While we mourned, we danced: On #EndSARS, Afrobeats & Grief
Many times what we need is something to carry us somewhere where all the death and loss recedes even for a little while
“The country is burning, both in dream and wakefulness” – Moyosore Orimoloye
In the middle of 2004, at the peak of his troubled, growling reign at the top of Nigeria pop, Eedris Abdulkareem released “Jaga Jaga”. Eedris made his name from being the sort of rapper who blurred the line between his mimicky raps and the biting social critiques that littered his works, but even by measure of all that had come before, “Jaga Jaga” was visceral. Opening the video for the single was a message, or maybe a warning, that what was about to be witnessed was the reality—and perhaps, if we paid attention, the future—of Nigeria’s trajectory. What he goes on to describe is a delineation of chaos, wanton destruction, and death that had people dancing from the creeks of the Niger Delta to the slums on the fringe of Lagos.
It is tempting to ascribe prescience to the musician’s work because in our nostalgia-tinged minds many people can conjure a Nigeria that appeared to worked in their childhoods and adolescence; so jarring was the vividness of “Jaga Jaga” that it seemed like a collage of scenes out of a post-apocalyptic re-imagination of Nigeria that seemed at odd with the realities of the country in that immediate moment. But even while the country appeared to work in walled-up silos, many felt the effect of a country more concerned with the optics of performance than it was with getting to work. What this means more than anything is that as some people’s lives crumbled, other people summoned their best impression of normalcy to keep at it like the country wasn’t on fire: carrying on with zest that comes from decades of practice, singing Eedris’ “Jaga Jaga” as some fantastical accompaniment to their disbelief, and hoping and praying that misfortune did not arrive at their doors while jamming to this polyrhythmic fusion of sounds and sonic markers that started to be called Afrobeats at the turn of the last decade.
When I say Nigeria was burning, I do not give into hyperbole. In October 2005, a plane fell out of the sky and plunged families into grief. In 2010, an armed militia launched an attack against a city in Northern Nigeria, marking the transmogrification of a beast into a soulless leviathan. Conversely, Wizkid was taking the first steps into the path of greatness that would lead him to an undisputed position of cultural infallibility. Davido would follow a year later as would Burna Boy. Two years later, a whole cultural movement was on the map powered by euphoric anthems about lust, partying, and its potent intersection. While this was unfolding, the country slipped onward and onward to an abyss, but we seemed committed to the idea that music was an escape and that, perhaps, if we lost ourselves in the pulse of our catchy music, it would be easier to work through the pain. And for a while, that tactic worked: pain as pleasure, pleasure as pain.
By the time #EndSARS came around in 2020, all our worries had been documented in songs that urged the elected class not to plunge the country into water or mused about the probability of 2010 as the promised year, or the increasing climate for violence in numerous parts of the country, and the violence that the state perpetuates against its citizenry. I guess what I am saying is that the protests were inevitable because no matter how hard you try to turn your away from disaster, no matter how hard you try to build your walls against it in a country that luxuriates in that brand of jeopardy, it still arrives at your doors, leaving you with sadness in your mouth and ruminations about what the future can look like.
For me, every #EndSARS protest ground I visited last year always represented an oasis of possibility in a disappearing climate for hope. There were flags, chatter, chanting camaraderie, and, as an act of propulsion, refreshments; and the request was simple: we would like to die no more. I also think the protests became about community and our belief that if we held each other’s hands securely, nothing would hurt us; that briefly, in these small circles, we became impervious to Nigeria’s less pleasant machinations. Under withering humidity, the people stretched their voices far beyond the natural limits of tired, weary minds and demanded that a police unit be scrapped and, not too far from their lips, was the wish that Nigeria would get out a rot. And when the rain came, we huddled beneath leaking stalls and whatever had a roof over its head, biding our time, and perfecting the quick bonds made at protest grounds with people we would probably not see again the next day.
At the protest grounds too, there was the miracle of sound. From my position on the fringes of the crowd, I watched in wonder as inauspicious murmurs on one end of the ground gradually passed through the crowd and warmed their lips till it became an unstoppable cascade of righteous fury. I also watched Afrobeats provide the melodies that lined the mouth of confused and angry protestors. Times without numbers, someone from somewhere in the crowd would break into cries of “Nigeria jaga jaga” and I must assume that it is easy to assume what follows. One time, at the Lagos state secretariat, the Lagos state governor tried to calm irate protesters and they turned on him, witheringly shouting back the words of “FEM”, Davido’s monster hit, to him. It was often music that provided a brief escape between the emotional strain of protesting, even as we protested the loss of our comrades, even when we were confronted with a rain of bullets as we protested the loss of our comrades. Even when we committed more of our lost comrades to earth, Afrobeats—or whatever you call Nigerian music—has been there as a protest chant, an elegy, and a firecracker.
