When Banky W returned to Nigeria from the United States of America in 2009, he went about his music operation like a mob boss. With smoky videos, dark shades, trench coats, and an almost-impenetrable veneer, Banky seemed determined to reform the soundscape of Lagos with his silky R&B-influenced cuts and larger than life personality. To complete his vision of dominance, Banky W set about building one of the most formidable faculty in the music business at the time: in came Niyola, Shaydee, Skales, and, fatefully, Wizkid. It was time to conquer the zeitgeist. Thankfully, at that exact moment, Nigerian music was undergoing a silent evolution; the heads of Mo’Hits were travelling across the world, pushing for afropop’s global recognition; P’Square, still formidable, were already showing signs of the rancour that would ultimately lead to their split; and 2Face was stuck in creative purgatory as the chill reaction to The Unstoppable proved. All these opened a vacuum at the top for a musician who could merge pop relatability with a magnetic presence for the new generation of listeners who were looking out for someone to reflect their desires, tastes and lived experiences on wax.
Two days into 2010, Wizkid made his mark with “Holla At Your Boy,” a sunny, joyous pick-up hit that became an ubiquitous presence on radio and TV. Sporting his then-signature plaid shirts and jeans in the video for the single, Wizkid’s boyish charms eased the song about teenage romance into the mind of boys and girls across the country, instantly making him a cult hero. Being young was an added advantage for Ayodeji Balogun, as almost every Nigerian music superstar that arrived before Wizkid came on the scene fully-formed or at least with visible signs of the years spent trying to get to that pinnacle. Wizkid coming into the industry that early, made his connection with the crop of young listeners more genuine, laying the foundation for that fandom which we have seen mutate into a stan base over a decade later.
With each month that passed in 2010, Wizkid acquired copious cultural relevance and acclaim for his warm melodies and easy smile, and with the social media revolution penetrating Nigeria at precisely that time, his come-up was truly felt on a national scale. What truly endeared Wizkid to the Nigerian audience was his insouciant streak, in his hands, disparate threads of musical history – R&B, rap, reggae, and Fuji – were woven into a tapestry of sounds that seemed uniquely tailored for that specific moment in national history. The crystallization of Wizkid’s late teenage carefreeness was captured on his debut album, Superstar.
Coming more than one year after “Holla At Your Boy”, Superstar arrived with Wizkid established as a veritable superstar. The project explored the juxtaposition of his new position as an entree into the pantheon of Nigerian pop icons and life in the pre-Wizkid years. Clearly revelling in the attention and opulence that his success brought, Wizkid started the album in defiant fashion. “Say My Name” was a recognition of his position at the center of the new order and a promise to stretch his reach to the end of the world. Even lines about his prolificity are delivered mellifluously: “I keep pushing on, I no retire o/Till the day I die I’m on fire.”
While “Say My Name” was inspired by plans for the future, the song that followed it, “No Lele,” was a wispy look at the past and the experiences that shaped him. Born into a polygamous family and raised in and around the zanga, Wizkid’s worldview seemed to have been shaped by the disappointment and rejection that’s common in such situations all over the world. Memories of that disappointment spilled into “No Lele”, where he sings about making it against the odds and delivering the now-iconic line, “my music travel no visa.” Recognition where he was once rejected also provides fuel for his cathartic singing on “No Lele” as he quipped about being called the one in his ghetto. The same impulses that birthed “No Lele” produced “Oluwa Lo Ni”, where Wizkid hopped from thankfulness for making it in the ghetto to taking aim at hanger-ons taking the plaudits for his success.
Still, for all the personal gratification that success in his ghetto brought, Wizkid was being primed for mainstream success in the part of Nigeria that was not populated by ghettos. Part of the reasons his crossover appeal was successful was the sense of suaveness that Wizkid’s association with Banky W conferred on him. Art primarily reflects society, and Superstar, in some places, followed the formulaic narrative that the moneyed-up raps of M.I’s MI2: The Movie and Naeto C’s Super C Season set as the de-facto sound of pop that year. “Gidi Girl” was a classic R&B/hip-hop fusion even if Wizkid delivered both narrative and pathos on the song, mirroring the collapse of both genres into one another in the years to come. It’s a serviceable track that has become a cult classic in certain circles in the years since the album’s release but at that time it was the sort of “clean” songs that many parents would let their young wards listen to.
