If you come from where I came from – a place with unpaved streets, houses tightly packed against one another, murky drainages containing things you don’t want to know about, all navigated with wide-eyed enthusiasm and barely developed smarts — you dream a lot. You dream about taking your family out of there, being great one way or the other, and having the luxurious life you see on televisions. You also played football – on the first days of the holidays; immediately you got home from school at 3 or 4 p.m. depending on if you went to a public or private school; you played especially when your mum warned you not to, and you played on even when you hurt your toes playing on the most uncomfortably stony fields.
Later on in life during the holidays, we never missed the early music shows; during school time, we watched what we could and hoped for repeats. There were football breaks at well-defined times which allowed us to watch the shows we loved the most. Galaxy TV at 11 A.M; We almost always missed Lunch Splash on T.V.C. because there was usually no light at that time. Superscreen at 5 P.M; And M.I.T.V at 8 P.M. With dirty feet and sweaty bodies, we sat on couches and settees anyway, because we just couldn’t miss the music at the turn of the decade. All our truths and realities held our gaze as it played directly through the coloured pictures on our screens. If we stretched our hands out, we could grasp these delights on TV – live the life. Boys like me heard ourselves – Gbagada, Bariga, Oworo, Mushin – in Dagrin, Olamide, 9ice, and DJ Zeez. So, we fine-tuned our strategies for getting out. If football didn’t work, music could, and one of the two had to. At-all-at-all-na-im-bad-pass.
I don’t remember the first time I heard the phrase, ‘conscious music’, but for the longest time, there was something about it that made me think of it as purely an idyllic concept. Idyllic was grand when all we wanted, was representation. Where I was raised, the most important thing was also seemingly the simplest thing: to be seen, understood and identified – we didn’t ask for too much. There was also the tiny matter of the music we heard lifting us out of the seemingly mundane life we lived, the lack we breathed. Yet, for every chorus – or every bar – I remember being dished out about girls, butts, and the street culture, there was more to it. Our identity was fused into the words we spoke in an inescapable manner about the economic odds stacked against us. In the most colourful language, we registered our grievances against the government that fostered this divide, cursing and singing, fuck the government.
As we grew older, and understanding broadened, I began to get the point of conscious music. I started to dig that to be conscious is to just speak your truth as closely as it aligns with your identity and with the regularity that it occurs to you.
When I listen to Tekno, I can’t shake the feeling that he played football when his mother told him not to and that he concocted an escape to a better life through his music because it seemed like the dream that was more within grasp. By listening to Tekno, I don’t mean the disyllabic-titled songs like “Pana,”“Diana,” or “Agege” where he sings about love and romance with reckless abandon over syncopated beats. I drown in those when I imagine what it means to be in a spicy love that does not require lots of words – just some cassava.
By listening to Tekno, I mean songs like last year’s “Better (Hope for Africa)” and last Friday’s “Sudden” where he sees and understands of the plight of the people who are several classes below him. By listening to Tekno, I mean plugging into the artist who leans over the divide and inserts himself, fleetingly, in the reality of the average Nigerian, yet still crucially, accepts the liminality of his position however powerful his voice is.
To be a conscious Nigerian musician in 2020, is to open your Pandora box of opinions about pretty much anything that occurs in the public sphere. But commentary is specially reserved for the core politicking and top-level mismanagement and corruption that is so endemic to the country. To keep that position, all you have to do is maintain an audible public persona and, hopefully, curate a connection to the mythical Fela Anikulapo-Kuti – that always helps. There’s also a place for the conscious musician to brusquely insult the average Nigerian for not standing up to their ‘oppressors’ – we’re tired and jaded, read the room – and when that doesn’t work, it seems that it’s okay to maintain a chilly distance and let Nigerians to their doom… or whatever.
When I listen to Tekno get conscious, there is none of the superiority of ideals or stance that characterises traditional Nigerian conscious music. When I say that he’s the greatest conscious musician of our generation I don’t come to that conclusion lightly. I understand that he doesn’t have the all-knowing grasp of politics which protest musicians before him had, or even the repressed miffiness of African China – perhaps not even the refined grasp of the polity that his peers possess, however, Tekno is a human champion unlike any other currently operating at this time.
