Inside the evolution of drill music in Nigeria’s capital city
"My brothers drilling in Abuja and I are the blueprint for drill music in Nigeria"
In a corner of Sheraton Hotels Abuja, the typically quiet Club Indigo bubbles. Inside, a young crowd feverously sings along as artist after artist comes on stage. Drill, the style of music inspiring this rapturous reaction, is different, heavy and loud, several sonic steps removed from the Afropop sound that rules the Nigerian airwaves.
It is an interesting crowd: Faces hidden behind balaclavas, baggy jeans with chains hanging from them, silk scarves covering neatly shaved heads, and metal jewellery glistening in the barely lit club. As the tempo picks up, shaking the room to its core, the crowd goes wild, lunging forward from the corners of the barely lit club as “Agbalagba,” the unofficial drill anthem, comes on. It is clear that this sound has found another home and is here to stay.
An offshoot of trap music and originally from the South Side of Chicago, drill has continued to gain popularity as one of the most prominent forms of rap music. Dating back to 2010, drill was popularised by key players such as Chief Keef and Lil Durk, who used the rap form to speak their truths with a stark honesty. In no time, drill music rose to prominence in Chicago, becoming the voice of the streets and making its way to the UK in mid-2012. It was here, in the slums of Brixton, that drill music was honed by rap groups like 67 (pronounced six, seven), 150 (now known as GBG) and 86, picking up a faster tempo, receiving a fundamental musical reupholstering, and ditching auto-tune to embrace a more loquacious style and rapid-fire yet malleable delivery, giving it the identity we are familiar with today. Rooted in the struggle-filled streets of inner city London, drill rap appeals to a demographic raised in deprived, crime-riddled areas. Its purpose? A form of expression for downtrodden neighbourhoods.
In 2017, when comedian-turned-rapper Michael Dapaah released his catchy, global hit single “Mans Not Hot,” under the alter ego Big Shaq, the internet caught on pretty quickly. Big Shaq had sampled a beat made by UK drill producers GottiOnEm and Mazza, which was first used by the drill group 86 on “Lurk,” and later by 67 on the track “Let’s Lurk.” With the official music video viewed over 400 million times on YouTube, Big Shaq’s record played a fundamental role in announcing the subgenre to the rest of the world, spreading this updated form of drill music beyond the UK, and catalysing its inventive adoption across the world, from the U.S.—via Brooklyn—to Africa.
In Ghana currently, rappers from Kumasi are putting their own spin on drill music, in a collective locally known as Asaaka boys. The underlying theme of their movement is survival and the want for a better life, which they continuously rap about in a mixture of Twi, Akan, deeply parochial slang and sprinkles of English. Ghana’s Asaaka boys connect with their audience by telling stories that are authentic and paint vivid pictures of their pain and struggles. Over in East Africa, Kenya’s drill scene is leading the pack, with groups like Buruklyn Boyz holding the streets of Nairobi hostage with their chilly and infectious interpretation of the sound. Their breakout song, “Nairobi,” managed to garner over a million views, with little to no promotion, a mere nine months after its release.
Currently the centre of the pop-oriented side of African music, Nigeria is home to a variety of fusion sounds and drill is finding its flavour amidst the potpourri. In the capital city of Abuja, drill rap is quickly becoming a soundtrack for the streets, with artistes personifying the sound and painting a vivid picture of their community via their lyrics. The primary appeal of this somewhat new sound is the relatable storytelling modified to suit a Nigerian audience while maintaining the original soul and feel of drill music. In addition to being an ideal medium for unbridled personal expression, drillers in the capital city rap about socio-economic issues like police brutality and corruption.
“My music is inspired by everyday life,” says rapper and NATIVE Fresh Meat alum Tomi Obanure, who describes his style as honest, brutal, gritty, witty and wicked. “I rap about the struggles I face where I come from. I talk about my wins as well as my losses. My music is like a diary for me; I rap about the things I’m influenced by, the things I want to achieve—I speak things into existence with my music.”
Nigerian music has always been versatile, but the impact of social media and streaming, as well as the profound effect of the alternative renaissance towards the end of the 2010s, has heightened that level of adaptability, allowing artists to create fusions of various genres. This feature enables drill rappers in Abuja to own the sound, despite its distinct sequence and imported origins, making it as Nigerian as possible without losing its essence. “As Burna Boy said, there is a kick and a base. This base—my base, is who I am. I am Nigerian so whatever influence I have from the outside culture is what I put on this base to create a kick,” says Eeskay.
In 2020, Eeskay released his signature hit song, “Agbalagba,” featuring fellow Abuja-based rap stalwart Odumodu Blvck. Today, the track still holds Abuja audiences spellbound, with fans singing along word for word at every live show. “Most times, people do not know what they like until you give it to them, so you have to make sure that when you deliver, you do it with your chest,” declares Odumodu who, interestingly, dreams of becoming a football coach. Like many other rappers, he considers drill a reflective tool, touching on real life experiences across the board. “We are on the streets, in the trenches, so it’s what we see that we say. I’m inspired by everyday life, so I rap about my reality. I just got out of jail, I spent the whole of last week in jail, and now I’m out. Obviously, I’m going to rap about it,” Odumodu explains.
