---
narrator: "Keren-happuch Odinenu"
subject: "Igbo music"
facilitator: Nathan Schneider
date: 2025-09-22
approved: 2025-09-24
summary: "A singer-songwriter moves between ancestral traditions and contemporary social-media cultures."
location: "Abuja, Nigeria"
headshot: "keren-happuch_odinenu.jpg"
topics: [ancestors, art, dance, family, indigeneity, language, music, ritual, social media]
links:
  - text: "Kenké on Linktree"
    url: "https://linktr.ee/thekenke"
---

*Can you tell me how you like to introduce yourself?*

I like to be introduced as Kenké because it's who I've always been. I've also been Keren-happuch. People now call me Kenké, and that is also my artist name. But for this project, I could go by my formal name, my actual government name, Keren-happuch. Identity, especially regarding names, is something I have grappled with for a while.

*What does Kenké mean, and why is that your name as an artist?*

Kenké was actually derived from Keren-happuch. In Nigeria, like in many different cultures around the world, sometimes people coin nicknames from your actual name that may not sound like your actual name but are inspired by it. In my household, my dad and mom started calling me Kenké. The people closest to me---my family, some of my friends---they call me Kenké.

My name, Keren-happuch, has huge significance in my life and the way I view myself, but I realized going into the music industry that naming is very important for ease of remembrance. I would go for shows and people would ask, "What is your Instagram handle? What is your name?" Every time I said Keren-happuch, either they missed it or had to repeat it or had to write it down. It made it difficult to be found, to be perceived. Unfortunately, when people hear "Keren," they think I'm saying "Karen." Coming to the US, that became a big thing because people think I'm a black girl called Karen. Apart from the unfortunate stereotype around the name, they're two different names. Mine is actually Hebrew, Keren-happuch, and I believe Karen is of English origin.

I thought I needed to be comfortable using a different name, but I also wanted a name that was already mine and that already meant and felt what Keren-happuch meant and felt. Because Kenké came from Keren-happuch, I say it means the exact same thing that Keren-happuch means.

*Tell me about that significance.*

Keren-happuch means---when you search it up, you see different meanings of the name, but all having one interpretation. You see things like "horns of makeup," "splendor of color," "radiance of beauty." When I did some research I found that they all meant outward beauty that comes from inward character. I'd think that's how I've tried to live my life. The physical is great and all, but it is fleeting. The real essence of humanity is what's inside. Are you kind? Are you actually seeking to be better to people, to yourself? That's how I've tried to live my life. I feel my best outwardly when I feel my best inside.

*You're a professional musician doing contemporary music, but you've also created a documentary about traditional music in Nigeria. Can you talk about where your journey as a musician began and how those different threads fit together in your early relationship to music?*

I started in the children's choir of my church when I was about seven or eight because we were so involved in church. Someone said they wanted to form a girl band---there were all these talented children in the choir. He picked six of us. We started to write songs, go into the studio, and perform in church. I was largely inspired by my elder sister---she's late now---but she used to do music, write, and sing. I used to watch her. I started writing early, started playing guitar early.

After secondary school, I went to do my undergrad in the eastern part of Nigeria where I'm from. In Nigeria, we are from where our parents are from, where our grandparents are from. It doesn't matter where you're born. Even though I was born in Abuja, in the northern part of Nigeria, I cannot say I'm from Abuja. I'm from Anambra State in the eastern part of Nigeria.

It's very common in Igbo culture for people to return back to their hometown every year. You see people living in the Western world---America, the UK, Canada---a lot of people from Igboland go back during Christmas. Even while I was growing up, living in Abuja, it was the regular tradition to go back home during Christmas. My dad said that wasn't enough. He wanted me to consider going to school in the east, in Anambra State. I applied for my university program there, got in, and went. I spent the next four years of my life there.

Even though I've always been an Igbo person, it was different being there and interacting with people who were born there, who had grown up there. Because I would naturally gravitate towards music, I became very fast friends with a lot of people from the music department. I met somebody who was doing his research in Igbo music traditions. Of course you have to learn classical music and classical instruments while you're in the music program, but he was also focusing his research on traditional music. He played the oja. That was the first time I was introduced to this instrument.