His music so poignantly captures the human angle of the Nigerian condition, while putting the blame where the people would put it as well: the government. Not once listening to Tekno, have I seen him take an anti-people stance to being woke. Conscious music in Nigeria has loads of that already, so it’s no good blaming us for leaders who choose to shit on their people. There are two types of Nigerian conscious songs: the ones that try to teach but can’t afford to not still put a groove or two into it, leading to the message being drowned out when nubile bodies press against each other at invite-only house parties on the Island; then there is the other sort, made for intense internal monologues about the direction of the motherland and the grave dangers closing in around us.
Tekno’s “Sudden” is the latter, anguishing in execution, made for the people, by the someone who gets people. The fact that it probably won’t chart high is proof that it has done what it is supposed to do. It’s not a song for club revelry (who wants to party in these dreary times?), nor was it made for blaring while hurtling down empty highways. It will play when you want to cry and hear a fellow Nigerian soundtrack your anger. “Dey go do like dem no see say food e no dey oo / Dey go do like dem no see say road e no good oo (just tell me why)/ Dey go do like dem no see say people dey suffer,” Tekno sings on “Better (Hope for Africa).” I’ve barely heard more truthfully uncomplicated lyrics in the last few years. Rich and poor, we ply the same roads; rich and poor, like the Coronavirus has shown us, we are all vulnerable, however, the poor are always the most unprotected, dealt with the short end of the stick and Tekno telling us this has always reminded me someway of the lyrics we concocted while plotting our getaway from calamity in my childhood. Calming truthfulness.
A few months ago, I read a comment on Twitter about current Nigerian musicians not being able to contribute to the intellectual debates of their times like Fela could have during his days. There is a biting truthfulness to this, as much as there is an elephant unavoidably present in the room which has to be acknowledged for any conversation about scholarliness to progress, for many reasons. Because in his days, Fela was exposed to the best education that could possibly be got. Even then, fresh from independence, the thoughts of young Nigerian men and women were not so overwhelmingly focused on where the next meal was coming from. Because when I walk on the streets, hurrying to beat the curfew, I hope that no policeman shoots me down and swears in a court of law that it was an accidental discharge or that I attacked a man of the law meriting the bullet. Because the boys I grew up with probably write ‘Am’ when they mean ‘I’m.’ Existent realities demand corresponding efforts and nobody has time to be an intellectual when their family is at risk or in the line of fire. In this mess, I am grateful for my little blessings and in whatever manner they attempt to confront the problems we face.
We live in a post-post everything society and it’s a constant struggle to remember all the ills we’re confronting, often at the same damn time. These are perilous times, and music is a weapon. Music is the weapon for our collective remembrance; for our communal mourning of the potential that comes to die in Nigeria if you don’t make it out of the ghetto in time; the light in your eyes that dims if you don’t keep your head held high and believe that the sun will shine on the next day – the nights are that dark.
If you work harder, you’ll make it out. Lies. Just ask Tekno, he knows. “If na by hard work poor man go get money,” he casually points out on “Sudden.” Money is an especial matter and when Tekno drearily adds that “40 billion is a nothing for them” we know whom he is referring to even if he won’t name names or cast aspersions. We are seething, and I’m nodding vigorously, in agreement because I recognise the little details of our collective pain, and resignation in this griot’s voice.
When Tekno releases his next song, probably a disyllabic-titled club banger, I understand him. To be the voice of society can be choking, sometimes it is better to dance.
ICYMI: Music is the perfect medicine for cabin fever
From working her way out of London’s Myatt’s Field, Tanika is now setting her sights on the bright lights...
Across a career that's in its second decade, Tanika has proven to be a force in her own right, holding her...
Across a career that’s in its second decade, Tanika has proven to be a force in her own right, holding her own on collaborations with Black British stars like Stormzy and Wretch 32, as well as popular record producer Naughty Boy–working with the Grammy-nominated beatmaker on his acclaimed ‘Hotel Cabana’ album.
Following a stint as an actor, she returned to the studio in 2021, releasing a new extended play, ‘333,’ in 2023. The project carried all the hallmarks of Tanika at her tantalising best: lilting cadences, well-paced narratives, a songwriting that reaches for the heart of the matter.
On her latest song, “Fast Fwd,” she’s growing into her own and stepping into a new era. In many ways, “Fast Fwd,” a hypnotic, sultry anthem, is landing just in time for summer revelry. Produced by her longtime collaborator, Naughty Boy, her silky vocals land effortlessly on the mid-tempo instrumental and pulsates with her desire for her love interest.
