Review: Black Sherif’s ‘The Villain I Never Was’
Black Sherif is unafraid to become the hero of his life
The current Black Sherif dominating global airwaves and the pre-fame Black Sherif who, nestled in the belly of Konogo, was seeking an audience with freestyles share a similarity: vulnerability. It’s a resonant ability to engage in a catharsis that pulls his listeners closer to himself. Take his three-year-old freestyle “Motivation” for instance. In the video, a 17-year-old Black Sherif, seated on cement blocks, is staring at the camera as he lays his vocals over a Highlife-influenced Pop beat filtering from an unseen speaker. In the freestyle, Black Sherif is pleading with the government and those fortunate enough to have better odds at life, to show consideration for the plight of citizens in the poor Ghanaian communities.
“If you no get money/Abeg give us motivation/Show me love and hold me down/That be all I dey want from you,” he sings. Black Sherif’s use of “us” is deliberate; he marks himself as one with the people, as one who understands their realities, pains and joys. He considers himself a voice for his people. “I feel like I am touching on spots that people used to not touch and I am being as raw and real as I can be,” the Ghanaian singer told GRM Daily. “I am being the voice of that boy outside, because I am from there, I am from the Zongo (ghetto).”
Raised by a large network of family relatives in Konogo in the Ashanti region of Ghana, Black Sherif, born Mohammed Ismail Sherif, chose a life on the streets, buoyed by a determination to carve his path and harken to the call of his destiny. His travails and experiences are the fertile soil that Blacko—as he is affectionately referred to by fans—feeds his words. His breakout singles “First Sermon” and “Second Sermon,” both odes to street life, capture Black Sherif’s energetic delivery and firebrand lyricism. On his debut album ‘The Villain I Never Was’, which shuffles past the previously planned ‘Road To The Tape’ EP, Black Sherif makes a personal catalogue of his journey and that of the people he holds close to his heart.
Before the grittiness of “First Sermon” and “Second Sermon,” there was the softness of “Cry for Me,” Black Sherif’s debut single. His Highlife influences colour the tone of his delivery and the mellow rhythm of the track. It was also the opening chapter of Black Sherif’s common-person personality. Although “Cry for Me” showed that Blacko was a talented singer, it was “Money” that brought him recognition in his home country. This time, Black Sherif took his Highlife style of delivery and layered it over a Hip-Hop beat as he sang about his desire to escape poverty. On the remix, which features Ghanaian acts AMG Armani and Tulenkey, the latter makes a pronouncement, “Sherif, you go make am/E be time.” Less than a year later, “First Sermon” and “Second Sermon” were released and now, Black Sherif’s ghetto gospel is gaining massive appeal around the world.
“I’m at my down-est in life/And I’ll be homeless for a while/I know it’s unbelievable/Cause I had a home a few days ago,” Black Sherif reveals on the album’s opening track “The Homeless Song.” It is a striking revelation because no one could have imagined a homeless Black Sherif amid the acclaim trailing his music. But it is an example of the honesty Blacko has embraced all through his career. Ever the optimist, he reiterates that although he might fall, he will always get back on his feet, channelling the emotions from “45,” where he sings, “If I fail, I needed that/I’ll come back stronger.”
Defiant is one word to describe Black Sherif’s attitude in his music. Whether he is narrating personal pains on “Kwaku The Traveller” or collective trauma on “Soja,” Black Sherif informs the listener that he refuses to back away and settle for less. On the former, which was released in March, he owns his mistakes with the quotable—“Of course I fucked up/Who never fuck up hands in the air, no hands?” On the latter, where he recognises that he is not the only person in the world with struggles, he calls on listeners not to let the darkness of life overwhelm them. “No, I go dey run my race/I’m gonna keep my pace/Cause I really have no one to blame when I fall again/I can’t stand this pain/I can’t watch me fail,” he raps on “Kwaku The Traveller.”
That defiance even shows up when Blacko is having a great time. As he celebrates his victories on “Oil In My Head,” he chips, “Man don’t stay down when man fall/I get up and come for more.” On the equally jubilant “We Up,” he sings, “On God I trust no man/I lost few mandem to the game I was close to my grave I fell in a trap/But you know man don’t stay down.” It is a trait that Black Sherif honed while in the Zongo settlements in Konongo, one of the roughest areas in Ghana.
Since the days when Nigeria and Ghana began sharing cultural influences through music and other forms, there have been conversations about both country’s music industries and Nigeria’s dominance in the African music scene. From the issue of Nigerian songs topping music charts in Ghana to the most recent Global Citizen Festival, where headliner Usher called three Nigerian acts (Oxlade, Tiwa Savage and Pheelz) to the stage during his performance, Nigerians and Ghanaians are engaged in constant battle. In the media tour for “Kwaku The Traveller,” Black Sherif favoured collaboration. He visited media houses in Lagos and was featured on shows of Nigerian content creators, helping “Kwaku The Traveller” become the first Ghanaian song to debut at number one on the TurnTable Top 50 Chart.