If you grow up as an Igbo person, or even a Nigerian, and you are in the East for a while, the oja is not foreign or strange to you---but I never understood it. I never really tried to understand it at that time, but I was still fascinated by it. My earliest memory of how it could move the spirit of people was when this friend of mine, his name is Gerald Eze, came to visit my grandmother's home in the village during one of the many Christmases I spent back there. He always carried his oja with him. They call him Ogbu Oja---that is, the player of the oja. My grandma said, "Ah, Ogbu Oja, you've come to see me. Play something for me." And he did.

My grandmother---she's old. She walks with a limp. She doesn't walk without the aid of her stick anymore. But for some reason, in that moment, as he started to play, she jumped up and she started to dance. It was maybe ten seconds, but I had never seen her move like that. I didn't know she was capable of that. I don't think she knew at the time that she was capable of that anymore. It was so short, but it was so profound for me because I had heard stories about this oja. But seeing it---it really does move something in a lot of people who have been in that cultural space, who have been in that place of Igbo history, Igbo tradition, who are Igbo themselves.

I didn't know specifically what it was. I came to know more over time. But I remember it unlocked a part of my brain that felt I would love to know more about this. When I came to graduate school in the US, I kept thinking, "What could I possibly do my final project on?" I realized that I wanted to leave a part of my culture there. I realized that I didn't just want to do it for the university. I wanted to do it for people in that school, in Unizik in Nigeria, for people in Abuja. I wanted to do it for Igbo people, but I also wanted to do it for people who were interested in learning about a different culture. I'm an Igbo person, but it took making the documentary to learn about this tradition. It makes you realize that lots of people in the eastern part of Nigeria don't know a lot about the cultures that have existed or are existing there.

*For those who aren't familiar, can you talk a bit about oja and the context in which it is played?*

The oja is a wooden flute played among the Igbo people of Nigeria. It is also a musical tradition. It used to be for the hunters' guild, the warriors' community. The people who played the oja, the ogbu ojas, would play it to usher the warriors in. You would always find in the past a warrior accompanied by his ogbu oja.

It was also used to communicate. Sometimes the oja would warn people of impending danger---because the oja speaks, the oja communicates. How does it speak? It speaks through the Igbo language. The Igbo language is musical. You could say "*abatete*," and when the oja is trying to communicate that, it says it through what we know now as musical notes in English. For the people who were in tune with how the oja speaks, they would understand.

Sometimes if you couldn't tell someone---maybe you're at a function, and you couldn't tell someone with words---"Be careful of who's sitting next to you," or "Your drink may have been poisoned," or "This person is looking at you suspiciously." Sometimes the oja would do that. Even though you're an Igbo person, not all Igbo people can understand it. It's the warriors and the ogbu ojas that are accompanying them who have that synergy.

Over time, it started to be used as entertainment. You would see the oja being used to introduce the masquerades. Now, every time you see a masquerade in the Igbo community setting, you see someone playing the oja right next to them. What I learned during that process was, because it's the language of the spirits, it was used to accompany spirits. The hunters were seen as the spiritual protectors of the communities in human form. Some people believe masquerades are just costumes, but in my culture today, there are masquerades where there's a lot of spirituality around them. There are masquerades that come out for entertainment, but there are masquerades that don't come out except when there's something that brings them out. People don't know where they come from, people don't know where they go to. In those cases, this is why the oja is always accompanying the masquerade---because it's always accompanying the spirits.

*I'm curious---when we're talking about spirits, how does the spirituality encountered there through this instrument in Igboland relate to the other kinds of spirituality that you learned in church growing up?*

I studied religion in my undergrad. I was studying the history of the Catholic church and taking classes on African traditional religion. I'm also a person of faith. I'm a Catholic, and I believe in Jesus Christ.

Some of the people I interviewed during that process---like Ed Keazor, who's a documentary filmmaker and a historian of Igbo culture---and some of the priests I interviewed---like Father Chika Opalike---said when people came in, when the white men came in to colonize Africa, to colonize Nigeria, they didn't seek to understand the culture. I feel we live in a spiritual world, and that spirituality has taken on different forms of expression over time. Unfortunately, colonial masters came and said that everything they didn't understand was evil. I've seen how the oja has taken on a different form of expression now. I wonder, if it can be played in the church now, is it still evil? And if it's evil, shouldn't we have known by now? During the consecration of the body and blood of Christ, God would have come down by now if it was evil.

