In 2020, a 23-year-old honey-toned artist appeared on the radar for Afropop lovers. Asides coming from the bubbling Port Harcourt scene, almost nothing was known about his person. The music had obvious appeal though, its many qualities helmed by a saccharine voice and incredibly aware songwriting. “Bad Influence” and “You” constructed the myth of Stanley Omah Didia, pushing him onto the attentive gaze of a lovelorn generation during the saddest time of our collective history.
To his credit, Omah Lay marked his breakout year with ‘Get Layd,’ a project suffused with delightful sonic pairings. “Lo Lo” and “Ye Ye Ye” cushioned the earlier pair of singles, while “Damn” went on to become a smash hit. R&B seemed to be an inspiration for his emo-heavy subjects, but the artist still carried the throbbing of Port Harcourts’s social life into his distinct sound.
These peculiarities mark Omah Lay as a standout student of his class, and the willingness to release projects is even more admirable. His sophomore EP, ‘What Have We Done?’, from November of the same year, may not have had the same instant cultural cache as its predecessors but the project reaffirmed the ascendant superstar’s unique ability to touch the core of his person, closely and without editing, while turning out a hit as monstrous as“Godly”. Rawness best describes that quality, but Omah Lay manages a kind of refinement, sketching where another artist would flagrantly paint.
Word about his debut album began spreading since late last year. Its forthcoming release was welcomed as the next step in his well-oiled career, since Omah Lay has conquered the terrain of two EP’s while becoming a darling of the streaming era. When he collaborated with Justin Beiber for early 2022 single “Attention,” that only served to amplify his burgeoning global status while coinciding with the run of a worldwide tour.
This hints at the album being a longstanding project, shifting through the motions of the artist’s ever-changing life. The pre-album releases of “Understand” and “Woman” were produced by Tempoe and P.Priime respectively, who are perhaps two of the biggest influencers of the new school sound—despite the current legal tiff. You know that sound when you hear it: minimal, mid-tempo, and easily folded into the singer’s melodies.
Understandably, both records were hits. Then Omah Lay announced the album this July, following up on the trend of utilising short rollout periods in order to maximise impact. That release day when it dropped, it sure felt like a full circle moment: here was this dreadlocked youth whose come-up we had witnessed, now sporting a full head of hair and his debut album. A number of recent social media posts reveal that perspective of having come into his own; where he was once reserved, now he speaks with cutting edge. “My depression became worse after I had sex with my therapist,” he wrote in one, deftly influencing people onto the vibe of his debut album.
In basic terms, ‘Boy Alone’ is about mental health and hedonism. That, however, undersells the sonic pleasures that’s essential in its success as a debut project. We’ve always parsed Omah Lay through the eyes of a lyricist, a conveyor of moments that aren’t easy to capture in words. The sweaty stuff of rooms and the gritty feel of streets are windows of the house he’s the architect of. Under his supervision, though, ‘Boy Alone’ offers way more lyrically and thematically.
The production is the immediate standout of the album. In an industry full of mid tempo beats, it’s obvious that Omah Lay goes for the originals. Each fourteen song is richly layered in an individual scale, closely attuned to the unconventional movements of the artist. Together, they’re splattered onto a broad canvas of a buttery percussive base. Occasionally, as on “i’m a mess” and “purple song,” there’s an emo feel radiating its centre, utilising mood-centric guitars to create a tender atmosphere. The duo of “never forget” and “soso” brilliantly pick up the pace, helping conduct the album’s rhythm at crucial moments.
Everything set up, Omah Lay coasts over each beat like a veteran sailor. Never mind that he’s been in our faces just a little over two years, he expertly charts an expansive and cohesive tale of young existence. He’s most interested in flipping melancholy on its many sides, showing the listener the associative tendencies of his mind. The paradox of getting high when he’s low is just one of them; Omah Lay makes the most interesting connections, witty as he is blunt, balancing both qualities with remarkable mastery.
