Davido, Zlatan & the thrill of adlibs in Nigerian music
No one can be sure what they all mean, but they're provocative
Were you really into Nigerian music in the late ‘00s if “Yes, Boss!” wasn’t a part of your lexicon? With the opening words of his smash single, “Kini Big Deal”, Naeto C instantly entered himself into pop culture lingo, through a phrase that served as an initial identifier of his presence and quickly morphed into everyday slang. Over subsequent years, Naeto constantly invoked the same phrase across his songs and on feature appearances, a small but important ritual during the supreme era his rap superstardom.
Without any exaggeration, “Yes, Boss!” is one of the most iconic adlibs to have graced Nigerian music, a tag Naeto used with liberty and to great effect—both as a familiar intro and as embellishments to his flossy raps (see: “Ako Mi Ti Poju”). Broadly speaking, an adlib is a catchphrase worked into a song based on the artist’s discretion. Usually, the songwriting process involves primary concerns like lyric writing and melody composition, however, layers of spontaneous vocals are stacked around the main body of the song while recording. It’s during this secondary stage that artists throw in corresponding harmonies, backing chants, adlibs and other elements deemed fit in making the song fuller and ready for public listening.
These days, adlibs have become a permanent fixture in global pop music, especially as hip-hop has become the epicentre of pop culture over the last three decades. It’s not that hip-hop pioneered the use of adlibs, but it is undeniably responsible in popularising its usage. In fact, adlibs can be traced all the way back to the spirit-filled hollering that accompanied the singing of worship songs in Black churches. For secular purposes, though, vocal scats in jazz music can be pointed to as a jump-off point, a lineage that can be traced to the visceral yelps of James Brown and several other artists in the heyday of Funk in the ‘60s and ‘70s.
With jazz and funk as important early threads in its sonic fabric, it makes sense that hip-hop not only adopted adlibs, but also evolved the range of its usage in music. While emphasis remains its priority, rap music has effectively expanded the way adlibs can be used in song, affording artists a myriad of imaginative ways to employ them. In the ‘90s, adlibs were mostly limited to “yeah”, “uhh” and other simple monosyllabic word and sounds. Over two decades later, coinciding with the American South taking control of Hip-Hop’s steering wheel, adlibs have become delightfully complex and constantly innovative. This phenomenon was bound to impact Nigerian music, considering its extensive relationship with American Rap music.
No external cultural phenomenon has had – and continues to have – a more profound effect on modern-day Nigerian pop music than hip-hop. In the mid to late ‘90s, considered as the foundation days of the latest, ongoing renaissance in Nigerian music, a significant portion of the music created within the country’s shores were vivid cosplays of rap hits, and those that weren’t, made no attempts to hide their fascination with, and the direct inspiration of, hip-hop’s musical and cultural ethos.
Over the next two decades, Nigerian pop music would consistently morph into an amorphous, boundless and multi-coloured organism, through constant sonic experimentation that places it in greater touch with older parochial musical styles such as highlife, fuji, varying styles of traditional folk and more, while sourcing out influences from around the continent and across the world. Notwithstanding, the bond with hip-hop has never been downplayed, as a cultural ally in the continued push for increased global visibility, and as a consistent stylistic influence. With this context in mind, it was only a matter of when, not if, Nigerian music would go on to co-opt Hip-Hop’s innovative adlib ethos.
The main narrative concerning the classic status Naeto C’s “Kini Big Deal” is the suave, refreshing edge it immediately brought into Nigerian music—both rap and in general. While that’s an irrefutable fact, the song’s instant impact didn’t happen in a vacuum. Around its 2007 release was the ringtone era, where Swag rap held the hip-hop terrain in a chokehold. With T.I, Lil Wayne, Kanye West, Jeezy and Soulja Boy—all important to the evolution of adlibs—amongst the most popular rap artists alive at the time, that period in rap was significantly defined by bold, chanted hooks and catchphrases, sometimes wordless, meant to stick in the listener’s head after a few listens. “Kini Big Deal” is not the definitive first example of adlib use in Nigerian music but, alongside Naeto’s long list of bangers, it coins on those elements it’s a memorable one to point at.