There are so many things that can speak to the spirit of a person. In my research, there was never a time I heard the oja used to do evil things or to say evil things. It was always supposed to usher in something good. All the spirits that it was said to usher in were spirits that had to do with protecting the community. When it had to do with communication, it was mostly trying to warn about evil, trying to protect---it was always used in that sense.

I did experience moments where I felt, "How do I make sense of this, coming from my background as a Christian?" But listening to the people I interviewed helped, because I started to see that these things are also created by God. He's the inspirer. He makes everything. How we use that is a human problem, but in and of itself, that inspiration, that tradition---I believe it was put into the heart of the Igbo people by the Creator as well.

*How is the oja used today?*

You will still see the oja being used to usher in the masquerades during the festivals. I was in my village last Christmas, so I experienced it all again. It's so beautiful to see how it has transitioned into different traditions and spaces. You will still see the oja in some churches, especially in the east, because this is an instrument that's predominantly played and understood in the eastern part of Nigeria. I've never seen it played at Mass in the northern part of Nigeria, or the western part of Nigeria. But in the eastern part of Nigeria, I've seen it quite a few times.

Because this is an instrument that has a way of moving a particular cultural group, when it is used in that moment of consecration---in the Mass, in that holy moment---it does something special for the people experiencing it. They are Christians. They are about to receive the body and blood of Christ. But they are also Igbo people. They are people whose hearts and spirits and ancestry are conditioned to receive the oja. I feel it is an elevated, heightened sense of the divine in that moment, because I experienced it. It felt different from when I hear other music during the consecration of body and blood of Christ. I was moved more. I can only imagine what it does to other Igbo people in that setting.

The oja is now being used purely as entertainment in other musical genres as well, which is a big thing because it is cultural exchange. This tradition is permeating more modern circles. We have Afrobeats now, which is the fusion. When we talked about Afrobeat in the past, we think about people like Fela Kuti, who introduced elements of jazz and Fuji and we had African drums---they called it Afrobeat. Apart from Fela, we have people like King Sunny Adé, we have Oliver De Coque. These people did highlife music. They did Fuji music.

Fuji music, highlife music---these things still exist now. We're still doing them, but there's now a fusion. The kind of music that comes from the continent, most people call it Afrobeats because it's an umbrella term. But when you look at a certain artist---maybe you take a look at Tems, or maybe you take a look at Simi, maybe you take a look at Johnny Drille---you find that they are doing Afro something, Afro pop, or Burna Boy. He calls it Afrofusion, because there's highlife in his music, there's Fuji in his music, there is R&B in his music, there's pop in his music.

We have all these artists combining different styles and genres of music, heavily inspired by Fela's Afrobeat, and we call it Afrobeats. We've seen the oja enter that space because there's Afro highlife now, and typically when you think about highlife, you think about sounds from the eastern part of Nigeria. Of course, highlife is also very prominent in Ghanaian cultures, but we do have the history of highlife in Nigeria as well.

In the past couple of years---three years, four years, this year---people are starting to use the sound of the oja in this new-age music. There are people like the Cavemen---they're a band in Nigeria, they are also Igbo, they are from the eastern part of Nigeria. They make highlife music, and they are always using the oja. Now they have gone global, they have tours in Europe. What that means is they are carrying the sound of the oja to Europe. People are dancing to the oja and it's entering spaces. You may not understand it, but it's entering spaces.

It was used in a song in the *Black Panther* movie. To be fair, the oja has always been used in movies---but Nollywood movies, eastern Nollywood movies. In fact, for a lot of people in Nigeria, when you ask, "Do you know the oja?" they immediately associate it with epic Igbo Nollywood movies. But now you hear it in a Hollywood movie. I believe the people who used this sound did their research. That movie explored different African cultures, and it made sense that the music would have elements of certain African musical traditions as well.

This is the way that the oja is now taking shape and form in today's world---still used in certain Igbo traditions like the masquerade cult, now used in the church, now used in Afrobeats music.

*How do you go about learning the oja today?*

I never learned it. But most people have to have a teacher, because you're not just learning a musical instrument, you're learning a musical tradition. The right way is to have a teacher who understands the oja as means of communication and as musical instrument. It's not just one, it's both.