The album begins on an aspirational note. “Only the real fit recognize/ Only the ship wey believe e no go capsize,” he sings in the opening lyrics of “recognize”, keeping the runtime minimal as he effortlessly enters “i”. He’s even more aware of his grind here, utilising its winding second verse to urge more freedom and “dance from night till the morning.” Even though the sounds are soft, they’re very affirmative records which set the mood for the album’s somewhat militant nature.
Further along, songs like “temptations” and “never forget” uphold his resolve to memory. It’s typical that having gone through a battle, one would have mental scars which, poked a little, could unleash a barrage of images. The former ebbs towards a lover, honestly recalling the times when his toxic lifestyle punished her tenderness. “In all of these temptations wey dey inside my life, you still hold me strong,” he sings with affectionate clarity, further painting her unconditional love while sketching vignettes of not keeping up with his own family. It’s a vulnerable portrait many young men would be familiar with, given how closely its trajectory resembles life.
“never forget” flips the gaze outwards, situating Omah Lay in the role of communal observer. A touch of groove lingers in the keys, but the mood is decidedly pensive and with undertones of the oil-related violence that’s rife in his native South. In the very first line he identifies his roots, going on to rep his Marine Base in Port Harcourt while warning, “I know love is war.” The repeated chants of “I’ll never forget” which make up the bridge precede a slight change in the song’s tempo, its percussions sped up as Omah Lay kicks off an exciting rhyme scheme with his second verse. His knickering came “way before Michael Jackson sing Billie Jean,” and in his ending lines he affirms, “my eyes don see the things, ordinary person like you no go believe it/ It’s why I’m cold and shivering; so I hide my pains, my blow, my misery.”
Omah Lay threads a number of traumatic experiences throughout ‘Boy Alone.’ In between, the revelry otherwise popular in African music is present, but there’s always some greyness lurking around. “i’m a mess” is the most impressionist among this sub-category, offering a damning assessment of the artist’s mind state. He makes a case for his celebrity (“How many million I make for a living?”) but knows it’s ultimately a veneer that’ll slip off once he’s alone and face to face with familiar demons. On “how to luv,” he’s forthcoming about the desire to love and reside in the moment, but even then the mask reappears when he admits “But I no believe say you go fit to solve my issues,” and then later on, cheekily inserting, “I get the spirit of ashewo.”
This spirit emerges in full glare on “bend you” and “woman,” which, by far, are the most sultry songs on the album. The last single pre-album release, “woman” has an understated quality, using metaphors like rubber band to suggest certain levels of intimacy. “bend you” is quite arrogant in its boldness: just few lines in, Omah Lay sings about liking panties from River Jordan and elsewhere, constructing a comically wise aphorism when he sings, “I hit that pussy motor accident/Road wey lead to happy ending, e no dey hard to kill person.” Such writing is reminiscent of “Ye Ye Ye,” upholding the name of Omah Lay as one of the better descriptors of insanely great coitus.
Through it all, it’s important to know that sex isn’t Omah’s end game. Those minutes are a pleasurable escape from the shackles of his own depression, and the duo of “safe haven” and “soso” are adept conduits for his unfettered honesty. Quite the closer, “purple song” finds the young man running through a list of possible rift areas, and yet entreating his lover not to let him go. “Only my water fit cool your soul,” he sings with calm assurance, deftly working a sexual suggestion into that and the lyric, “only your mouth fit lick my soup.” Tay Iwar on “tell everybody” infuses his signature feathery touch, but even then his host threads the salacious path. Along with Beiber on “Attention”, they’re the project’s only guests, contributing to the lived-in perspective of ‘Boy Alone.’
Among the new vanguard of Afropop superstars, the skill level of one’s lyricism is a hot topic. In such discussions, Omah Lay’s name is never far off. He’s the quintessential street poet, readily collapsing eras of linguistic inventiveness into the structure of a verse. ‘Boy Alone’ is a dazzling showcase of his ingenuity.