Momentum carries, and two weeks into the protests, many young people I know who were plugged into the pulse of the Internet are carefully straddling the boundaries of optimism and pessimism. But we never stopped talking and raising our voices at protest grounds. Shouting and singing and disrupting and organising, we did it all and music was a weapon. Music, amongst many other things, was the weapon of the people in October. Not necessarily because it contained the words that spoke truth to power or because it enunciated our demands in the clearest terms possible, but because to shout of the words of a Nigerian pop song at a protest ground when the margins of one’s life is crumbling is an act of radicality that almost borders on political defiance in a country trying to neuter you.
On the night of October 20th, 2020, the Nigerian military shot at protesters at the toll gate and more than 100,000 people watched it live on Instagram. As they held hands and sang a medley of folk songs and pop music, we saw the Lekki Toll Plaza turn to a killing field that held the broken dreams of countless people. First came the quiet, the rage, and then the questioning of memory as we retreated to our houses and looked over what we lost and stood to gain. We grieved in private and via 140-character tweets that compressed our feelings into vignettes of anger and resignation. Then the president spoke and said nothing about the shootings and the humour poured out as we searched for tools to memorialize what happened. On a freestyle that later became a single, Burna Boy threads the political with the personal over the death of protesters that night, providing a tragic archiving of an event that shook many to their core. Days later, when DJs spin the track at places where bodies congregate, it elicits a little bobbing of the head first and then a sigh later.
When people talk about grief, not many speak about its ability to obscure time and its effects. It felt like a lifetime but nine days after soldiers shot citizens at the Lekki toll plaza, Wizkid dropped Made In Lagos. The culmination of a sonic journey that started with Sounds From The Other Side, Wizkid called on a phalanx of local and international talents to record an inspired body of work that attempted the nationwide equivalent of a TL cleanse. I cannot speak for everyone but among the people that I know, the tears were still falling but they felt something different to hurt and confusion when the warmth of Made In Lagos embraced them. Afrobeats is a genre that has allowed—required, even—its artists to abandon all constraints that are humanly plausible (grammatical, conceptual, and lyrically) and revel in the imagination of a good time, to stretch the elasticity of that creation till it merges with your immediate reality, even when the country is on fire, and especially when the whole nation is on the edge. I say this not to convince you that Made In Lagos profoundly rescued everyone that heard it from the gloom of an abominable disaster; more that, for many, it sat sad by side with their sadness till they gathered enough strength to attempt to work through its scars and the loss of youthful innocence.
No one who listens to Davido can call him a conscious musician by any stretch of the word. But even the most politically apathetic can become a tool for representation during taut times like this. It is incredulity, I think, that Davido felt the most at “FEM” becoming an anthem at the #EndSARS protests. There is no process to a pop diss song becoming the anthem of the people, but the song of the protests belongs to the protesters. Two weeks after Wizkid released Made In Lagos, Davido dropped A Better Time, his second maximal album in a twelve month span. It was not an album that met the moment, but it was of the moment, transforming pain and whatever tensions that lay at the core of Davido into boisterous pop anthems.
On A Better Time, “I Got A Friend” seems like a celebration of friendship and fraternity but if you listen closer what it really is a litany of obituaries reimagined as a beautiful mess of synths and thumbing basslines. And many times that was what it meant to live in the immediate aftermath of 20/10/20: to transform all that pain into fuel for whatever daily exercise that we define our identities against. For weeks after that date, I never went to bed without tears lining up my eyes and I can say the same for the people I call my own. Yet, I think that in those time of uncertainties, it was a welcome feeling to have two albums, wildly different in approach, that beckoned Nigerians to a light at the end of the tunnel; peddling a form of group therapy, even one that, at its most elemental, comes down to imagining all the things we can do to one another under the neon of a disco club.
It is the night of April 26th, and I am crying as I walk back to my home again. It could be the exhaustion of watching myself struggle with my mental health again but I think that, in that moment, I am sad because the people that are my friends are sad again and my friends are sad because they have lost someone who is their friend and, while dealing with that sadness, they have had to commit their friend to the earth before the sun set that day without the long drawn out goodbyes that grief demands. There is a hierarchy to mourning more often than not, but that night I wished all of the world would stop revolving and acknowledge the tragedy in my network, that my friends would cry without awkwardness because this country is devastation after devastation and I wonder what thing can help get my friends out of their despair.