A lot of people now apply the Western ways of learning an instrument to learning the oja. Some of the people I interviewed---they can play different songs on the oja, they can play classical music on the oja, they can play all these things, which is good and fine. But you realize that what it would evoke in the Igbo listener is fascination as opposed to deep appreciation or being moved.

I feel it is important for anyone who's trying to learn it today to learn from the right source---someone who can explain the cultural significance, explain the traditions around it, explain the communicative aspect of it, and then, of course, allow you to express yourself musically as you want.

*You spoke earlier about its role in relationship to warrior identities. One of the aspects of your film is gender. I wonder if you could say a bit about how you, particularly as a woman, were exploring this tradition and encountered the question of gender.*

Thank you for that question. I think this is where the idea of protocols comes in, because I think protocols are the unspoken rules of the tradition. When it comes to this cultural context, I would use *rules* or *traditions* or *rituals*. The oja has its own cultural protocols, it has its own traditions. There are certain people that are typically allowed to play it. There are certain people you, in the past especially, were supposed to play it for. Things have changed a little bit, but in Igbo history, it was not an instrument that was allowed to be played or experienced closely by women.

This has changed. Now, women who want to are encouraged to play it. That's the thing about culture. One of the things I learned about culture from some of the people I interviewed is that it's always changing. The soul of it is always there, but the oja itself is a dynamic instrument. The oja itself is an instrument that by its nature takes on different forms. The culture around it cannot remain static. The traditions around it cannot remain static as long as---Ed Keazo said in the documentary, as long as it is not harming something or someone, he doesn't see why this should not be encouraged.

I met a girl through Gerald---a young girl, just a teenager---who was fascinated by this instrument and decided she could play it, and she plays it really well. She's a student of Gerald, and interviewing her, I realized that it is possible. She's an Igbo girl, of course. She's not the only one, there are other people. She's just the only one I could interview. It was interesting to see---you could tell that even though there is a deep appreciation of the instrument, she's still learning not just the instrument itself. She's learning how it can speak.

I think there is definitely something to be explored there when it has to do with the spiritual connection to it and being a woman. I don't know if it was a factor of her age, but I definitely found that the way the male participants I interviewed talked about it was a little different from the way she talked about it. That remains to be explored.

I, as a woman going into the process, also had to be confronted with protocols. I had to be confronted with rules. I already knew that in Igbo tradition, first of all, it's a very patriarchal culture. Igbo tradition is generally very reverencing of women. People joke around in Nigeria and say an Igbo man may not be romantic, but he will always make sure his woman is in front of him. You see an Igbo man---he may be driving a small car but he's buying a big car for his wife. It's always a joke in Nigeria. But what I realized was there are certain things that you're just not allowed or permitted to do as a woman.

For instance, women are not supposed to be in close contact with masquerades. While I was doing the interviews and I was trying to collect all the footage, one case involved seeing a masquerade performance with an ogbu oja. Even though this was my project, I was not allowed there. I couldn't fight it because I already knew this. I didn't expect it to change just because, "Oh, she's somebody doing a project." It didn't matter that they were out there because we had created the opportunity for them to be out there---I wasn't allowed there. It was something that I had to respect, because this is tradition. I may not understand this or be pleased with it, but it was something I had to respect regardless.

*Are there other limits around where the protocols around this instrument are interacting with the modern world and coming into conflict?*

I did not see a lot of limits. The only limitation that I saw was with allowing ladies to play. Having seen that this is changing, I felt that was the biggest thing. In terms of history, it was just not a thing that associated with the oja---the female gender. Now it is.

But if we're stepping outside of the oja, of course there are still limits with women in Igbo traditional society. There are limits as to right hand and the left hand. You give an elder something with your left hand, and they will not accept it. There are certain traditions where you meet people from your father's family; you have to kneel down to greet until they tell you to stand up. There are certain traditions regarding women speaking in certain spaces. I remember one time we were in the living room of my hometown home and my dad was busy doing some things, and there was a bottle of wine. I was trying to open it for the guests, and I was stopped because it's not something traditionally that's accepted. As a woman, you're not supposed to open the bottle of wine if a man is present.