Ditching literary detail for cultural nuance, he’s highly adaptive of everyday terms and locations. He references Port Harcourt severally, spicing the songs with the narrative acumen that’s immediately audible in the music of his statesmen Burna Boy and Ajebo Hustlers. He’s most reminiscent of Duncan Mighty when he sings in Ikwerre, drawing from a deep well of inspiration while pairing those with influences elsewhere. Sometimes Omah Lay sounds closer to Drake than Celestine Ukwu, the legendary Highlife musician whose band his grandfather played in. The associative rhythms of the coastal genre, though, supplies a tribal grandeur to his otherwise polished beats, portending a well-balanced mix.
Omah Lay’s voice is also an instrument of wonder. In default mode, it takes a lithe and reserved form. He’s however able to contort it into anything else, whether as a silver-tongued seductor (“bend you”), a cry-in-the-rain R&B disciple (“temptations”) or rap-leaning lyricist (“never forget”). A lot of things in life can be predictable, but Omah Lay’s delivery isn’t one of those. Reading his lyrics without sound offers insight into his unorthodox structures, but not the nuance of his Ikwerre-inflected adlibs which, more often than not, form the catchiest sections of a record.
‘Boy Alone’ is a memorable debut album. Every part of it fits into the breathtaking whole, one of the very first mainstream albums from Nigeria to dissect the phenomena of mental health on this scale. Since releasing “Do Not Disturb” in 2019, Omah Lay has always stood out; with these fourteen songs, he stands out even more visibly. Having attracted the focus of an entire generation two years ago, here he allies closely with the thoughts of their mind and the motivations of their heart. Still, ‘Boy Alone’ is a personal work. It’s as personal as the title suggests, and Omah Lay, making art from the sprawling details of youthful existence, might just have created a classic Afropop album. The resolve of that assertion would be tested by time, but right now this album surely ranks among the most important offerings of 2022.
From working her way out of London’s Myatt’s Field, Tanika is now setting her sights on the bright lights...
Across a career that's in its second decade, Tanika has proven to be a force in her own right, holding her...
Across a career that’s in its second decade, Tanika has proven to be a force in her own right, holding her own on collaborations with Black British stars like Stormzy and Wretch 32, as well as popular record producer Naughty Boy–working with the Grammy-nominated beatmaker on his acclaimed ‘Hotel Cabana’ album.
Following a stint as an actor, she returned to the studio in 2021, releasing a new extended play, ‘333,’ in 2023. The project carried all the hallmarks of Tanika at her tantalising best: lilting cadences, well-paced narratives, a songwriting that reaches for the heart of the matter.
On her latest song, “Fast Fwd,” she’s growing into her own and stepping into a new era. In many ways, “Fast Fwd,” a hypnotic, sultry anthem, is landing just in time for summer revelry. Produced by her longtime collaborator, Naughty Boy, her silky vocals land effortlessly on the mid-tempo instrumental and pulsates with her desire for her love interest.
Joined on the song by her fiancé, Kida Kudz, they make an interesting duo and replicate the synergy they had on “Nobody,” off Kudz’s 2021 ‘Top Memba.’ Distinctively marked by use of neon lights, the video for the song captures the effervescence of romance that Tanika hums about throughout the song.
From working her way out of London’s Myatt’s Field to becoming a star with millions of streams, Tanika is now setting her sights on the bright lights of superstardom. Ahead of the official release of the single, we had a brief chat with Tanika about her career, the influences for “Fast Fwd,” and working with KIda Kudz on it.
Her answers, which follow below, have been lightly edited for clarity.
How would you describe where you are in your career right now?
I’m just enjoying the journey.
What does the release of “Fast Fwd” signify for you?
It signifies love.
Why is Kida Kudz a fit for the song? (
To be honest, we didn’t plan to do another song together. I have worked on two records with him before (“Nobody” and “Tasty Time” ) but we never thought to shoot a video for it.. “Fast Fwd” felt like a real testimony of our present moment in the relationship.
You’ve worked extensively with Naughty Boy and he’s helped with “Fast Fwd,” what’s your relationship like and why does it work?
Naughty Boy knows me very well. We’ve known one another for over 10 years, so he knows what fits me musically. We gel. I think him knowing me and being a fan of Kida’s music made it all work. Naughty Boy does his listening before he makes a beat for you. A lot of producers don’t really understand the importance of knowing the artist musically but he does.
