Fuji music legend Saheed Osupa sparked public debate after stating during a performance on 30 March that traditional African spiritual practices played a key role in his success. Speaking at the 52nd birthday celebration of veteran actor Fatai "Lalude" Odua, the 55-year-old musician revealed he uses what he called "Isoye" charms to sharpen his band members' minds. In a viral video, Osupa defended the use of such rituals, describing them as tools for personal growth rather than fetishism. He referenced seven "Kuluso" and seven "Atare," insisting they were not evil but meant to support progress.
Osupa stated he gives praise to Ifa, the Yoruba oracle, every morning, and credited it for his achievements. "I didn't use juju to kill anyone or do evil. I only used it to support my progress and career," he said. He questioned the effectiveness of conventional medicine in achieving success, asking, "Would Panadol make me rich?" While affirming belief in Jesus Christ and Prophet Muhammad, he accused some religious followers of hypocrisy, claiming many who profess faith in the Quran and Bible are insincere. "People who say 'I trust in the Quran and the Bible' are lying and deceiving one another," he added. His comments triggered backlash online, particularly over his remarks on religion, but Osupa did not retract his statements.
Saheed Osupa's unapologetic embrace of traditional spiritual practice cuts through Nigeria's carefully curated religious performance, exposing a quiet but widespread tension between public piety and private belief. The 55-year-old Fuji star didn't just admit to using Ifa and charms—he framed them as more effective than Panadol for success, directly challenging the sanctity of both Islamic and Christian orthodoxy in a country where religious identity is often non-negotiable.
His claim that those who trust only in the Quran and Bible are "lying" strikes at the heart of Nigeria's culture of religious performativity. Millions attend megachurches and mosques weekly while quietly consulting traditional healers, spiritualists, or charms for breakthroughs—exactly the duality Osupa named. By refusing to apologise or retreat, he laid bare a lived reality many deny: that in Nigeria, spiritual pragmatism often trumps doctrinal purity, especially when survival and success are at stake.
For ordinary Nigerians, particularly in the South-West, Osupa's stance resonates beyond music—it reflects a broader discomfort with religious policing. Those struggling to make ends meet may find more honesty in his words than in sermons promising miracles through tithes. His comments validate a hidden but widespread worldview: that spiritual tools, whether Ifa, prayer, or charms, are means to an end in a system where formal opportunities remain scarce.
This is not an isolated confession but part of a growing cultural reckoning. From celebrities speaking on mental health to musicians embracing indigenous identity, Osupa's declaration fits a pattern of public figures rejecting enforced narratives—religious, social, or political—in favour of personal truth.
