In an era where the mainstream trends often overshadow local narratives, there is a new voice championing the retention of the Yoruba language in the global literary ecosystem. Yusuf Àlàbí Balógun, known to many as Aremo Gemini, isn’t just an artist; he’s a cultural alchemist, blending tradition with audacious innovation. As an experimental performance poet, author of Ṣẹ̀gílọlá Arómirẹ́ Ògìdán, and a TEDx Speaker, Aremo’s dedication to Yoruba arts and culture is both profound and pioneering. His work, which includes impactful collaborations across diverse cultures, serves as a testament to the enduring beauty and power of indigenous African tongues.
In this exclusive interview, Aremo takes us back to his earliest encounters with Yoruba, revealing how it became more than just a means of communication and ignited a lifelong passion. He delves into the deliberate, yet often serendipitous, journey that led him to centre his artistic universe around this rich language, sharing the pivotal moments that shaped his unique path. We explore his fascinating creative process, uncovering how he strikes a delicate balance between honouring ancestral traditions and embracing modern expressions. Aremo doesn’t shy away from challenging prevailing norms, particularly on the complex topic of translation and the irreplaceable nuances of Yoruba proverbs. Beyond the artistic realm, he confronts the pressing issues of perception and accessibility facing Yoruba literature in today’s economy, offering a compelling vision for the future of African languages and the supportive ecosystem they desperately need to flourish. His narrative is not just a personal story; it’s a powerful call to action, a rebellion against cultural erosion, and a hopeful glimpse into a future where indigenous voices resonate globally.
Godswill Ineh: Aremo, thank you for joining us. To start, what’s your earliest memory of Yoruba as more than just a tool for regular communication? How did your journey with the language begin?
Aremo Gemini: Well, I grew up in a home where my dad was an Ifa devotee, so we spoke Yoruba to each other. That was my first point of contact with the language, learning to appreciate it beyond just speaking. I also grew up watching early Yoruba movies by people like Herbert Ogunde, Alhaji Yekini Ajileye, and Olu Adejobi, and prime TV shows like Koto Aye and Nkanbe. I always appreciated the ingenuity and flowery nature of the language, how easily these actors conveyed things using proverbs and idioms. While other children were scared of Koto Aye because of witchcraft, I was drawn to the language used. Growing up with introversion and limited socialisation, writing became my outlet, and because I was so connected to Yoruba through films—I watched Yoruba movies instead of Tom and Jerry—I started expressing my thoughts in Yoruba.
Godswill: That’s a fascinating foundation. So, your intention to centre your work around Yoruba, would you say it was a gradual process, or was it a precise realisation as soon as you were exposed to all of this?
Aremo: It was gradual, more of a becoming than a straight realisation. I enjoyed writing from childhood, but didn’t see it as a career; I wanted to study Law due to my concern for social injustice. When the opportunity to study Law didn’t materialise after secondary school, I attended a poetry event and performed an English poem. For a long time, I performed in English, telling Yoruba stories but using the English language. However, I experienced situations in poetry contests where my Yoruba accent affected my English diction, and I felt strongly that I am Yoruba, and I shouldn’t have to scrape off my accent. I then felt it was important to write Yoruba stories in the Yoruba language itself, not only to preserve the language but to tell these stories in their original tongue, primary to its speakers. I realised this was a path not many were taking. Looking back, considering my entire journey, I feel it was destiny pushing me to where I was meant to be, albeit through different paths.
Godswill: That’s a very interesting turn of events. Now, what’s your creative process like? How do you balance tradition with innovation in your work?
Aremo: When I started performing in Yoruba, I was already doing well as an English spoken word artist, and many felt switching to Yoruba would limit me. I believe in multidisciplinary approaches, especially for my performances. Unlike older traditions where only a drum might accompany a Yoruba poem, I infuse pianos, guitars, and other modern instruments to create a modern appeal while still telling original stories. The goal is to strike a balance where older people feel nostalgia, and newer generations feel curiosity, drawing them in with modern instruments to explore what was left in the past. I’m thankful for collaborations, like with the South African artist William Ross, where we blended Yoruba and Afrikaans using modern instruments, without traditional Yoruba instruments, and people outside Nigeria listened with interest. For me, it’s about finding that balance; as long as the nuances of my language and tradition are preserved, I can work with any new-age creative.
Godswill: Very well said. Are there any Yoruba phrases, proverbs, or words that you feel cannot be translated into English without losing their soul?
Aremo: That’s a very beautiful question. I don’t subtitle my poetry videos because I believe that the process of translation inevitably loses nuances and etymology in every language. What you find are words closest in meaning, not accurate translations. For my books, I tell translators they have my permission, but they will be creating an entirely new work, not a perfect translation. For instance, “Olorun” for God literally means “owner of heaven,” not God outrightly. The error Ajayi Crowther made in calling “Esu” Satan has caused ongoing debate because Esu is not Satan; their principles are entirely different. Yorubas don’t believe in angels, heaven, or hell; they believe in reincarnation. So, where would Satan come from? Similarly, calling “akara” “beans cake” is inaccurate because akara is not a cake. We wouldn’t find a perfect Yoruba word for “salad” or “sandwich” because they aren’t primary to our culture. I honour translators, but I know that every act of translation shifts and erodes something in a language. Calling Sango “god of thunder” or “Orisha” “god” is also incorrect. Orishas like Sango and Obatala were not supernatural beings, but regular people who did exceptionally unbelievable things. Ogun, for example, was an exceptional blacksmith. Understanding the etymology is crucial. If someone translates my work and calls Sango “god of thunder” or Akara “bean cake,” I would be offended because it insults the language and its original owners. English speakers don’t find Yoruba equivalents for their nuanced meals; we shouldn’t translate things like “snow” that aren’t part of our experience. So, yes, in translation, we kill nuances and lose potency. Works should largely remain in their original form.
