Who is
Getting to know me is like swift lightning swaying you off your pell-mell feet. However dismissible its effect, a subtle rattling that lasts a minutial moment — mostly because I'm as endearing as any adorable darling Hilton you'll find. I'm saying, instead of appalling your erasing gut — from never finding a true source of knowledge, as I'm assuming you're cautious and taciturn about these things — you, out of the blue, finally see me for who I truly am and take a chill pill. If your gene pool blessed you with loquacious errands, I assure you, I'll soon be your favourite secret to keep. This is what I hope to achieve with this biography: Frith Hilton coming off the page, and you see the Musician, the Poet, just as thousands of fans — well known to be referred to as Cows and Bulls — around the free world do. You’ll come to love him for his authenticity, his ingenuity, and resilience, and you take away some swag from the vibe he passes around. Some say it's chutzpah; I call it Hilton merit. Hilton is an X post away, any day.
“Don’t doubt your vibe because it’s you.” — Elon Musk
People haven’t always identified me, matched my particulars to who I truly am. Wrong ID! Whose face card? Unlike a 1911 crosshair, its target point-blank, most seemed to mistake me for some other person I’m never meeting, even in an open space. I believe the air of my presence would commute to anyone by this misinformation, someone else, and I’d be no more alive than a morgue’s resident to them. They’d need to be big on fan-love to be at such a meetup, and I must say, I’d be truly blessed if it happened… the resonance of my art breaking the grounds of snobbery, with a smudgy face in question, for uncharted grounds of common interests and dissolution of what-have-you wrong.
Skewed and distorted comments have always flown and made their rounds, and still do. It’s the reputation of the carriers to muddle my well-known, prominent character, aided by uncertainties that arise from the lapses that shadow over anyone with discreteness about private matters. But it’s not arising from my inability to keep secrets, but instead, the desire to further build up knowledge of my personal life. So, most of these fellows do it for good reasons they know much more about.
At some point, some folks thought I was a cleaner! Yup, a labour wage earner on janitorial duty. It’s embarrassing they thought I had such a meagre job, pushing a career that ensures securing the best cleansers and porcelain bleach, at least, if you are ever to enjoy light banter at informal gatherings. Mind you, I do, by the way, during the weekend, keep the lights on and tend to the walls that hold my sanity. I make sure no unnoticed inching took place, as it’s a bleak distance that forgets what I fade into when the worst happens. But this isn’t the detail you need. My personas are everywhere in my art. Promise you will find me after reading this? I’m the lines of lyrics to my songs, the rhythm of the vibrance behind my hundreds of songs, the remaining rhetoric after my poetry rhymes have been exhausted. With over 330 songs and close to one thousand poems across over twenty-five books, it shouldn’t be a needle-in-a-haystack dilemma discovering me beyond this brief introduction.
My life started quite quiet, like most sons raised on a lonely patch of time, a burgeoning neighbourhood of few sparsely planted homes, with breadwinners working in the city, posted in far-away cities, and in extreme cases, out of the country. I was the only male in a house of four females, with blossom pride deflated by the ego of other sons with machismo and taunting expressions. The other dudes didn’t bellow any nuance of thought in our disagreements as I warped and twisted in the nuances of my own experiences, which, mind you, were well creased by ample daunting events that left my not-so-friendly peer mates not as well represented in my child mind as you’d make of a fairy-tale childhood, but I had my moments. All of these lent me audibility, for I knew what I wanted and didn’t. I developed into a teenager who, not failing the pageant on looks and appeal, managed around with a scar I’d gotten around six years old. It was from my early football endeavours. Showered by chandelier shatters that in splinters broke my skin and left the surgeons willing to break my heart with cheesy reasons to scar me. I was young and took little notice of my new face at the time, with its little forehead scar. Now, I like to see it as a sarcastic reminder of the need for proprietary control of the unacknowledged rights of my life. Years earlier, prior to the football accident, I had gotten stabbed in the purlicue of my palm. But that didn’t leave me scared; it left me unwilling to start friendships. Years later, after a brief bout of personal career success as a software developer dipping his toes in the long-neglected enterprise of music making, my natural parents broke everything. By everything, I mean I woke up in a fractured existence where I questioned my own identity. I write all about it in my published epic: “Bury Me in 1965”. With nowhere else to go, I remained with them. In my natural parents’ home is where I met the Hiltons, through Chantel Jeffries. It’s also where European royalty first whispered. But I had become a poet, and my previous music endeavours had grown strong tentacles to be taken seriously. This was when life began. The birth of Howard Frith Hilton. Today, Howard Frith Hilton, well known simply as Frith Hilton, is a musician and poet, thanks to all of the fans around the world that visit my website daily, where my songs are streamed and my poetry is read, shared, and listened to in audio format. I continue to break the boundaries of the limits of my simple tools, and AI and new tech have been indispensable.
Born to two Yorubas, I picked up the native language late, simply because it wasn’t fashionable, and besides, the times roared viable interests in the affairs of folks with pale skin. I wasn’t a broad interest enthusiast, but I remember stumbling on a novel for the first time, barely an adolescent, and recharging my sockets and taming the raw and unchallenged, promising to use the new voice’s style I’d read from its pages for my own descriptions. I simply owned its unconventional interest for the weather, how the well-known colours could go by other fancier names — the new finds I was sold on, showing me how to experience the world. It birthed language again as lofty, and I had praise for it.
You can find me on X @frithhilton17 or write to [email protected]
Scroll to top
search