In the same way it grew into itself after initially importing hip-hop’s mannerisms, Nigerian music has evolved its own distinct sense of adlib usage, ensuring that it isn’t entirely beholden to its external inspiration. A big part of that comes from adlib use being increasingly rooted in present-day, parochial slang amongst Nigerians. Closing out 2017 as one of the hottest songs around, Mr Real’s smash hit, “Legbegbe”, was infamously based on an attempted theft incident involving actor Seun Egbegbe, who tried to pull off a heist of twelve iPhones in Lagos’ bustling Computer Village. The song itself is built on a simple call-and-response hook, where the repeated chants of “Legbegbe” could also qualify as adlibs.
As with everything in contemporary Nigerian pop music, it’s undeniable that street-bred music has been at the cutting edge of adlib usage, especially in the last few years. Before then, though, adlibs were very well in use, from Davido’s “Shekpe” (which he still uses till today), to the time when Wizkid used to yell “Yaga” at every given opportunity. However, what’s made adlibs in Nigerian music more pronounced and especially thrilling in the wake of Street Hop’s now-permanent mainstream presence, is its unrelenting inventiveness and the sprawling scope of its usage.
Last year, DJ Kaywise brought together Mayorkun, Naira Marley and Zlatan for “What Type Of Dance”, a street banger that would have been a bigger smash if not for the pandemic. The song found Mayorkun in his usual feature-killer bag, delivering snappy melodies and catchy lyrics, while Naira Marley turns in a typically intoxicating, raunchy verse, but there’s an argument for Zlatan’s boisterous involvement as the song’s wildcard element. All through “WTOD”, Zlatan’s penchant for throwing around adlibs with reckless abandon takes some precedent, as he growls, yells, moans, and repeats lyrics even in parts where he isn’t the primary vocalist. It’s the type of noise in a song that should be annoying, but once you hear it, it’s impossible to hear the song without the uncontrolled madness.
Generally speaking, it is impossible to discuss the recent innovativeness of adlibs in Nigerian music without mentioning Zlatan. In the years since breaking out with “Zanku (Legwork)” and the show-stealing verse on Chinko Ekun’s “Able God”, the rapper has been one of the best connoisseurs of both spontaneous and signature tags, including “Kapaichumarichupaco”, “Astalavi, give dem!” and “Ayiiii”. Besides the intensely introspective moment in his catalogue, Zlatan’s commitment to adlibs is clear and unwavering, often filling the spaces between his energetic rap delivery with as many personal tags and infectious sounds as possible.
Even with Beyoncé hitting the Zanku last summer, and the consistent roll of smash street hop songs that continues to dominate Nigerian music, there are still sceptics still sticking with the idea of a downwind in the fortune of the current wave of Street-bred music. The argument is that musical styles attached to dances can’t be anything more than fads, which has some merit from a historical standpoint. The current reality, though, is that street hop is constantly evolving while also sticking to its roots, by seeking out new musical sources to refresh the sound and letting street lingo influence its lyricism and adlib usage. Rexxie and Mohbad’s “KPK”, for example, is an Amapiano-inspired banger packed with slang already recognised by its primary audience: the Streets.
The same way it has drastically affected the sound of mainstream, Street Hop has directly contributed to the role of adlibs in Nigerian pop music. One of the catchiest and most recognisable adlibs in Nigerian music at the moment is Mayorkun’s playful intonation of “ge-ge”, an invocation of “This bread no be Agege”, a widely known slang popularised by the popstar. In a prosperous 2020, which saw him evolve into a more magnetic superstar via a few singles and show-stealing features, Mayorkun displayed a supreme grasp of the use of adlibs, whether it was in the embellishing low growls of the ultra-groovy, Grime-inspired “Geng”, or on the Amapiano cut “Of Lagos”, which primarily consisted of the self-aggrandising adlib, “of lay lay”.