Of course, there are still limits in Igbo tradition, and in a lot of African cultures, to be fair. But I do see the ways in which people break those limits. For instance, the masquerade cult has become largely entertainment in Igbo societies. The masquerades come out for entertainment purposes, just to make money. If they see a woman, especially a woman who seems to not be from around the area, and she's saying, "Oh, can you shake my hand?" They will be reluctant to do it. They may even hide so other people don't see them. But if it means they get some money out of it, I've seen it happen. This is not a thing that could happen before. You couldn't look at them before. Now it's different. It's changing a little bit because we have to think about economic factors, especially in the current climate of Nigeria.

*Let's talk about your music today. In what kinds of ways do you draw on legacies that you grew up with? In what ways do you depart from them when you are writing songs, when you're making videos, when you're deciding what kind of artist you're becoming?*

I grew up listening to very diverse artists, artists that were very different from each other. I grew up listening to Fela. I also grew up listening to Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston. I also listen to a lot of new-age musicians, a lot from the Afrobeat circle and a few Western musicians.

I would say there's always been common elements of songwriting. There are patterns that have worked. Maybe in the way that we have expressed and interpreted those patterns, it could be different. What I'm trying to do in my music now might be different from some of the people that I grew up listening to. In subtle ways, I try to explore my identity in language. Some of my music has Igbo. That is a thing that is common now with Afrobeats artists. But even Fela---he spoke a lot in broken English but I never really remember him using Yoruba, an actual Nigerian language. The other artists I listened to, they were mostly speaking in English.

What I'm trying to do now, which is similar to a lot of what artists now are doing, is that mix of languages in the music. You find people singing in both Yoruba and English, or in both Igbo and English. I think it appeals to a wider audience as well.

In terms of storytelling, I still draw from a lot of the people I used to watch. A lot of artists seem to be drawing from past musicians. You see that there is a comeback. It's not just in the music world. There is this comeback of what we now call vintage. A lot of people want to have that vintage feel in their dressing, in their art. You see that a lot of things that would have existed in maybe the eighties are coming back, especially in fashion.

The way social media is consumed and used---that would be the biggest thing, social media. Now artists have the opportunity to be discovered way more easily than before. That's the upside. The downside is, because of this opportunity, the market seems saturated. We are saturated with content. There's no scarcity of content anymore. Everybody's creating, everybody has an opinion, everybody has something to say. I feel maybe just the biggest difference would be in the way that I feel I'm marketing my music, because now I don't need a record label to start. Those earlier musicians needed a record label to start, but because you can just put on your phone, take a video, put that on TikTok or on Instagram and you could get a million views, the possibilities are now endless.

Also, because there's a saturation, it means you have to be creating on the go. You have to be creating all the time. The tricky part is sometimes you're distracted with creating the content, and you're not creating the music anymore. I feel that is definitely the tricky part. I'm not sure the people that I was inspired by had to deal with some of these issues that we are dealing with right now as creators and musicians in 2025.

*How do you find the meaning that you're creating in your music being heard by the audiences who are encountering you through algorithms? Do you feel the things you're saying are getting through?*

For sure, I am. When I think about art, the biggest thing I think about is relatability. A lot of people who are budding songwriters---or, I mean, you could actually be an established songwriter and you still fall into this trap---you're thinking, "What do they want to hear? What can I create that they want to see?" But that's not what matters. What matters is: What do you want to tell? What do you want to create? What do you feel? Because there's always going to be somebody in the world who can relate. There's no experience that is unique to you. Maybe in the things surrounding it, of course, but there's no feeling that is new to one human being.

You wake up one morning and you write a song about feeling lazy. I mean, Bruno Mars did it, and it charted because that's the reality of almost every adult, at some point at least. You write a song about falling in love---doesn't matter how you write the song, someone feels it. You write a song about being heartbroken, you write a song about not being able to reciprocate that---someone feels it.

When I feel something, I typically want to express it in music. I do that, I brush it up---obviously, I need to think about rhyming, I need to think about patterns. I need to think about melody. I need to be intentional about the writing now more than ever.

So many people are going through the same thing. You hear people say, "Wow, you took the words out of my mouth." One of the songs I released this year is a song called "I'm Sorry," and it was a song that was born out of a heartbreak situation. But it wasn't a typical, "Oh, he left me, he did something wrong," it was, "I left him." It was that moment of realizing we weren't working and trying to do the bold thing to do what was best for me and what was best for him, even though he did not think it at the time.