Joined on the song by her fiancé, Kida Kudz, they make an interesting duo and replicate the synergy they had on “Nobody,” off Kudz’s 2021 ‘Top Memba.’ Distinctively marked by use of neon lights, the video for the song captures the effervescence of romance that Tanika hums about throughout the song.
From working her way out of London’s Myatt’s Field to becoming a star with millions of streams, Tanika is now setting her sights on the bright lights of superstardom. Ahead of the official release of the single, we had a brief chat with Tanika about her career, the influences for “Fast Fwd,” and working with KIda Kudz on it.
Her answers, which follow below, have been lightly edited for clarity.
How would you describe where you are in your career right now?
I’m just enjoying the journey.
What does the release of “Fast Fwd” signify for you?
It signifies love.
Why is Kida Kudz a fit for the song? (
To be honest, we didn’t plan to do another song together. I have worked on two records with him before (“Nobody” and “Tasty Time” ) but we never thought to shoot a video for it.. “Fast Fwd” felt like a real testimony of our present moment in the relationship.
You’ve worked extensively with Naughty Boy and he’s helped with “Fast Fwd,” what’s your relationship like and why does it work?
Naughty Boy knows me very well. We’ve known one another for over 10 years, so he knows what fits me musically. We gel. I think him knowing me and being a fan of Kida’s music made it all work. Naughty Boy does his listening before he makes a beat for you. A lot of producers don’t really understand the importance of knowing the artist musically but he does.
What were you aiming for with the video?
To be honest, I’m aiming for nothing. I’m just enjoying the journey. It’s been a very long road and I know I still have a long way to go.
Dutch textile brand Vlisco recently unveiled its latest campaign ‘The Garden Of Sisterhood,’ as part of...
Dutch textile brand Vlisco recently unveiled its latest campaign ‘The Garden Of Sisterhood,’ as part of its women’s month celebration. The campaign, which looks to extend Vlisco’s rich legacy in African fashion and its ongoing celebration of creativity and cultural storytelling, takes inspiration from Congolese musical icon Fally Ipupa’s latest single, “Mayanga.” The song’s accompanyingmusic video was shot in the Ivory Coast, and seamlessly balances Ipupa’s signature soulful Rumba music with intricate floral motifs and soft, elegant colour palettes that celebrate the strength and individuality that blossoms through community.
In addition to Fally Ipupa, Vlisco also tapped up Ivorian fashion designer Loza Maléombho and Nigerian director Daniel Obasi to contribute to ‘The Garden Of Sisterhood’ campaign. Maléombho’s unique designs and Obasi’s striking storytelling helped contribute to actualising Vlisco’s distinct aesthetic and vision of merging heritage, creativity and fashion.
In a statement discussing the collaboration with Vlisco, the Congolese superstar described it as a beautiful experience. “They understood my vision of working with talented artists and honouring the beautiful women who wear Vlisco fabrics. By creating exclusive designs for me and the remarkable women in the cast, Vlisco really brought our artistic vision to life, harmoniously fusing music and fashion,” he said.
Similarly, Marlou van Engelen, the creative director of Vlisco, expressed that it was an honour working with Fally Ipupa. “His song ‘MAYANGA’ perfectly reflects our admiration for the women who shaped us, inspire us, and mean so much to us. For us, it’s not just about fashion; it’s about the stories told through our beautiful prints. And I believe the best stories are always told together,” she said in a statement.
Having worked across every area in Nigeria’s sprawling music scene, T.G Omori’s lore has taken on an...
There are two types of producers in the industry: those who approach the art with a keen sense of...
There are two types of producers in the industry: those who approach the art with a keen sense of business—they know how to sniff out opportunities, and are generally aware of industry-wide trends and currents—and those who set the tone, who set the standards. The latter group is the animating force of the industry, TG Omori says in a 2022 interview with Korty EO. During the interview, he’s slouched in his seat, framed against the backdrop of a grand piano, wearing a bandana, dark shades, and a silk Hawaiian shirt—the first few buttons undone to reveal a glistening silver chain. In the intervening moments—fractions of a second—before Korty responds to the loaded assertion he just trotted out, the air is thick with balmy anticipation and nervous excitement “Which group do you belong to?” She asks, lancing the tense air that had inflated sharply like a balloon. “Me? Which group do you think I belong to?” He fires back, his mouth drawn into a smile.