On the Davido-headlining “The Best”, Mayorkun got Wande Coal to throw in a high-pitched adlib that instantly added flavour to an already impeccable verse. Like he declared on that song, he learnt from the best, Davido, and as singular as his adlib usage is, the DMW boss seems like a worthy inspiration. Over the very nearly decade-long run of his superstardom, Davido has made it a habit to fill every space in his songs, sometimes even throwing in onomatopoeias where lyrics are conventionally meant to be, as in his smash song “Dami Duro”.
Without a doubt, “Shekpe” is his most recognisable signature adlib till date, a tag he’s invoked even when he seems less boisterous than usual. These days, he’s experimenting with newer adlibs, like he recently did on his standout appearance on Focalistic’s “Ke Star (Remix)”. Opening the song, he chants “ko wole” (“it didn’t enter”), punctuating it with dismissive declarations of “nibo”, which translates into “where”. He then goes on to casually yell “Tule jare”, a phrase he popularised last December after rumours of a physical altercation with Burna Boy, in Ghana, surfaced online. Personally, the video of him yelling “Tule” into the camera seemed absurd—“why the noise”, I thought—but hearing it on “Ke Star (Remix)” was delightful, and I wouldn’t mind hearing it more often on wax, alongside recently popularised slangs like “E choke” and “who dey breathe”.
The truth is, adlibs make songs catchier and more memorable. While the potential widespread likeability of a song depends on several other factors, like the sonic makeup, the thematic writing, and melodic execution, but adlibs make songs fuller and can even end up being the song’s main draw. It’s impossible to think of Rema’s “Lady” without remembering “Achukuleke”, or imagine “Woman” without the energetic sections of seeming gibberish that the Mavin wunderkind explained as “Bini lamba”. No one can really know what every adlib is, but they’re provocative when done right, almost daring you to not break into dance or at least sing along, because forgetting them is simply not an option.
@dennisadepeter is a staff writer at the NATIVE
ICYMI: WHY NIGERIAN POP MUSIC LEFT THE STREETS
South African House Duo, Black Motion, Return With Rhythmic “Khululeka”
The SA house music pioneers are back with a deeply moving and rhythmic new release.
South African house music pioneers, Black Motion, are back with a deeply moving and rhythmic new release titled “Khululeka.” True to its meaning in isiZulu— “be free” or “find peace”—this track is an anthem of liberation, urging listeners to let go, embrace love, and heal through the power of music.
With their signature percussion-driven melodies and the soul-stirring vocal chants of King Monopoly, “Khululeka” transcends the dancefloor. It is a spiritual and emotional journey, carrying an energy that is both uplifting and transformative. Whether in personal reflection or in the collective movement of a crowd, the song invites listeners to surrender to its message and rediscover love—both within and around them.
Since their formation in 2010 in Soshanguve, Black Motion—made up of Murdah Bongz (born Robert Mahosana), and Thabo (born Roy Thabo Mabogwane)—has become a dominant force in global house music. Their debut single, “Banane Mavoko,” put them on the map, and their albums, including the gold-certified Fortune Teller and the platinum-selling Ya Badimo, have cemented their status as pioneers of the genre. Their collaborations with artists like Oskido and Black Coffee, along with accolades such as multiple South African Music Awards (SAMAs), have solidified their place at the forefront of African electronic music.
Over the years, Black Motion has partnered with brands like Ballantine’s, Sony Xperia, and Coke Studio, and they are looking to partner with more under their new label Intascore, expanding their influence beyond music. With a combined social media reach of over 2.2 million followers, their music resonates with audiences worldwide, uniting people through rhythm, culture, and movement.
Keep reading...
KEMENA FINDS BALANCE
Following the release of '888', Kemena reflects on artistic evolution, self-acceptance, and balancing...