I was performing the song right before it was released. It was a very intimate gathering. I was just on my guitar. There was no mic setup. I was just going to sing the song, but I said to myself, "It is part of your work as a musician to allow people into your space. You can't just drop these songs and not say anything about them." I said, "Let me talk about this song." I was talking about the song, and I started to tear up. I started to cry in front of all these people, and I was so shocked at myself. I literally said, "What is happening right now?"

I was so blessed to be in a space where I was even given the room to do that, because everybody paused and gave me space. They came to me with tissues and they were hugging me. Somebody captured that moment. I wasn't even trying to capture the moment. Somebody did record and sent it to me afterwards. I thought about it for a week and I said, "I will put this out on social media." I put it out on social media, and it went viral. It went viral on Instagram, it went viral on TikTok. It has been two months, and I still get comments on that post almost every single day.

What happened was it opened up my comment section to people who were expressing their own heartbreak stories. People were confessing things. Of course, I started to feel, "Am I responsible to---I'm not a therapist. I'm barely surviving with my own emotions. How do I---" But what started to happen was so interesting. The people in the comment section started to respond to each other. It was almost like a support group in my comment section.

This is ultimately what I have found with music---that real recognizes real. Whatever you have to say, if it's what you feel, there will be someone that feels it, there will be someone that connects to it. You don't have to be something that you're not, you don't have to try to express something that you don't feel.

In the way people have reacted to my music, it's been a blessing because it's not just, "Oh, I can relate." There are also elements of healing. Sometimes we find healing when we know that we're not alone. It doesn't have to be a solution to that thing, but just knowing that there's someone out there who's putting herself or himself out there, who's going through exactly what I'm going through. And if they can put themselves out there, if they can stand up and work through it, I can work through it too.

*Earlier, when you were talking about the oja, you were talking about the way in which it's heard differently among people who grew up with the culture. When you talk about these shared experiences, do they also depend on a shared cultural background, or are you finding this music crossing cultural lines more easily?*

I'm finding it crossing cultural lines more easily. The language is different. The universal language is English now, and I'm doing most of my music in English. Ninety-nine percent of my music is in English. The song "I'm Sorry" was actually written all in English. Of course, there's a little pidgin English there, but if you're not paying attention, you may not notice it. You would still understand the message.

Different people have been able to relate to it. I've had people DM me from the Philippines about that song. I've had people in America, in the UK, I've had Nigerians, Ghanaians, South Africans---it doesn't matter. I feel there's just very few musical traditions that the world cannot universally relate to because music on its own is a universal language. I take it back---you still see people who would be moved by the oja, even though they're not Igbo, even though they're not Nigerian. It may just differ from the way the typical Igbo man is moved by it.

I listen to artists who sing in different languages that I don't understand, and I'm moved by it. Of course, I would be moved differently if I understood it, but I'm still moved by it.

*You started at the beginning talking about your grandmother and the dancing to the oja. How does the music you're creating now sound to her?*

To her---oh my gosh. She appreciates it, but it's not music she would---I think she would say, "Oh, I cannot believe my granddaughter created this." But most of the music my grandmother listens to is Igbo traditional music, especially worship music. It's very different from the kind of music I'm doing. She's approaching it from a place of pride and appreciation, not a place of enjoyment.

*What kind of musician are you working to become? How do you see yourself, where do you see yourself going?*

Thank you for that question. I think there are musicians who inspire generations through their art and through their lifestyle. I really want to inspire through both. When I started to play guitar, I remember it almost felt like an out-of-body experience. Most of my childhood, up until my teenage years, I didn't really believe I was capable of doing great things. Music changed that for me. I discovered I can learn an instrument. I can sing. I can sing well. I can perform.

The biggest thing for me is when people take a look at that journey and feel inspired to do something as great or even greater. I've been inspired by the stories of musicians, and I've also been inspired by their music. That's where I am trying to get to, where it's not just about consuming my art. I feel it's an even more wholesome experience when you're consuming the art of someone whose story you know intimately in a way that stands out to you, in a way that makes you feel you can do anything. That's what I'm working towards. That's who I want to be.