What Lagos-based singer, YKB, sings about more than anything is rooted in joy or, perhaps more accurately, a long-winded elation that never stays dampened for too long. The sort of joy that can see friends through their toughest times and inspire a laugh and acknowledgement that we still have to go on. A few weeks after the night of April 26th, on Snapchat, I see my friends dancing to YKB’s latest freestyle in an open air party in Lagos and I am happy to see them breathe in the cool evening air that fills their lungs and live a little in spite of Nigeria, in spite of death, and, more importantly, because we have such little time left. I want all my niggas find a way to live with the grief that continues to locate us in this house of jeopardy. I want them to find the peace of mind that Rema sings about and if music is the tonic, so be it. The backdrop to grief doesn’t have to be grim, many times what we need is something to carry us to another place, not necessarily a better place, but somewhere where all the death and loss recedes even for a little while. A place where we are alive and fighting whatever demon needs to be fought, a place where my people are not broken.
@walenchi Is A Lagos-Based Writer Interested In The Intersection Of Popular Culture, Music, And Youth Lifestyle.
ICYMI: IN CONVERSATION WITH TOYE ARU, THE PRODUCER WITH AN AFFINITY FOR BIG SOUNDS
Shekhinah Returns With Surprise Album, ‘Less Trouble’
The South African R&B star is at her most assertive on her first album in four years.
South African R&B and Pop singer Shekhinah has released a new surprise album titled ‘Less Trouble.’ The Durban star, who had been quiet for most of the year, took to social media shortly before midnight to share the new album’s cover, synopsis, and tracklist, simply stating, ‘If you’re seeing this my album LESS TROUBLE is out now at Midnight,’ in an Instagram caption.
The soulful singer first began teasing ‘Less Trouble,’ her first album in over four years, about a year ago when she released its lead single “Risk,” a bouncy Afropop-inspired collab with Ghanaian star MOLIY. A few months after the release of “Risk,” she put out “Steady,” a dreamy pop number that suggested that something bigger was on the horizon. But then it was largely radio silence about a project until its surprise arrival at midnight.
If 2021’s ‘Trouble In Paradise’ represented a coming-of-age for Shekhinah, subsisting some of the dreamy, youthful exuberance of her debut album for more measured musings on themes like heartbreak and grief, ‘Less Trouble’ finds her at her most assertive, writing and singing with the acuity of someone who is grown, decisive and discerning. The delicate opener “Break Up Season” sets the tone for the rest of the album as she shows little tolerance for shady behaviour and toxic patterns.
Other standout cuts on the album like “Bare Minimum,” a sombre collab with fellow South African award-winning singer lordkez, the ethereal, in-your-face interlude “New Casanova,” and the percussive “What Are We,” where Shekhinah contemplates the nature of a relationship but ultimately demands all or nothing, all drive home a part of the album’s synopsis, which reads ‘A BOOK ON MORE HEARTBREAK BUT LESS HEARTACHE.’
Shekhinah invites a couple of new collaborators on ‘Less Trouble,’ featuring the aforementioned MOLIY and lordkez as well as multi-instrumentalist Mars Baby and Young Stunna across the album’s 11 tracks. Mpilo Shabangu handled the majority of the album’s production, while other producers like Michael Morare, her longtime collaborator, Mthintheki Mzizi, and Vuyo also contributed to the album.
Listen to ‘Less Trouble’ here.
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The NATIVE’s First Impressions Of Amaarae’s ‘Black Star’
‘Black Star’ marks another evolutionary arc for Amaarae, and The NATIVE team offer our thoughts after a...
Change has always been a constant theme in any discussion about the career of Ghanaian-American star, Amaarae. Since she emerged as a singular voice in the late 2010s, she has evolved from a sirenic Afropop-adjacent singer into a Punk-Pop firestarter with minimal fuss. ‘Fountain Baby,’ her 2023 sophomore album, was a sweeping departure from the lilting melodies and shapeshifing cadences of the hypnotic ‘The Angel You Don’t Know,’ emphasizing her commitment to charting new courses with her music.
In the lead-up to her new album, ‘Black Star,’ she has wholly embraced a Pop aesthetic and sheen that was reflected on the album’s promotional singles, “S.M.O.” and “Girlie-Pop!.” Now that the album has arrived, the singer has advised listeners not to go in expecting a continuation of the soundscape on ‘Fountain Baby.’ As keen followers of Amaarae’s career from its start, we are sure that ‘Black Star’ marks another evolutionary arc for her, and we offer our thoughts after a few listens.