A little over two weeks after the release of his first project of 2025, Kemena and I sat down to discuss the joys of creating art, the clarity that powers ‘888,’ and the freedom he found in surrendering to his path. Even though we were speaking virtually, his presence feels steady. He is speaking with the quiet confidence that defines his music–intentional yet fluid, deeply personal yet resonant. Over the years, his artistry has evolved, shaped by a desire for creative independence and the pressures of an industry that often demands compromise.
With ‘888,’ Kemena has reclaimed his space. The project neither chases the mainstream nor rejects it; instead, it exists on its terms, rooted in self-assurance. Across seven tracks, he weaves through stories with a sharp lyrical style and layered production, a testament to an artist fully in tune with his craft. In many ways, ‘888’ feels like an arrival—not to the commercial peak the industry might expect, but to something more valuable: a place of artistic certainty.
Standout tracks like “Rainy Day” and “Bola” remind you that Kemena is a storyteller in more ways than one. On “Rainy Day” he flexes his production prowess but the summery vibe of the song does not blunt the sentimentality of his lyricism. With “Bola,” Kemena taps into his element, deploying witty puns and his brilliant approach of social commentary and “I’m not mad, just hungry” is as relatable as it is envy-worthy—to be so intertwined with a lover that they can complete your lines.
Totaling seven tracks with a runtime of 16 minutes, ‘888’ is brief but expansive, a collection of ruminative thoughts, nimble melodies, and declarations of self-assurance. There is no hesitance in Kemena’s voice when he speaks about the album, no lingering doubt about whether he made the right choices, which is the same confidence he’s communicating in “You don’t need me”. ‘888’ is the product of someone who knows who they are and, more importantly, knows that they do not have to prove it to anyone. From the powerful declaration of “I Will Never” to the easy groove of “Evelyn’s Vibration,” the album takes you on a journey. It is a return to himself, a rekindling of the mindset he had before industry expectations clouded his creative instincts. It is also reminiscent of ‘Bond,’ the project that first put him on the radar of music lovers.
“I made ‘Bond’ as a student,” he reflected during our conversation. “I wasn’t trying to be anything. I just wanted to make music. And then all of a sudden, people started calling me—people I never expected. That was how I got into songwriting for other artists. But somewhere along the line, I forgot what it felt like to make music just because I wanted to.” When I asked him how he found his way back, his answer was certain: “I stopped overthinking. I just made what felt right.”
Our conversation, lightly edited, follows.
‘888’ just dropped. How are you feeling?
I feel cool. It’s been nice. I feel like a celebrity, to be honest. I’ve done a couple of interviews already, and I feel like I’m saying the same thing over and over again. But that’s a good thing, right?
‘888’ feels different from ‘Guitars and Malaria.’ Did you approach this project differently?
‘888’ feels like me making music the way I want to again. With ‘Guitars and Malaria,’ there were a lot of industry conversations and people saying, “Work with this guy, collaborate with that person, do this to make the music more commercial.” I don’t regret making that album, but looking back, I think I was trying to fit into something instead of just being myself. I wouldn’t say I lost myself completely but, I lost the balance between the business and my authenticity. I started to feel like my music wasn’t valid unless it was getting industry attention. And for a while, I was chasing that. I was doing what I thought I should be doing, instead of what I wanted to do. I had to learn that I’m probably a project artist. I needed to stop feeling like my music wasn’t enough just because it wasn’t ‘blowing up.’
I started thinking about why people liked ‘Bond’ and, back then, I wasn’t overthinking it. I was a student just making music because I loved it. I wasn’t trying to force anything. But then, suddenly, things started happening—I started getting calls from people I never expected. That’s actually how I got into songwriting for other artists. People in the industry heard ‘Bond,’ reached out, and asked me to write for them. And before I knew it, I was deep in that world. But in the process, I started to forget what it felt like to just make music for me.