Music video production, is at its heart, an art form that is significantly beholden to the vision and whims of the music artist and label executives. Music video directors—rightly—have to walk the tightrope between sufficiently distilling the essence of a song into a video and managing the desires and whims of an artist and their representatives. The problem, however, is that in between all of this, there’s often little wiggle room for the director to execute his ideas significantly. The result is often a situation where the music video director becomes diminished from an artist to a little more than an artisan. TG Omori, however, has in his long career railed against this. There’s no doubt that like his peers he has to straddle the demands of the song and the vision of his clients, but he does this without effacing his distinctive creative language. He has a fluency in packing his work with heady joy, a joy that pervades and steadies Nigerian society despite the many challenges it’s faced with.
TG Omori stumbled into music video direction by chance. He had been struggling as an actor, begging directors for roles as an extra—his skits and sketches from this period are still available on the internet—when it dawned on him that achieving success as a performing act was incredibly difficult. He noticed that a lot of upcoming actors were struggling to get by and often had to abase themselves in the process of currying favors with directors. The role of film director slowly started to worm its way into his heart, driving a wedge between him and his acting aspirations. Finally won over, he made the pivot to filmmaking, eventually settling on music video direction on account of its relative ease.
His early works lack his distinctive style, instead taking inspiration from directors before him. Consider YCee’s “My Side” which he directed in 2018. The video opens with YCee perched atop a high-rise building. The colors are muted, contrasting his current works which generously deploy bright hues and saturated lighting. There’s a gorgeous scene where YCee is framed against a wall with slits. Shafts of light stream in from behind him, creating a transcendent portrayal of an animated silhouette enveloped in light. The entire video evokes the elevated minimalism of Moe Musa. Think of the opening scene where YCee saunters atop a high-rise building, it’s a motif that has been deployed countless times by Nigerian directors, but something about that scene—the minimalism of the setting juxtaposed with dynamic camera movements—brings to mind Moe Musa’s video for Olamide’s “Bobo.”
While his early works lack his signature–the distinctive exuberance we’ve come to know him for–they hold kernels of what would come to be. Even in the muted ambiance of “My Side,”we see an early iteration of the pristinely dynamic camera movements that sweep through his oeuvre. In the video of Olamide, Wizkid & ID Cabasa’s “Totori,” released in 2019, his directional language starts to take form. He was contracted at the last minute to film the video—he had less than a day to come up with a concept, marshal his crew and steward the logistical aspect of the shoot, and yet in this pressure cannon, a gem was formed.
The video contains just one main scene—one of the few vestiges of the shoot’s hurried nature. We see Wizkid and Olamide encircled by an energetic crowd. A circle of dark bodies sways to the beat, handkerchiefs flailing in the air. We also see the flamboyant lighting that has come to define TG Omori’s work. There are light sources outside the frame but the scene itself is illuminated by a clever array of light sources. Moving headlights cut through clouds of smoke, LED lights and tungsten bulbs of varying colors suffuse the atmosphere with warm iridescence. The effect is the feeling of being transported to a rave. What’s perhaps most striking about this video is that, having been hastily formulated, it contains a single scene, and yet not one minute of it feels boring or repetitive.
Having worked across virtually every area in Nigeria’s sprawling music scene T.G Omori’s lore has taken on an almost mythic quality over the years. However, nowhere is his impact more pronounced than in the Nigerian Street-Pop scene. Today, Street-Pop has largely ridden itself of its underground status. Artists like Seyi Vibez, Shallipopi, and Asake imperiously lord over charts in the country, each boldly raising the banner of their respective cities and hoods. But this wasn’t always the case. In Afropop’s early days, Street-Pop was relegated to the margins, sneered at by industry gatekeepers for its brash flourishes, even though the mainstream routinely tapped it for inspiration. By the early 2010s a new generation of Street-Pop acts—Olamide, Phyno, and Reminisce amongst others—would elevate Street-Pop’s profile to historic heights. But it still maintained an insidiously tense relationship with the mainstream.
The first signs of an industry-wide shift–the shift that has blossomed into Street-Pop’s hegemony today–arrived in 2019 at the height of the Zanku movement. The addition of “movement” underscores just how significant Zanku was. On one front, it’s the title of Zlatan’s titular 2018 hit and an acronym for the phrase “Zlatan Abeg No Kill Us.” But it’s also used to denote a distinct flavor of Street-Pop characterized by skittering drums, cascading percussion, and a laissez-faire style of delivery—heralded in late 2018 by Street-Pop folk heroes like Zlatan, Chinko Ekun, and Naira Marley.