What were you aiming for with the video?
To be honest, I’m aiming for nothing. I’m just enjoying the journey. It’s been a very long road and I know I still have a long way to go.
Dutch textile brand Vlisco recently unveiled its latest campaign ‘The Garden Of Sisterhood,’ as part of...
Dutch textile brand Vlisco recently unveiled its latest campaign ‘The Garden Of Sisterhood,’ as part of its women’s month celebration. The campaign, which looks to extend Vlisco’s rich legacy in African fashion and its ongoing celebration of creativity and cultural storytelling, takes inspiration from Congolese musical icon Fally Ipupa’s latest single, “Mayanga.” The song’s accompanyingmusic video was shot in the Ivory Coast, and seamlessly balances Ipupa’s signature soulful Rumba music with intricate floral motifs and soft, elegant colour palettes that celebrate the strength and individuality that blossoms through community.
In addition to Fally Ipupa, Vlisco also tapped up Ivorian fashion designer Loza Maléombho and Nigerian director Daniel Obasi to contribute to ‘The Garden Of Sisterhood’ campaign. Maléombho’s unique designs and Obasi’s striking storytelling helped contribute to actualising Vlisco’s distinct aesthetic and vision of merging heritage, creativity and fashion.
In a statement discussing the collaboration with Vlisco, the Congolese superstar described it as a beautiful experience. “They understood my vision of working with talented artists and honouring the beautiful women who wear Vlisco fabrics. By creating exclusive designs for me and the remarkable women in the cast, Vlisco really brought our artistic vision to life, harmoniously fusing music and fashion,” he said.
Similarly, Marlou van Engelen, the creative director of Vlisco, expressed that it was an honour working with Fally Ipupa. “His song ‘MAYANGA’ perfectly reflects our admiration for the women who shaped us, inspire us, and mean so much to us. For us, it’s not just about fashion; it’s about the stories told through our beautiful prints. And I believe the best stories are always told together,” she said in a statement.
Having worked across every area in Nigeria’s sprawling music scene, T.G Omori’s lore has taken on an...
There are two types of producers in the industry: those who approach the art with a keen sense of...
There are two types of producers in the industry: those who approach the art with a keen sense of business—they know how to sniff out opportunities, and are generally aware of industry-wide trends and currents—and those who set the tone, who set the standards. The latter group is the animating force of the industry, TG Omori says in a 2022 interview with Korty EO. During the interview, he’s slouched in his seat, framed against the backdrop of a grand piano, wearing a bandana, dark shades, and a silk Hawaiian shirt—the first few buttons undone to reveal a glistening silver chain. In the intervening moments—fractions of a second—before Korty responds to the loaded assertion he just trotted out, the air is thick with balmy anticipation and nervous excitement “Which group do you belong to?” She asks, lancing the tense air that had inflated sharply like a balloon. “Me? Which group do you think I belong to?” He fires back, his mouth drawn into a smile.
Music video production, is at its heart, an art form that is significantly beholden to the vision and whims of the music artist and label executives. Music video directors—rightly—have to walk the tightrope between sufficiently distilling the essence of a song into a video and managing the desires and whims of an artist and their representatives. The problem, however, is that in between all of this, there’s often little wiggle room for the director to execute his ideas significantly. The result is often a situation where the music video director becomes diminished from an artist to a little more than an artisan. TG Omori, however, has in his long career railed against this. There’s no doubt that like his peers he has to straddle the demands of the song and the vision of his clients, but he does this without effacing his distinctive creative language. He has a fluency in packing his work with heady joy, a joy that pervades and steadies Nigerian society despite the many challenges it’s faced with.
TG Omori stumbled into music video direction by chance. He had been struggling as an actor, begging directors for roles as an extra—his skits and sketches from this period are still available on the internet—when it dawned on him that achieving success as a performing act was incredibly difficult. He noticed that a lot of upcoming actors were struggling to get by and often had to abase themselves in the process of currying favors with directors. The role of film director slowly started to worm its way into his heart, driving a wedge between him and his acting aspirations. Finally won over, he made the pivot to filmmaking, eventually settling on music video direction on account of its relative ease.
