Some honest thoughts after listening to Tiken Jah Fakoly’s 'Plus Rien Ne M’étonne'.

You know those songs that hit you right in the chest, even if you weren’t expecting it?
That’s exactly what happened when I listened to Tiken Jah Fakoly’s Plus Rien Ne M’étonne.

I wasn’t even trying to overthink it — just playing some music, letting it roll. And then this voice, this rhythm, this heavy truth just landed in my ears and stayed there.

The beat is steady, easy even. Classic reggae, familiar, like something you could almost nod your head to without thinking. But the words — man, the words don’t let you stay comfortable for long. Tiken’s not just singing. He’s reminding. He’s pulling history out from the shadows and putting it right there in front of you, without shouting, without drama. Just facts. Just pain wrapped in a steady, patient voice.

“They have shared the world.”
It sounds almost ridiculous when you say it out loud. Like — really? They just got together and shared the world? Sliced it up like cake? And yet, that’s exactly what happened. Colonial powers dividing up land, empires, lives — like it was all just a game. And generations later, we’re still living with the fallout.

What really gets me about this song isn’t just the history lesson, though. It’s the tone.
Tiken doesn’t sound angry, not exactly. He sounds tired. Tired in a way that’s even heavier than anger.
It’s like he’s seen it all, heard all the promises, all the lies, watched history just keep spinning in the same messed-up circle — and now he’s saying, “Nothing surprises me anymore.”
And honestly? I get that feeling. Too many of us do.

The way he performs it — there’s no big theatrics, no “look at me” moments. He just sings it straight, like someone telling you something you need to hear, even if you don't want to. That kind of honesty sticks with you.

And speaking of performances — have you seen the version where Tiken sings with a big, mostly white choir behind him?
It’s... hard not to feel the weight of that. One black man, standing in front, carrying the truth of colonialism on his shoulders, while a sea of white faces sing behind him.
It’s powerful, but also deeply ironic.
Because isn’t that the story, in a way? One man telling the truth about how the world was divided and exploited — while those who benefited from that history now join in the chorus.
Maybe it's a sign of healing. Maybe it’s just a reminder that the scars are still there.
Either way, it hits you somewhere deep, even if you can’t fully put it into words.

You start thinking about all the times people in power made decisions without caring who it would hurt. About how people are still paying for lines that were drawn on maps decades or centuries ago. About how some histories get erased, forgotten, like they never even mattered.

But what I love — and what really stays with me — is that even in that sadness, Tiken’s voice isn’t broken. There’s strength there. Quiet, stubborn strength. He’s not giving up. He’s remembering. He’s making us remember.

I keep thinking about that — about how easy it is to get tired of fighting, tired of caring. How easy it is to say, “Nothing surprises me anymore” and just give up. But somehow, Plus Rien Ne M’étonne feels like the opposite. It’s saying, “Yeah, I’ve seen it all. I know how ugly the world can be. And I’m still here. I’m still singing.”

That matters.

Not every song needs to be an anthem. Sometimes the ones that change you are the ones that just tell the truth, softly but firmly, and leave you to sit with it.

Tiken Jah Fakoly didn’t write a song to make you feel good. He wrote one to make you feel something real. And even though it leaves a little sadness sitting in your chest, it also leaves a kind of quiet respect — for the history, for the struggle, and for the people who refuse to be forgotten.

“They shared the world.”
Yeah. And somehow, somehow — we’re still here, trying to make something whole out of the pieces.