When culture critics reminisce on the Zanku era, the focus is usually on the artists who spearheaded it, but T.G Omori’s contributions to that period of Street-Pop’s ascendancy are impossible to ignore. While the artists shaped the sounds and dance steps that defined its grassroots appeal, it was T.G Omori who gave it its distinctive aesthetic. His early collaborations with Zlatan—most notably on “Shotan” and “Bolanle” offered a template for how the videos of the era could be presented on screen: hyper-stylized yet rooted in the whimsical chaos of street culture. His use of slow motion, jump cuts, and dynamic tracking shots turned what would otherwise be yet another ephemeral trend in Afropop’s dynamic history into a cinematic experience that embodied the feeling of the era.
His video of Naira Marley’s “Soapy” is especially telling. Arriving in the wake of Naira Marley’s arrest by Nigeria’s anti-graft agency, the Economic and Financial Crimes Commision (E.F.C.C.), the video very cleverly satirizes the experience, framing him, as well as others who were arrested alongside him—Zlatan and Rahman Jago, amongst others—as heroes as opposed to criminals. It’s important to grasp the significance of this. Street-Pop acts had always been treated with suspicion. There almost seemed to be a tacit consensus that regardless of their success or status, they mirrored an unsavory part of society, and so they deserved the asterisk that seemed to loom over their every move. The arrest of Naira Marley and his posse only served to further strengthen this narrative. TG Omori’s video, however, spun an alternative narrative, a hagiography perhaps, from this fraught situation. The video opens with annotated mugshots of the group, their names tacked onto each mugshot. Through TG Omori’s lens, prison becomes transformed from a place of despondency to a sanctuary where friends happily muck around, regaling themselves with games and bubbly dancing.
TG Omori’s influence in shaping emerging sonic movements extends beyond the Zanku era. It’s impossible to recount Asake’s rise without considering the video director’s input. 2022 marked Asake’s singular and meteoric rise to fame. His music blurred the boundaries of genres, creating an amorphous sound spread across the continent with intensity. His ascendancy also broke the boundaries between Street-Pop and mainstream Afropop, marking the dawn of a new era. TG Omori played a pivotal part in Asake’s early days, crafting a freewheeling visual aesthetic to match Asake’s disposition for subversion. In the video of Asake’s “Peace Be Unto You,” we see his freewheeling ethos at its peak. The song’s themes span faith, hustle, success, and street credibility. In the hands of a lesser director, the video would have followed the familiar script of a grass-to-grace narrative. TG Omori, however, rejected that cliché in favor of a more abstract approach.
Each of the themes explored in the song is distilled to a representative scene, the scenes are then cleverly stitched into a brilliant whole. The opening sequence sees Asake on a motorcycle, a formation of riders trailing behind him. As he rips through the freeway, doting fans wave and scream in adulation. Watching this scene, one is tangibly enveloped in the feeling of street credibility, the sense of ascendancy, that Asake explores in the song. It’s poignant and symbolic, conveying the essence of the song in a manner that would be difficult to achieve with a literal narrative. Similarly, the video of Seyi Vibez’s “Shaolin,” TG Omori’s inaugural work following a health-induced break, defies any discernible narrative logic in favor of a freewheeling approach. The video’s boisterous energy almost seems like a bold assertion of his continued reign; as if to say “I’m back like I never left.”
In August of 2024, through a series of heart-wrenching videos, as well as tweets, TG Omori let the public in on his health challenges. In a tweet, he revealed that his only brother gave him a kidney, so he could live again. He revealed that the transplant failed and, later, brought on thoughts of mortality. In one harrowing photo he posted on his Instagram stories, he’s hooked to a life support machine, the words “I don’t want to die” superimposed on the image. In the intervening moments, prayers and well-wishes poured in from all corners of social media. In recent months, however, he appears to be in better health and has fully thrust himself back into work, with “Shaolin” being the first of many projects he has lined up.
Eight years after his directorial debut, he remains not just relevant, but the frontman in an industry that’s as cut-throat as it gets. It’s uncommon in Nigeria’s music scene—for a video director to maintain this level of dominance for nearly a decade into the game. It’s his fidelity to subversion and his unique perspective on the art of videography that has earned him his position as Nigeria’s foremost video director. To watch a TG Omori video is to be transported into a world of his creation: where the sun pulses with exuberance, foliage throbs with palpable life, streams of light vibrate with saturated colors, and the streets are perpetually packed with graceful black bodies. It is a world where, regardless of the tyranny of fate, joy manages to always streak through.