WHAT WERE YOUR EXPECTATIONS OF AMAARAE GOING INTO THIS ALBUM?
Kemnachi: I had zero doubts that she would impress me again. Amaarae always comes correct. She is audacious with her choices, taking creative risks most artists would not dare to imagine, and somehow rendering them seamless, deliberate, and effortless. Her music has a way of enveloping me: it’s fluid, slightly dangerous, and yet irresistibly sensual. Every project feels like an immersive world she has curated down to the finest detail. With ‘Black Star,’ I knew it was not going to be a mere collection of songs but another meticulously constructed realm.
Bamise: I expected something fun, genre-bending, and sonically diverse in the fashion that Amaarae’s music typically is. I may have taken the album title a bit too literally, though, because listening made me realise I had an eye out for some Pan-African statements or something to spark discourse on African identity, but I didn’t quite catch any of that.
Boluwatife: Amaarae has largely delivered throughout her career, so I knew she was going to come correct again. She’s one of those forward-thinking artists who take the kind of risks most others wouldn’t, but she always manages to make it work. She’s proven to be a musical omnivore who constantly meshes her wide-ranging influences into something new, fluid, icy, and more often than not, sensual. I knew ‘Black Star’ wasn’t going to be any different.
WHAT SONGS STOOD OUT ON THE FIRST LISTEN?
Wale: I liked “Girlie-Pop!.” I feel like it captures Amaarae’s vision of pushing Afropop into the future. She’s also really grown comfortable with music and lyricism and will not dumb down her message for anybody. The instrumental for “Girlie-Pop!” is also a wonder; it’s so dense, but there are pockets for Amaarae to be emotive about her feelings. Top song!
Daniel Akins: I need to hear “B2B” at the next rave I’m at. Amaarae is in her Dance era, and I’m here for it. Kiss Me Thru The Phone pt 2” with PinkPantheress is the collaboration I knew I needed, and I’m glad they finally linked up. It’s a clear standout on the project; their ethereal style complements each other.
Shina: “B2B” was the one that did it for me. That is my favourite track on the project. The number of times I ran it back was unhealthy for a first listen. It was also really fun to catch the Don Toliver “Best You Had” sample. I need to hear this outside!
HOW WELL YOU THINK THE GUEST APPEARANCES ENHANCED THE LISTENING EXPERIENCE?
Israel: The guest features on Black Star aren’t mere flexes. They’re strategic, theatrical, and sometimes emotionally resonant. They enhance, yes, but they do so on Amaarae’s terms. A standout for me was PinkPantheress on “Kiss Me Thru The Phone pt 2.” The tradeoff is that a few songs feel like dazzling cameos rather than an integrated conversation, yet overall they enhance the album’s drama, texture, and bravado with precision.
Daniel Banjoko: Everyone showed up and delivered, no weak links here. Instead of just guest spots, they felt like vital pieces of a bigger puzzle. Charlie Wilson on “Dream Scenario” nailed his part especially, making the track sound exactly like its name promises.
Moore: The guest appearances on ‘Black Star’ feel very intentional; each one enhances the album’s world without overshadowing Amaarae’s vision. PinkPantheress’s signature airy delivery meshes with Amaarae’s experimental pop sound. Naomi Campbell’s commanding voice on “ms60” is an unexpected but powerful addition, adding drama to the track. Each feature feels carefully chosen.
WHAT SONG IS THE BIGGEST SKIP?
Bamise: Not to be a party pooper, but I don’t get the PinkPantheress collab, “Kiss Me Thru The Phone pt 2.” It feels like a PinkPantheress song with less pop in it, and just borrows the title of the iconic Soulja Boy song but has no other similarities. It’s between that and “ms60.” For me, the chorus of that sounds like something I’ve heard from Amaarae before, and I doubt its absence would have diminished the album.
Shina: I feel like biggest skip is a strong word for a solid project, but if I have to pick a song to skip, it’ll be “ms60.” I think it’s easily forgettable.
Wale: It’s hard to single out a song that stuck out to me, but hearing Naomi Campbell on “ms60” threw me off. It’s just too contrived to bear for me.
WHAT SONG HAS THE BIGGEST HIT POTENTIAL?
Boluwatife: My gut answer would probably be “She Is My Drug,” just because of how she beautifully reworks the melodies from Cher’s “Believe.” DJ remixes of this song could go crazy. But if I were to think a bit more logically, TikTok would probably lap up “Kiss Me Thru The Phone pt 2.”