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As with every nascent and burgeoning genre, there is an apparent intersection between drill music, fashion and the lifestyle which comes together to define the music scene. Rapper KVV explains that drill demands authenticity. “What we have going is beyond just the music, it extends into a culture that is carefully characterised by certain features such as the lingo and the fashion,” he says. Truly, for a subgenre such as drill to secure increased visibility in the Nigerian music terrain, an accompanying culture is required.
“Today, I’m wearing blue,” Odumodu Blvck tells me as he begins to make a point. The dynamic rap artist, who goes by the alias “Big Gun” and dabbles in grime, drill, and Afropop-inflected rap, is dressed in a white singlet, black jacket and blue tracksuit trousers. “Typically, I’d wear black, maybe wear a hoodie inside my jacket. If you see me on the streets, you see the way I move, you go sef go tench, say who be this guy?” It exemplifies the sense of identity that’s needed for a scene to become undeniably impactful, especially in a country where rap is consistently pressed to the margins.
From Legendary Styles’ “Looseguard (I See, I Saw)” to King Perryy and Psycho YP’s “YKTFV,” drill music has had spare moments of nationwide popularity. Beyond the virality of these songs, there needs to be sustainability and a ground game that keeps drill from being just a fad, and that’s the refreshing nature of the capital city’s drill unit. “My brothers drilling in Abuja and I are the blueprint for drill music in Nigeria,” Esskay boldly declares. It is clear that the music they make comes from a place of passion and a desire to tell their stories exactly the way it is, without mincing words. “My music is organic. I’ve never been forced or felt pressure to make music before. I just go ahead and do it. Most days, I’m sitting in my room for hours just making music,” KVV says.
Moving in a loose but tight-knit manner, there’s a strong sense of brotherhood among the drill rappers in Abuja, especially as drill music is still largely uncharted territory in Nigeria and as such, the growth is collective. Many songs are recorded from makeshift studios in their houses, but this does not affect the quality of music they put out in any way. Perhaps, this DIY trait is part of what’s attracting more listeners. Even with the growing fanbase, drill music still has some ways to go in captivating more Nigerian ears, with the expected pushback from ears attuned to and favouring local pop music formats, but that’s not detering Abuja drillers.
KVV believes that drill music has the range to beat the initial resistance and go on to become mainstream. “I feel like our collective cuts across a very big demographic,” he explains. “We have the ability to reach out to a large spectrum of people because drill music has different representatives. There’s drillers rapping about things Nigerians in the diaspora can relate to, there’s drillers making music for people who have lived in Nigeria all their lives,” KVV says. Clearly, drill rappers in the capital city believe strongly in the gospel of their music and are convinced that the future of drill heavily depends on how far the artists in the scene are prepared to go. “I see how drill can become a mainstay in Nigeria depending on the quality of the art we put out—the visuals, production—I think it can go as far as we want to take it,” says Tomi.
If you are new to the Abuja drill scene, here are five tracks from the capital city to bring you up to speed:
“Agbalagba” – Eeskay (feat. Odumodu Blvck)
“Midnight” – Tomi Obanure
“Ten Toes” – Anti World Gangsters (feat. Reeplay, Odumodu Blvck, Tomi & Femo)
“60 Seconds” – Eeskay
“Unruly” – AfroSelecta-BBK (feat. Odumodu Blvck, LAXY bbk, Eeskay)
ICYMI: READ OUR ‘SOUNDS FROM THIS SIDE’ DIGITAL COVER ON ASAKAA DRILL
NATIVE PREMIERE: Rigo Kamp Runs Ahead Of The Pack With The Visuals For “Marathon”
Rigo Kamp’s Marathon video is an intimate Afro-juju revival that pays homage to Sir Shina Peters and stamps...
Last Friday, Rigo Kamp, a NATIVE uNder alum and one of the architects of an equal parts nostalgic and refreshing sound released his self-titled debut EP, delivering a propulsive fusion of Alte, R&B, Funk, and Soul-infused rhythms.
Featuring previously released singles “Morning Sun” and “Summer”, the six-track eponymous EP executively produced by Odunsi The Engine sees Rigo lean heavily into his element as a sonic alchemist, jumping from silky falsettos to gritty grooves without losing an ounce of cohesion, and ultimately stamping the Abuja-born, Lagos-based singer-songwriter as a mad scientist of sound.
Just last November, Apple Music named Rigo Kamp as its Up Next artist, an acknowledgment that underscored his potential and confirmed what the tastemakers and underground scene already knew. Weeks later, he delivered an exhilarating live set for Spotify Fresh Finds in Lagos, proving he’s just as compelling live as he is in the studio.
On “Marathon”, the refreshing opener to the Rigo Kamp EP, Rigo borrows the bounce and swagger of Afro-Juju legend, Sir Shina Peters’ golden-era, fusing nostalgia with re-imagination to birth a vintage performance that feels like a private party for two, where it’s just Rigo, and you.
Get an exclusive first look at the video for Marathon here:
Listen to the Rigo Kamp EP:
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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.
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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.
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