“I don’t smile when I take pictures most of the time,” Black Sherif told OkayAfrica. “We are sad boys because there is nothing to laugh about.” The melancholy in his music is in alliance with the current crop of melancholy-driven sound permeating the African music space. Last year, Black Sherif released “Ankonam,” whose title translates as a loner; on the track, he evokes a sobering mood about sadness. On ‘The Villian I Never Was,’ he makes a tribute to the disciples of melancholy with “Sad Boys Don’t Fold.” Contrary to the solemnness of “Ankonam,” the energy on “Sad Boys Don’t Fold” is upbeat as Black Sherif paints himself as “the man who’s always been sad and ballin’ every day.”
He brings that melancholy to “Oh Paradise,” as it contends with the song’s bright horn blasts. Dedicated to his late girlfriend who passed away in 2017, Black Sherif revives memories of their time together and expresses frustrations at the good times that they never shared. “Sleep well my lover/I will be fine my lover/And my love for you’ll be forever,” he sings. Delivered mostly in his native Twi, he consoles himself with the belief that she is in heaven and begs her to ask for blessings on his behalf.
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Since he entered the music industry, Black Sherif has never hidden his admiration for the Asakaa Boys, the Ghanaian Hip-Hop group who, in 2020, bolstered the rise of Drill in their home country. Borrowing from the Chicago-originated sound, which was adopted and evolved in the UK, then commercially elevated by the late American rapper Pop Smoke, the Asakaa Boys—made up of O’Kenneth, Jay Bahd, Kawabanga, Cedi City Boy, Reggie, Kwaku DMC, Sean Lifer, Rabby Jones and Braa Benk—spun their unique experiences on the sound’s characteristic hard baseline and inspired a new generation of artists. Black Sherif and fellow Ghanaian artist Yaw Tog are some of the popular names on Ghana’s Drill scene.
On ‘The Villian I Never Was’, Black Sherif utilises Drill for “Sad Boys Don’t Fold,” “Konongo Zongo,” “Wasteman,” “Oh Paradise” and the Burna Boy-featuring “Second Sermon (Remix).” A self-acclaimed street preacher, Black Sherif pays homage to his roots on “Konongo Zongo,” as he revisits tough decisions he made in the past. He remains on the streets of Konogo and offers a peek into the life of one of its inhabitants on “Wasteman,” giving details about the pressures that many youths in improvised communities face. On “Second Sermon (Remix),” which was released last year and helped Black Sherif’s rise, Nigerian artist Burna Boy gives colour to the certified street banger.
There are not a lot of love songs in Black Sherif’s discography. Before ‘The Villian I Never Was,’ there was only 2020’s “Mariana.” On the album, there are three: “Toxic Love City,” “Don’t Forget Me” and “Oh Paradise.” Like “Oh Paradise,” there is a dark streak to “Toxic Love City.” On the song, Black Sherif admits his unwillingness to let go of a romantic partner who brings out the worst in him. He wants to leave but he is unsure if someone else will accept him. Between a known evil and an unknown good, he chooses the former. The vibe on the Reggae-influenced “Don’t Forget Me” is healthier, though. He opens up to his loved one, requesting that they spend time together before he inevitably leaves and goes into the world to hustle.
On the production side of ‘The Villain I Never Was,’ Black Sherif sticks with Ghanaian Stallion (“Second Sermon (Remix)”) and Joker nharnah (“The Homeless Song,” “Soja,” “Prey Da Youngsta,” “Konongo Zongo,” “Toxic Love City” and “Kwaku the Traveller”). He also makes space for new collaborators—London (“We Up” and “Don’t Forget Me”), Samsney (“Oh Paradise”), JAE5 (“45”), WhYJay & LiTek (“Oil in my Head” and “Wasteman”), AoD and RNDM (“Oil in my Head”) and Zaylor & Dystinkt Beats (“Sad Boys Don’t Fold”). These producers, diverse in style, cook a potpourri of sounds that offer magnificent uniformity on several listens.
While the production list is crowded, the guest list is not. It is a Black Sherif show, with only Burna Boy disrupting the flow, right at the end. The track list shares the individuality of Omah Lay’s ‘Boy Alone,’ another debut album from the African continent that does not have a crowded guest list. The album’s cover art, which bears similarity to Eminem’s ‘The Eminem Show’, places Black Sherif firmly in the spotlight. ‘The Villain I Never Was’ is Blacko’s diary, where he pens his pains and aspirations and victories. Although he might make mistakes, he is willing to own them while he creates his world. He is unafraid to become the hero of his life.
Stream ‘The Villain I Never Was’ below.
Featured image credits/NATIVE
ICYMI: READ OUR REVIEW OF OMAH LAY’S ‘BOY ALONE’
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:
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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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