Godswill: Do younger English-speaking audiences connect with your work as deeply as you hope?
Aremo: That’s a very interesting question. When I first switched from English to Yoruba performances, I would often get scared at events that the audience wouldn’t understand me and switch back to English. It took me months to understand that I shouldn’t sacrifice my art by translating; instead, I should stick with the original essence of the language that makes it unique. I’ve met non-Yoruba-speaking people, including non-Nigerians, who are learning Yoruba simply because they want to understand my work. Beyond language, performance is about rhythm and soul. Emotions are universal. If I create a sad work in Yoruba, even if you don’t understand the words, you will feel the sadness. My job as an artist is done then. I will never translate all my works to English, because it would dilute my calling to tell original Yoruba stories. If people are intrigued by my work and its rhythm, then they should learn the language.
Godswill: What has been the toughest part of pushing Yoruba literature and expression into this economy? Is it funding, access, or perception?
Aremo: Funding is a general problem for artists, especially independent ones. For me, access is a major issue. I can’t put a hard copy of my fully Yoruba book on Amazon because they think it wouldn’t drive revenue; I can only put it as a soft copy. We have, in a way, orchestrated this downfall ourselves. Then there’s the problem of perception, which is an age-old issue where people mix religion with spirituality and culture, leading them to believe that anyone speaking Yoruba is “incanting.” Someone recently messaged me on Instagram asking for incantations, which tells you a lot about these perceptions.
Godswill: It certainly does. Moving forward, where do you see Yoruba literature in the next five years? And with these problems you’ve identified, what kind of ecosystem do you think would help it truly flourish?
Aremo: An ecosystem is run by people, and if people aren’t conscious enough of their culture and language, they can’t create the ecosystem we need. First, those in positions of influence need to be culturally awakened and shed the colonial mentality that our indigenous culture is not beautiful or is a fetish. Only then can artists creating in Yoruba feel safe to share their work without being labelled babalawos or fearing that cultural practitioners will die poor. What others and I are doing with indigenous languages in Nigeria is a rebellion. I hope this rebellion leads to cultural emancipation and awakening, where those at the structural level can create an ecosystem that supports indigenous works. This would mean being able to put books on Amazon without issue, and people not questioning why someone is reading a Yoruba novel in 2025. We need to heal the mind before we can heal the physical structure.
Godswill: So, what’s your dream for how African languages, especially Yoruba, are taught, performed, and preserved in the future?
Aremo: For Yoruba, we still have a huge problem mixing religion and culture, and this affects how our art is portrayed. For instance, money ritual doesn’t exist in Yoruba culture. We need to separate religion from culture to achieve accurate representation and export these works globally. Many people don’t even know their own stories. The biggest problem is this mixing of religion with culture, where you can’t call yourself a Yoruba writer and a Christian or a Muslim simultaneously.
Godswill: Do you think there’s more that the government or legal bodies could be doing to protect these languages, perhaps by enacting laws?
Aremo: Regarding the structural and legal aspects, I’d focus on education in schools. We are not doing well teaching languages to primary and secondary students; language is still demeaning, considered vernacular even in 2025. If I had been taught mathematics in Yoruba, I might have been better at it. The problem is that many lawmakers aren’t culturally conscious. Many who are called “cultural ambassadors” in government are just wearing traditional attire and collecting money without genuinely understanding or preserving the language. The real language promoters are not in air-conditioned government rooms. You can’t expect good decisions from people who aren’t mentally emancipated themselves. So, yes, the government has a role, but the people in government are the fundamental issue.
Godswill: Do you think there’s a way we can reposition these flaws in perception and understanding of the Yoruba language for our English-frenzied generation?
Aremo: Yes. People want to change the world, but you can’t change the world as one person. You change one or two people, and they will go on to change others. This influence spreads from individuals to communities, states, and eventually the world. As a rebellious artist, I continue to put out my work, whether two people buy it or one person shares it online, because I know it’s impacting those who consume it. That influence spreads, even to English-speaking people, encouraging them to appreciate their own cultures. If there were more people like me doing this with languages, the perception would change. I released a book in 2023, and adults told me they hadn’t encountered Yoruba literature in years. Imagine if more Chimamandas or Chigozie Obiomas were putting out books, poetry, and drama in indigenous languages. The perception would change because everyone has influence in different corners. But currently, there’s no competitive market; we are countable. It’s time for those who claim to have the language at heart to take action. Being an artist in Nigeria, especially an independent one, is difficult, but I’ve seen growth. I can now confidently plan a Yoruba poetry concert and expect 200-300 people to buy tickets. If more people were doing this, the orientation would shift. I still have the dream that Yoruba Oral language will sell out the O2 Arena in poetry. Years ago, I doubted this, but in the last few years, I’ve gained convictions that this dream is happening.
Godswill: Your story is one of real growth and tangible impact, and your voice is definitely being heard. People are taking notice and are interested in your journey. Thank you so much for taking the time out of your busy schedule to talk to us. We really appreciate this opportunity.
Aremo: Thank you so much for having me. It’s been a pleasure. If we had more platforms like yours spotlighting these conversations, it would truly make a difference. You’re doing impeccable and honest work.