His early works lack his distinctive style, instead taking inspiration from directors before him. Consider YCee’s “My Side” which he directed in 2018. The video opens with YCee perched atop a high-rise building. The colors are muted, contrasting his current works which generously deploy bright hues and saturated lighting. There’s a gorgeous scene where YCee is framed against a wall with slits. Shafts of light stream in from behind him, creating a transcendent portrayal of an animated silhouette enveloped in light. The entire video evokes the elevated minimalism of Moe Musa. Think of the opening scene where YCee saunters atop a high-rise building, it’s a motif that has been deployed countless times by Nigerian directors, but something about that scene—the minimalism of the setting juxtaposed with dynamic camera movements—brings to mind Moe Musa’s video for Olamide’s “Bobo.”
While his early works lack his signature–the distinctive exuberance we’ve come to know him for–they hold kernels of what would come to be. Even in the muted ambiance of “My Side,”we see an early iteration of the pristinely dynamic camera movements that sweep through his oeuvre. In the video of Olamide, Wizkid & ID Cabasa’s “Totori,” released in 2019, his directional language starts to take form. He was contracted at the last minute to film the video—he had less than a day to come up with a concept, marshal his crew and steward the logistical aspect of the shoot, and yet in this pressure cannon, a gem was formed.
The video contains just one main scene—one of the few vestiges of the shoot’s hurried nature. We see Wizkid and Olamide encircled by an energetic crowd. A circle of dark bodies sways to the beat, handkerchiefs flailing in the air. We also see the flamboyant lighting that has come to define TG Omori’s work. There are light sources outside the frame but the scene itself is illuminated by a clever array of light sources. Moving headlights cut through clouds of smoke, LED lights and tungsten bulbs of varying colors suffuse the atmosphere with warm iridescence. The effect is the feeling of being transported to a rave. What’s perhaps most striking about this video is that, having been hastily formulated, it contains a single scene, and yet not one minute of it feels boring or repetitive.
Having worked across virtually every area in Nigeria’s sprawling music scene T.G Omori’s lore has taken on an almost mythic quality over the years. However, nowhere is his impact more pronounced than in the Nigerian Street-Pop scene. Today, Street-Pop has largely ridden itself of its underground status. Artists like Seyi Vibez, Shallipopi, and Asake imperiously lord over charts in the country, each boldly raising the banner of their respective cities and hoods. But this wasn’t always the case. In Afropop’s early days, Street-Pop was relegated to the margins, sneered at by industry gatekeepers for its brash flourishes, even though the mainstream routinely tapped it for inspiration. By the early 2010s a new generation of Street-Pop acts—Olamide, Phyno, and Reminisce amongst others—would elevate Street-Pop’s profile to historic heights. But it still maintained an insidiously tense relationship with the mainstream.
The first signs of an industry-wide shift–the shift that has blossomed into Street-Pop’s hegemony today–arrived in 2019 at the height of the Zanku movement. The addition of “movement” underscores just how significant Zanku was. On one front, it’s the title of Zlatan’s titular 2018 hit and an acronym for the phrase “Zlatan Abeg No Kill Us.” But it’s also used to denote a distinct flavor of Street-Pop characterized by skittering drums, cascading percussion, and a laissez-faire style of delivery—heralded in late 2018 by Street-Pop folk heroes like Zlatan, Chinko Ekun, and Naira Marley.
When culture critics reminisce on the Zanku era, the focus is usually on the artists who spearheaded it, but T.G Omori’s contributions to that period of Street-Pop’s ascendancy are impossible to ignore. While the artists shaped the sounds and dance steps that defined its grassroots appeal, it was T.G Omori who gave it its distinctive aesthetic. His early collaborations with Zlatan—most notably on “Shotan” and “Bolanle” offered a template for how the videos of the era could be presented on screen: hyper-stylized yet rooted in the whimsical chaos of street culture. His use of slow motion, jump cuts, and dynamic tracking shots turned what would otherwise be yet another ephemeral trend in Afropop’s dynamic history into a cinematic experience that embodied the feeling of the era.
