Ade’s DNA is unmistakable.

 He has also lived with unusual grace. For a man of his fame, power, and resources, scandal has largely eluded him. He carries himself with humility, often laughing at the backstage antics of life, and insisting – again in that old interview – that he has no skeletons hidden. His philosophy is simple: do your work, honour your heritage, raise your children with education as a bulwark, and let the music speak louder than your detractors. That he still holds this creed in his eighth decade is a testimony to character as much as talent.

 Of course, Sunny Ade’s journey has not been without trials. The industry he helped build has shifted under his feet. The young do not sing juju anymore with the same urgency; they rap, they stream, they brand themselves on Instagram. Yet, KSA’s relevance remains. Multiple Grammy nominations, global tours, cultural ambassadorships, and an undiminished reverence within the Yoruba community keep his crown secure. In a sense, he has become less of a competitor and more of a monument – like the Eiffel Tower or the Great Wall, not designed to be bettered, only admired.

At 79, his voice still floats, his guitar still sings, and his humour still sparkles. In truth, his best gift to us now may not even be new music, but the memory of what he gave in abundance: joy, cultural pride, and artistic excellence. When younger Nigerians dance to Burna Boy at Madison Square Garden, they may not know that Sunny Ade danced there before Afrobeats was fashionable. When Davido boasts of global streams, few recall that KSA once sold out arenas without the aid of Spotify algorithms. His journey reminds us that today’s headlines are often built on yesterday’s sacrifices.

  And so, as we celebrate him at 79, we cannot ignore the wider context: our musical giants are ageing. Ebenezer Obey is 83, Victor Uwaifo has gone, Fela has long left, Victor Olaiya, Orlando Julius, Ahuja Bello too. Each birthday is a bittersweet reminder that time is no respecter of genius. Yet, if any life proves that music can outlive mortality, it is Sunny Ade’s. His juju may no longer command the dancehalls of Ojuelegba, but in the annals of world music, his sound will forever be archived as proof of Africa’s sophistication and creativity.

  There will never be another King Sunny Ade. His children, as he wryly noted, cannot “fill his vacuum.” They can only be his children, not his replacement. Juju itself may be reinterpreted, diluted, or even forgotten in the mad rush of digital pop, but the man who internationalised it, who adorned it with steel guitars and silky vocals, will remain immortal.

For now, we raise our glasses and voices in gratitude. At 79, Sunny Ade is not merely alive; he is luminous. His music still sparkles, his life still inspires, and his legacy still instructs. We should not wait for tributes written in the past tense. Let us celebrate him, loudly, joyfully, while he still hears the drums. 

Long live the King!