Long before spoken word became a contemporary musical category, the voice already functioned as an instrument within Yoruba oral traditions. Oríkì, Ìjálá, Rárà and other forms of praise poetry have historically depended on cadence, intonation, repetition and the elasticity of speech to seem like music, without necessarily singing.
Scholars of Yoruba oral literature have documented oríkì as one of the culture’s most prominent poetic forms, performed across ceremonies and everyday life, while ritual praise poetry itself developed unique modes of intonation, depending on its purpose of course.
So far, that lineage has also travelled into modern Yoruba poetry through figures including Lanrewaju Adepoju, whose work stretched oríkì into contemporary social, political and theistic expression, among others. It definitely might not be a “new wave” in the industry, but it is quite a strong one.
Joseph Osupala’s recent bop, “Sure Mercy”, feels born from that same understanding of the human voice as an instrument. It is essentially a spoken-word piece wrapped in music, built around chanting rather than conventional singing and carried by sombre, lullaby-like piano progressions. Osupala stretches certain words until they become almost melismatic, changing his inflection and cadence to create the harmonisation that a more conventional record might seek from sung melodies. It becomes an interesting extension of his alluring artistry, combining the vintage praise-singing sensibilities of African music with the polished tenderness of contemporary Christian RnB. The result lands somewhere around melodramatic praise singing, one where prayer and poetry occupies the same space.
“O se, o se, o, Olorun awon baba wa,” he chants, before slipping between Yoruba and English: “My life is a living testimony.” Elsewhere, “Iya mi mo ro ni je” arrives with the compactness of an adage, another moment where his Yoruba heritage comes alive in the arrangement. His code-switching gives the record a “gist-esque” fluidity, although its allure is rooted even deeper in how convincing every utterance feels. Osupala pours considerable soulfulness into his delivery. Each line hits one like sacred text being read aloud, flanked by gentle piano chords that give his words enough room to resonate.
There is something distinctly traditional about the portrait Osupala paints of himself here. His traditionalism lives within his artistic instincts: the chants, indigenous language, praise poetry, proverbial phrasing and understanding that spoken language can possess its own melody. Yoruba oral poetry has historically treated intonation as fundamental to performance, with several genres carrying prescribed vocal approaches that Western classification tends to flatten simply into “chant.”
Osupala pulls that sensibility into a contemporary faith-based environment, cushioning it with the emotional warmth of the modern RnB ballad. The piano occasionally carries the tender resonance common with artists like John Legend, Ed Sheeran, and Johnny Drille, although Osupala’s vocal approach remains closer to recitation and praise poetry.
The catharsis of “Sure Mercy” grows gradually from this combination. Its melancholic gusto could easily have produced something sorrowful. Instead, the music feels comforting, almost like relief arriving after a particularly dire moment. Everything is deliberately slowed down so that each phrase can matter. Osupala immerses himself inside the pauses as much as the words, his tone moving through an airy, occasionally bubbly register before sinking into deeper, more sombre stretches. The pace keeps pointing toward introspection and soliloquy, giving the record the private atmosphere of somebody verbalising his gratitude after surviving something difficult.
Its production strengthens that intimacy. There are pockets of tension and release throughout the arrangement, with the instruments kept sufficiently restrained for Osupala’s voice to remain close to the listener. At points, it feels as though one is sitting across the table from him while he recounts the mercy, grandeur and helpfulness of God in his life. The spatial closeness of the mix becomes particularly useful here because “Sure Mercy” relies heavily on conviction. A larger production could have swallowed its emotional detail. Instead, the record retains the atmosphere of testimony, something equally suited to solitary listening and close-knit ministry spaces.
Osupala’s tonal clarity also gives the piece its shape. As his delivery rises, the arrangement gradually expands around him until the refrain carries the fullness of a choir joining his declaration. The instrumentation remains largely linear and chordophonic, avoiding unnecessary rhythmic clutter and leaving the language at the centre. It makes the record easily digestible while sharpening the assurance and urgency inside its message. Even its poetry benefits from brevity: short verses, proverbial fragments and declarations appear, settle and disappear before another thought takes their place.
“Sure Mercy” ultimately succeeds as an exciting experiment within indigenous faith-based fusion because Osupala understands that the message cannot be separated from the manner of its delivery. Beneath its piano chords, Yoruba chants, contemporary R&B textures and carefully measured silences sits a meditation on stoicism, faith and spiritual self-improvement. The music invites its listener towards a higher consciousness through testimony and reassurance. Its spirituality is embedded into the actual mechanics of the record: in Osupala’s conviction, in the patience of its pacing, in the tenderness of its chords and in the almost devotional concentration with which every line is delivered. “Sure Mercy” is faith-based music because faith governs how it sounds. That immersion remains its finest quality, the final flourish on an already compelling experiment in prayer, poetry and song. It sits at 7.5/10