Was there a specific moment that made you realize you needed to return to that authenticity?
Yeah. At some point, I just stopped overthinking. I realized [that] I didn’t have to prove anything to anyone. I didn’t have to chase industry validation. I could just make what felt right. That’s where ‘888’ came from.
One of the things that stands out about your music is how it feels both deeply personal and universally relatable. Do your lyrics come from lived experiences?
Not exactly. I think the way my music is put together—the energy, the emotions—is influenced by what I’m going through at the time. But the actual content? Almost none of it comes from my personal life. I don’t write songs like, “Oh, this happened to me, let me put it in a song.” Instead, I take a feeling, a perspective, or something I’ve observed and build a fictional story around it. I also like humor. I like to be witty, to play with words in a way that feels natural but unexpected. That’s always been part of my music.
That makes sense. Your lyrics often have a layered meaning like they say one thing on the surface, but there’s a deeper story underneath.
Exactly. I like to phrase things in ways that make people stop and think. I want someone to hear a line and go, “I’ve thought about this before, but I never knew how to put it into words.” Or sometimes, I just want the music to feel good. It doesn’t always have to make sense, it just has to resonate.
Would you say that’s why artists like Omah Lay and Jon Bellion resonate with you? Because they do something similar with their songwriting?
Yes! Jon Bellion especially. His music is almost like sermons sometimes. He says things in a way that makes you pause and reflect. Like in “Conversations with My Wife,” when he sings, “What if all the things I’ve done were just attempts at earning love? Cause the hole inside my heart is stupid deep” That’s the kind of songwriting that gets to me. That’s such a simple way to express love. He could have said it in a hundred different ways, but he chose that one. That’s what I admire. Not just what they’re saying, but how they say it.
That approach is very present in your music, especially in ‘888.’ What’s your favorite lyrical moment on the album?
It’s a conversation. It’s not one person talking. On ‘I will never,’ there’s this part where one voice says, “The things you want for me, I want it too. The things you like for me, I like it too.” And then another voice—almost like a god-like figure—responds: “Hope you know that I would never say something I don’t mean.” That moment feels special to me. It’s basically a prayer, but I don’t like to box my lyrics in, I keep it open-ended.
With the album it feels like you weren’t just making music but you were reclaiming something. Would you say this project is a turning point for you?
Yes, I think so. It’s not my first turning point, though. ‘Bond’ was the first one. ‘Bond’ was the project that put me in rooms I never expected to be in. Before that, I was just a student making music. Then, suddenly, people were calling me—people I respected. That was how I got into songwriting for other artists. But then, in trying to navigate that world, I lost a bit of myself. ‘Guitars and Malaria’ was me trying to find that balance, and ‘888’ is me realizing that I don’t have to balance anything, I just have to be.
You’ve mentioned that you’re at peace with not chasing commercial success. Is there a part of you that wants mainstream recognition?
If it comes, great. But I’m not going to force it. I know how the game works. I’ve written for big artists, so I know the kind of songs that work in that space. And if I wanted to, I could sit down and make those songs. I could make music that fits neatly into what’s trending. But that’s not why I do this.
Does songwriting for other artists help you keep your music pure?
Yes! That’s a big part of it. Since I also write and produce for other artists, I don’t have to rely on my music to pay my bills. That takes a lot of pressure off. It means I can release what I want, when I want, without thinking, “Will this chart? Will this go viral?”
That freedom must be refreshing.
It is and it’s why I don’t overthink my releases anymore. I’m constantly creating. So when something feels ready, I put it out. I don’t have to wait for industry validation or the “perfect” timing.
What does that mean for the future? More projects?
A lot more. I’ve realized that my way forward is to just keep giving. The Lord has put me in a position where I can create without stress, so that’s what I’m going to do. No long breaks. No holding back. I’ll just keep releasing.
What is the biggest takeaway from ‘888’ for you?