His video of Naira Marley’s “Soapy” is especially telling. Arriving in the wake of Naira Marley’s arrest by Nigeria’s anti-graft agency, the Economic and Financial Crimes Commision (E.F.C.C.), the video very cleverly satirizes the experience, framing him, as well as others who were arrested alongside him—Zlatan and Rahman Jago, amongst others—as heroes as opposed to criminals. It’s important to grasp the significance of this. Street-Pop acts had always been treated with suspicion. There almost seemed to be a tacit consensus that regardless of their success or status, they mirrored an unsavory part of society, and so they deserved the asterisk that seemed to loom over their every move. The arrest of Naira Marley and his posse only served to further strengthen this narrative. TG Omori’s video, however, spun an alternative narrative, a hagiography perhaps, from this fraught situation. The video opens with annotated mugshots of the group, their names tacked onto each mugshot. Through TG Omori’s lens, prison becomes transformed from a place of despondency to a sanctuary where friends happily muck around, regaling themselves with games and bubbly dancing.
TG Omori’s influence in shaping emerging sonic movements extends beyond the Zanku era. It’s impossible to recount Asake’s rise without considering the video director’s input. 2022 marked Asake’s singular and meteoric rise to fame. His music blurred the boundaries of genres, creating an amorphous sound spread across the continent with intensity. His ascendancy also broke the boundaries between Street-Pop and mainstream Afropop, marking the dawn of a new era. TG Omori played a pivotal part in Asake’s early days, crafting a freewheeling visual aesthetic to match Asake’s disposition for subversion. In the video of Asake’s “Peace Be Unto You,” we see his freewheeling ethos at its peak. The song’s themes span faith, hustle, success, and street credibility. In the hands of a lesser director, the video would have followed the familiar script of a grass-to-grace narrative. TG Omori, however, rejected that cliché in favor of a more abstract approach.
Each of the themes explored in the song is distilled to a representative scene, the scenes are then cleverly stitched into a brilliant whole. The opening sequence sees Asake on a motorcycle, a formation of riders trailing behind him. As he rips through the freeway, doting fans wave and scream in adulation. Watching this scene, one is tangibly enveloped in the feeling of street credibility, the sense of ascendancy, that Asake explores in the song. It’s poignant and symbolic, conveying the essence of the song in a manner that would be difficult to achieve with a literal narrative. Similarly, the video of Seyi Vibez’s “Shaolin,” TG Omori’s inaugural work following a health-induced break, defies any discernible narrative logic in favor of a freewheeling approach. The video’s boisterous energy almost seems like a bold assertion of his continued reign; as if to say “I’m back like I never left.”
In August of 2024, through a series of heart-wrenching videos, as well as tweets, TG Omori let the public in on his health challenges. In a tweet, he revealed that his only brother gave him a kidney, so he could live again. He revealed that the transplant failed and, later, brought on thoughts of mortality. In one harrowing photo he posted on his Instagram stories, he’s hooked to a life support machine, the words “I don’t want to die” superimposed on the image. In the intervening moments, prayers and well-wishes poured in from all corners of social media. In recent months, however, he appears to be in better health and has fully thrust himself back into work, with “Shaolin” being the first of many projects he has lined up.
Eight years after his directorial debut, he remains not just relevant, but the frontman in an industry that’s as cut-throat as it gets. It’s uncommon in Nigeria’s music scene—for a video director to maintain this level of dominance for nearly a decade into the game. It’s his fidelity to subversion and his unique perspective on the art of videography that has earned him his position as Nigeria’s foremost video director. To watch a TG Omori video is to be transported into a world of his creation: where the sun pulses with exuberance, foliage throbs with palpable life, streams of light vibrate with saturated colors, and the streets are perpetually packed with graceful black bodies. It is a world where, regardless of the tyranny of fate, joy manages to always streak through.