In many ways, girls are the central theme of Superstar. Wizkid croons about his attraction to them, pleads his case, and muses about their effect on them. Wizkid’s silver-toned voice and the playfulness just beneath his vocals makes the songs exciting enough to blast on cool afternoons. On “Love My Baby,” he makes the most grandiose promises, promising to treat his lover right. Many Nigerian songs before Wizkid’s songs were premised on women and affection also but, as with most of his earliest works, Wizkid’s interpretations of young love brought those songs into the modern era, accessorising songs about love with pointedly carnal lyrics and code speak that delighted the growing millennial generation he was speaking to.
For all of Banky W’s careful curation of Wizkid’s persona and his musical content, the singer was still a product of a Yoruba family raised in Surulere in the late ‘90s to early 2000s. This certainly meant a certain proximity to the music of Fuji modernizers like King Wasiu Ayinde Marshall, KS1 Malaika, and Saheed Osupa, and you can hear the influences in the music. “Pakurumo” found him melding the jubilant, polyrhythmic base of Fuji music with the cadence of modern pop music; it’s a masterpiece of rowdiness and chaos as Wizkid hops from the hedonistic to the political over the cheery instrumental, ending with the name-calling that makes Fuji a fizzing genre.
Long before he descended to a figure of scorn and bewilderment, Samklef was one of Nigerian music’s most inventive producers and despite just getting six production credits on Superstar, his essence is felt over the album even on songs where he is not credited. The most urgent songs on Superstar that add variety to Wizkid’s arsenal are a product of his forward-thinking dalliance with Samklef. “Slow Whine” is a clear-eyed pronunciation of what a typical Wizkid record would sound like as he grew into his stardom, turbo-charged with a delightful Banky W verse. Strategically placed near the center of the project, “Tease Me/Bad Guy” another Samklef placement, showed the sort of bombastic pop that would make Wizkid an ubiquitous presence on the chart in the two years that followed Superstar when he sauntered from song to song dishing out landmark-shifting verses to peers and elders.
It also helps to think of Superstar as Wizkid’s full-fledged E.M.E album; almost a quarter of the songs have a reference of sorts to the label that powered Wizkid’s rise to prominence, some songs are a swearing of his fealty while others are just glib, passing shoutouts. It works magnificently on “What You Wanna Do,” Wizkid lets us into the mechanics of a night out on the town and they involve him, Banky W, and Skales being in the building together and having as much fun as possible while songs from the label are on full blast. “E.M.E Boyz”, however, an alternate cut of “E.M.E” does not possess the same je ne sai quoi – the flows are rigid and there’s no nexus between Wizkid and his guests even if Masterkraft’s beat rises to the occasion.
The sequencing on Superstar is at best frenzied, moving rapidly between themes and ideas before building on them sufficiently but, in the middle of 2011, it worked partly because of Wizkid’s pull and the sheer anticipation for the album. Thematically, the only part of the album that stays consistent is its final quarter, capturing Wizkid at his most rhythmically adventurous as he crafted songs of loyalty and hedonism, hopping from a hard-hitting collaboration with Wande Coal (“For Me”) to the centerpiece of the project, “Wad Up.” If there was ever a quintessential grace-to-grace song on the album, it was this song that found Wizkid and D’Prince in inspired form; still melodious, Wizkid’s voice acquires a gloomy hue to reflect the seriousness of his misgiving about being underrated while D’Prince’s verse cut to the heart of his own personal tensions. Superstardom can be a very lonesome road and near its end, the album became about the people who make that road for Wizkid as he makes a series of dedication to his friends on “Shout Out,” bigging up pivotal figures like Banky W, Wande Coal, then-manager Osagie Osarenz, Ayo Banks, and Rotimi Rudeboy.
Superstar isn’t a concept album, but it does a good job of capturing the life of a 20-year-old in the thick of his visible and excitable upward mobility. Across 17 songs, Wizkid stretches his voice, singing about his grind, seeing the world, talking to his famous crushes, and winning the respect of all those who doubted him. He is clearly delighting in it but recounting it with clear-eyed sobriety. 10 years after, there is no album like Superstar. Wizkid was not necessarily interested in breaking down the thought process for his romantic affectations as he did so eloquently on last year’s Made In Lagos, in a fatalistic sense, it was an album moved by lust and a sneering sense of achievement that arrived at the perfect moment in the perfect city.
Almost every year since Superstar came, artists have come who appear to be projections of Wizkid, trying to conjure the nostalgia of songs like “Scatter The Floor” and “Don’t Dull – a fool’s errand. A lot of those songs are locked in a time capsule that is no longer accessible, perhaps even to the creator of the songs himself, but we are still saying Wizkid’s name ten years later, just like the first song on the album predicted.
@walenchi Is A Lagos-Based Writer Interested In The Intersection Of Popular Culture, Music, And Youth Lifestyle.
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.