That you don’t have to force anything. Whether it’s love, creativity, or success—what’s meant for you will come when you’re aligned with yourself. And if you have to fight too hard to keep something, maybe it was never really yours to begin with.
Keep reading...
Afropop is the love child of its many influences
In a reversal of events at the turn of the 2000s, Afropop is profoundly reshaping the texture of music...
Over the last two and a half years, some of Afropop’s biggest stars have denounced the genre to advance their personal agendas. In a wide-ranging interview from 2023 with Apple Music’s Zane Lowe just ahead of the release of his last album, ‘I Told Them…,’ Burna Boy derided Afrobeats for a perceived lack of contextual subject matter. “Afrobeats, as people call it, it’s mostly about nothing, literally nothing,” he said. “There’s no substance to it. Nobody’s talking about anything. It’s just a great time, it’s an amazing time. But at the end of the day, life is not an amazing time.”
Just a few months later, Nigerian music superstar, Wizkid, also disavowed the genre, claiming that he was not an Afrobeats act and that his then-forthcoming album, ‘Morayo,’ would not be an Afrobeats album as he considered the genre – and the classification it infers – too limiting for the type of music he made. Predictably, fans were incensed by both artists’ stances and the casual dismissal of the genre that their statements invited. What was almost lost in the whirlwind of that discourse is that for all the attempts to capture the totality of African music under the loaded ‘Afrobeats’ label, African music has never been just one thing; and, in that spirit, Afrobeats itself has always been all-welcoming of a multiplicity of influences and styles.
From its earliest iteration, Afropop has always been a potpourri of sounds that took influences from various parts of the Black diaspora and distilled them with an African sensibility. The work of early Afrobeats pioneers like Junior and Pretty is a direct descendant of the burgeoning Hip-Hop blueprint of the ‘80s; while the early 2000s popularity of Ajegunle-based rabble-rousers like Daddy Showkey, Danfo Drivers, and African China occurred tangentially to the rising profile of Reggae on a global scale. The mid-2000s to early 2010s saw the arrival of several dulcet-toned singers like Banky W and Tiwa Savage rooted in the R&B and Soul traditions, introducing a slicker dimension to Nigerian popular music. As always, homegrown stars adapted these foreign styles for their own market while continuing to work on a distinctive style that centered genuine indigenous expression and ingenuity.
Over the years, the fruit of those experiments has ripened to produce a scene that’s bustling with life and talent. As the genre has attained global attention, many sub-genres have come to the fore, showcasing the depth of African music on a global scale. If Wizkid’s sonorous melodies and unbeatable charisma made him the sun of Afrobeats in the 2010s, Olamide’s militaristic bars and Pop anthems rooted in their street sensibilities mark him out as the genre’s moon. It was on Oamide’s back that a nascent indigenous rap circuit rested. Taking the mantle of DaGrin, the Bariga-raised rapper who helped institutionalize rapping in Nigerian languages with cult classics like “Eni Duro” and “Voice Of The Street.” Along with the effort of other stars like Reminisce, Phyno, Lil Kesh, and CDQ, the indigenous rap movement gained steam and, recognizing the Nigerian market’s zest for melodies, soon morphed into Street-Pop, a distinct hybridization of local genres like Fuji, Apala, and Highlife.
Inspired by the work of their forebearers, a new crop of artists have taken Street-Pop to new heights. Zlatan and Naira Marley served as a transitory generation; together with Rexxie, they patented a more melodic take on Street-Pop while infusing a devil-may-care disposition that launched them to the top of Nigerian music. It is fitting that Olamide was the one to hand the baton to Asake, the biggest Street-Pop star of the moment. Similar to the YBNL head’s legendary album run, Asake has released three albums and one extended play in three years, each coming out to a world paying more and more attention to his work. Impressively, Asake has also established himself as a global touring star, regularly playing sold out arena concerts across the world with a music style that is rooted in Yoruba oral tradition.