Daniel Banjoko: “Kiss Me Thru the Phone pt 2” goes crazy. Amaarae and PinkPantheress are the perfect match. This collab feels like it was destined to happen, and it delivers in full. Honestly, I can’t believe it took this long, and now I just need more tracks from these two, ASAP.
Moore: “Kiss Me Thru The Phone pt 2” has the biggest hit potential on the album. The song has a nostalgic, sad party girl vibe that makes it appealing, and it’s also catchy and well-produced. PinkPantheress consistently performs well on platforms like TikTok, and her fanbase overlaps in a really interesting way with Amaarae’s. The collaboration feels organic and exciting, and will likely create a lot of buzz.
OVERALL FIRST IMPRESSIONS
Wale: There is a very visceral quality to how Amaarae expresses desire that I don’t hear very often in a lot of music. It’s abstracted and warped in futuristic textures, but it’s very profoundly human, and it’s always great to hear that even as she advances the sonics of her delivery. I do, however, have an issue with the thematic scope of ‘Black Star.’ I thought there would be overt references to her experiences of navigating her Ghanaian identity, but those references are limited to samples and interpolations. It’s still an incisive listen and a triumph for finding ways to advance music from Africa.
Bamise: It’s Amaarae; she can never go wrong. But for me, this is the album that excites me the least from her catalogue. Other than how bass-heavy some songs on the album are, like “S.M.O.” and “She Is My Drug” among others, it feels similar to other projects I’ve heard from her in a way that’s not exactly refreshing or mind-bending. I may have gotten spoiled by how diverse and eclectic Amaarae’s music tends to be, but I wanted more from her. I expected more gangster, Hip-Hop Amaarae. Thematically, I didn’t get anything that gives the Black Star of Ghana, or black stars are ruling the world. Will I listen again and enjoy every bit of it still, though? Yes, I will.
Shina: So first off, this is a solid body of work. I love the fact that Amaarae stuck with the Dance, Electro-Pop route she was going with throughout the album. The features also played their part, adding their unique touches to each record. I would say, though, a feature I would’ve loved to hear on this project is 070Shake. I think she would have been perfect on “100DRUM,” but we don’t always get what we want, do we? Thematically, I think Amaarae could’ve leaned heavily on her Ghanaian heritage, seeing as the title and cover of the album are a nod to that. Maybe Amaarae just wants us to dance, and that’s what I’m just gonna do, and you should too.
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Tems Partners With Hennessy For Leading Vibe Initiative
Launching in Lagos, Nigeria, this event pioneered by Tems marks the beginning of a continent-wide movement to...
In July, Tems announced the Leading Vibe Initiative (LVI) to support women in music and the creative space on their journey to make a mark in their fields and create space for other women in those industries. Born from Tems’ journey as a self-taught artist with a focus on driving change, the initiative offers training, mentorship, industry access, and community for women in music in Africa.
After a rigorous selection process for its inaugural cohort, Hennessy will join the two-time Grammy Award-winning star to celebrate the launch of the Leading Vibe (LVI) Initiative in Lagos, Nigeria. Held from August 8 to 9, 2025, the two-day event is the beginning of a bold new chapter in Hennessy’s long-standing commitment to music and culture in Africa.
“I’m excited to partner with Hennessy in bringing this initiative to life, supporting talented young women in music as they find their voices, embrace their power, and shape the future of the industry across Africa and beyond,” Tems said about the partnership.
The Leading Vibe Initiative aims to champion the next generation of female artists, producers, songwriters, and music professionals, increasing representation within all areas of music across the continent and beyond.
With Hennessy as lead partner, this ambitious program kicks off with an immersive event in Lagos featuring curated workshops, networking moments, and panel discussions led by top-tier talent from across the global and African music industries.
“Her vision, talent, and purpose align deeply with Hennessy’s legacy of championing those who push boundaries and redefine the world around them. We’re honored to support the Leading Vibe Initiative and to continue empowering African communities and cultures,” said Vincent Montalescot, Hennessy Global Chief Marketing Officer.
Hennessy’s partnership with Tems builds on the brand’s decades-long history of supporting music and artistic expression globally and on the continent. From Hip-Hop to Afrobeats, Hennessy continues to stand beside the artists and communities that shape culture.
In Africa, the Maison has deepened its commitment through meaningful initiatives like In the Paint and now, with the Leading Vibe Initiative, is taking a focused step toward amplifying women’s voices in music. With the Lagos launch as a powerful first step, the Leading Vibe Initiative will expand across Africa and globally, creating a cross-continental network of empowered women ready to shape the future of African music.
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