She’s a Ventriloquist Queen, a New York-born entertainer who turned her art into a bridge between worlds, swapping the Hamptons for a throne in Nigeria’s ancient cocoa kingdom of Eti-Oni, Osun State. Queen Angelique Monet Gureje-Thompson’s story sounds like a fantasy, but it’s entirely real. Adedayo Adejobi writes
The afternoon light slants softly through gauzy curtains in her Ilupeju residence, turning the air gold. The hum of Lagos traffic fades behind thick walls, replaced by the soulful sound of her upright piano and the pale aroma of cocoa and jasmine. Queen Angelique Monet Gureje-Thompson, poised in flowing Aso-Oke, a beaded crown resting lightly on her head, leans forward with a storyteller’s ease. On a nearby armchair, her puppet, Baby, sits quietly, its impish grin frozen mid-performance. For now, the stage is her living room, and the story is her own.
Before she ever became a queen, Angelique was a performer who turned ventriloquism into poetry. “The room falls silent before the music begins,” she recalls with a laugh, describing her shows. “Then Baby says something silly , and everyone’s laughing.” In that laughter, she says, she found connection—a language beyond accent, beyond culture.
Tall, graceful, and soft-spoken, Angelique first captivated audiences not in a palace, but on stage.
Born and raised in the Hamptons, New York, she carved a niche in American entertainment through her pioneering blend of music, monologue, and puppetry. Her show, Voices of Love, explored empathy and healing through laughter—a kind of therapy disguised as theatre. The Times of London called her “the Nigerian queen bringing a singing cow to the Fringe,” long before her coronation made that title literal.
She smiles at the memory. “It’s funny, isn’t it? Life has a way of foreshadowing itself,” she enthused.
Her path from artist to African royalty feels cinematic—an improbable merging of stage and statecraft. Yet as Angelique tells it, the transition was less about destiny than about purpose.
In the early 2010s, her humanitarian ork took her frequently to Africa. Through her Fountainhead Tanzania project, she used art to promote peace and mental-health awareness.
“Art isn’t just what we see, it’s how we choose to heal,” she says.
It was during one of these cross-cultural missions that she met Oba Dokun Thompson, the traditional ruler of Eti-Oni in Osun State, Nigeria’s historic cocoa kingdom. What began as a professional exchange—her offering creative education programmes, him advocating heritage preservation- evolved into something deeper.
In a tone both serene and certain, “we connected through a shared love for humanity,” she recalls.
Their union, sealed in the sacred rites of Yoruba tradition, crowned her, Her Royal Highness Queen Angelique Monet Gureje-Thompson, Olori of Eti-Oni. At that moment, the performer stepped into history. Across from her, sunlight glints off the polished wood of her coffee table, where a porcelain teacup sits untouched. She pauses, as if searching for the right words. “Becoming queen wasn’t an ending,” she says softly. “It was an evolution—from telling my story to helping others tell theirs.”
“I’ve had to learn what it means to serve rather than to perform. In the theatre, you tell your story; in the palace, you become part of everyone else’s,” she adds.
That learning curve wasn’t without resistance. When she first entered the traditional institution, Angelique faced scepticism and even ridicule. “Some thought I was too foreign, too different,” she admits. “But I chose compassion over confrontation. You don’t fight misunderstanding—you educate it.” Her quiet resolve eventually won hearts across the Eti-Oni community.
Today, she moves seamlessly between two worlds—the creative corridors of New York and the cocoa groves of Osun State. At Eti-Oni’s annual Cocoa Festival, she presides beside her husband, welcoming farmers, artists, and diplomats alike. She has expanded the festival’s vision beyond agriculture, transforming it into a platform for global collaboration.
“Cocoa connected Africa to the world,” she says. “Now we use it to reconnect humanity to itself.”
Her advocacy extends through the Fountainhead Tanzania Initiative, the Day of Love Festival, and her work with the Eti-Oni Development Group—all focused on education, women’s enterprise, and creative therapy. “Royalty must mean relevance,” she insists. “A crown doesn’t isolate you; it connects you to purpose.” Even her art continues to serve that mission. Ventriloquism, she notes, is about giving voice to the voiceless.
“That’s what I try to do as a queen too—help others speak, be heard, and heal.”
Her puppet Baby remains a familiar companion at community events, teaching children lessons about kindness, heritage, and environmental care. “Baby,” she laughs, “has become a bit of a local celebrity.”
With a presence both regal and theatrical, when she performs, you sense the throne in her voice. Angelique sees no contradiction there. “Performance teaches empathy,” she explains. “And empathy is the heart of leadership.”
Behind her poise, though, is a story of solitude. She speaks candidly of the isolation that sometimes shadows both fame and royalty. “There were days,” she says quietly, “when I wondered if I belonged anywhere. America saw me as exotic; Nigeria saw me as foreign. So, I had to define home within myself.”
That introspection fuels her creative and humanitarian work. Her films explore identity and belonging; her workshops teach children the same values she learned through art.
In Eti-Oni, she is affectionately known as Ayaba Itunu—the Queen of Comfort. Her palace doubles as a learning centre, where local youth study storytelling, drama, and filmmaking. “If a puppet can speak to a child about kindness,” she muses, “then surely a queen can listen.”
Her feminism, though unspoken, shines through her philosophy. In a society where queenship is often ornamental, Angelique embodies a participatory model of leadership. She attends global peace summits, mentors women entrepreneurs, and continues to perform selectively, channelling her artistry into advocacy.
“Titles mean nothing without purpose,” she says. “A true queen lifts others.”
That conviction finds its expression each year at her Soirée for Peace in New York—a glamorous blend of fashion, music, and dialogue designed to foster unity. “It’s not about status,” she explains. “It’s about creating spaces where love and legacy can meet.”
Her journey, in many ways, feels like a dialogue between continents. A Black American woman who found belonging in African royalty; a performer who turned her craft into a tool for diplomacy; a ventriloquist who teaches that true power lies not in the voice we keep, but in the ones we help others find.
A gust of wind stirs the curtains, and for a moment, the room fills with golden light. Angelique rises to adjust them, moving with the unhurried grace of someone who has learned to balance two worlds. Baby, still perched on the armchair, catches the light too—its painted eyes glinting mischievously. She glances at it, amused.
Outside, the Lagos evening deepens. Somewhere beyond the walls, a muslim calls, blending with the rustle of trees and the fading rhythm of city life. The Queen sits again, serene, her gaze steady but faraway—perhaps already thinking of Eti-Oni, where cocoa trees sway in the dusk and children await her return.
“When everybody has a voice,” she says finally, echoing one of Baby’s lessons, “that’s peace.”
The laughter that follows is light but resonant, filling the quiet Ilupeju room with the same energy she brings to global stages—a sound at once royal and profoundly human.
In that laughter lives the essence of Angelique: an artist who became a queen, a queen who remains an artist, and a woman who continues to prove that grace can indeed be revolutionary.
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