Asake is not spreading the Street-Pop gospel alone, though. Ikorodu star, Seyi Vibez, has also grabbed mainstream attention for his gritty take on the genre. Initially a divisive figure, his 2023 song, “Different Pattern,” saw him reach a new level of cultural relevance in 2024 and his new extended play, ‘Children Of Africa,’ arrived in February 2025, marking a new era in his career. The yearning for a reclamation of cultural heritage that has created a Street-Pop golden era has not evaded other parts of Nigeria. Shallipopi’s drawling, sprawled-out sound mimics the playful pulse of South-South pidgin while Jeriq, hailing from Nigeria’s South-East, has emerged as one of Nigeria’s most acclaimed rappers. Outside Nigeria, there’s a yearning in Ghana to preserve the purity and history of its Highlife genre, an elemental component of Afrobeats. British-Ghanaian producer, Juls’, ‘PALMWINE DIARIES’ and ‘High Life Sessions,’ both pulsate with the beguiling riffs of the storied genre while the work of Nigerian brother-duo, The Cavemen, is reintroducing Eastern Nigerian highlife to a new generation of listeners.
A youth-led zest for exploration outside the framework of Afropop has also produced a sub-culture that rejects the tenets of mainstream conservatism. Beginning as a band of friends and collaborators who prioritized freewheeling experimentation, Alte music has emerged as one of the most important sonic evolutions of the last two decades. First championed by OG pioneers like DRB Lasgidi, LOS, and Show Dem Camp, the Alte community drew in left-field thinkers and madcap auteurs setting the stage for a new generation of stars to emerge from the depths of SoundCloud circa 2016. In the hands of stars like Odunsi (The Engine), Cruel Santino, and Lady Donli, the Alte experiment reached an unprecedented level of critical and commercial success.
Odunsi’s ‘rare.,’ throbbing with influences from ‘70s Disco and Funk, sits in the canon of great Nigerian debuts and Lady Donli’s ‘Enjoy Your Life’ artfully melded Folk music with Afrobeat and Soul across its 15 tracks. Taken along with the work of producers like GMK and Genio Bambino, these acts built a community that successfully created the blueprint for a sound that reflected the tensions and joys of younger Nigerians who saw life in a specific fashion. It even took flight beyond the borders of Nigeria with a young Amaarae cutting her teeth working alongside some of the most prominent names in the Alte community. The inventiveness and clarity of vision that the community prioritises is evident across both of the Ghanaian-American artist’s albums, ‘The Angel You Don’t Know’ and ‘Fountain Baby.’
In a reversal of events at the turn of the 2000s when Afropop was heavily influenced by outside sounds and genres, music from the continent is profoundly reshaping the texture of music outside its borders. Much like how the Windrush Generation and other immigrants from the West Indies helped to introduce Britain to Reggae, Dancehall and Soca, generations of African immigrants are making music that signals their African heritage, with Afropop as a base influence. The rise in popularity of African sounds has helped UK artists mesh the lingo and sonics from the continent into their work, creating a new genre referred to as Afroswing. Taking influences from Afrobeat, Dancehall, and Grime, Afroswing is distinctive for its use of lyrics from Africa with British rapper, J Hus, credited as one of its pioneers. Songs like J Hus’ “Did You See,” Ramz’s “Barking,” and Not3s’s “Aladdin” signal to the sound of the homeland and speak to Afrobeats’ incredible stride to global popularity as a base reference point for global Black music.
Nearly a decade out from “One Dance,” the Drake, Wizkid, and Kyla collab that pushed Afropop into a different stratosphere, the genre is in safe hands with several stars emerging across different sub-genres that speak to our past, present and future. It is perhaps more than the pioneers imagined when they were making music all those years ago, but all the roads have led here to Afropop being a global sensation that offers various forms of expression to a watching world. There are no limitations on what can be done within the genre, that sense of open-endedness and possibility was always our strength, and it’s why Afropop will stand the test of time.
Keep reading...
