I started listening to the radio in 2009, the summer Akin’s family moved to America.
My first radio, a Coca-Cola branded radio-hat was a souvenir I got at the World Cup trophy display in Lagos. South Africa was hosting the FIFA World Cup next year, and the radio-hat was what I had on my head, sullen, as Akin told me, Uncle Kenny had just brought him back from picking up his approved visa.
Though I already owned a cell phone before that, I still say ‘my first radio’ with nostalgia, because this was still 2009 Nigeria, and the first approved private radio station hadn’t even been around for up to two decades.
After Akin moved away, I suddenly had nothing to do or anybody to do it with; TV got boring quick, video games offered no respite. Akin had not only been my best friend, but we both loved music. Cable TV was gradually gaining popularity in the mid to late 2000s, so by default, our favourites were: Akon, G-Unit, Black Eyed Peas, Ludacris and whoever else filtered through MTV or pirated VCDs collections of latest music videos from all over the world.
Because this was also the era of Nigeria’s CD boom, Styl Plus, 2face, PSquare, 9ice, Olu Maintain, Lord of Ajasa, DaGrin, Wande Coal, D’banj and others all formed a major part of our process. With Uncle Kenny as our litmus for what’s hot or not—whether it played on MTV Base or Channel Z—we eventually started to write our own songs. Our musical bond seeps into juvenile years that still foregrounds my best childhood memories.
By the time were 10, we’d mapped out over 15 songs, all the way down to the dance/performance routines to a fictional crowd going crazy. We kind of had it at the back of our minds that’d we’d eventually have to record our songs. But we were also two kids with no money, and don’t even get me started on asking your civil servant Nigerian parents to support your child star ambitions (Funkeee !).
But none of that really mattered to us back then. We built our entire persona around who we tried to be with our music. I still have colourful memories of being an urban jungle misfit; a street footballer; a comic book artist; and mobile phone filmmaker; all adventures earmarked by the beaming smile of my comrade by my side.
Oddly, in the haze of emotions, I felt after late broadcaster, Tosyn Bucknor’s death was confirmed, this was the memory that stuck with me.
In salute of ‘Area Mama’: Between a boy and his radio
There wasn’t a lot of Urban FMs, or SoundCityFMs in those days, so working my way around what I liked and didn’t like on the Nigerian airwaves took patience. It also didn’t help that technology in Nigeria was at a weird place where, me, a mid-90s baby who had SONY Walkman player, as a child, was also part of a smartphone revolution by his mid-teens.
The first couple of shows I got hooked on were daily shows. Rhythm 93.7’s ‘Top Seven Jams At Seven’, a music chart show hosted by JAJ the Mecadon, Cool FM’s after-dark “Nite Cafe” with N6 and Joyce, but my favourite was Tosyn Bucknor’s “Top of The Morning” on Top Radio.
Morning drive shows, are usually too serious or not accessible for younger audiences but “Top Of The Morning” peeped on that sweet spot between quirky and endearing. The positivity of the voice of Lagos was unmissable but peculiar. Tosyn’s favourite, catchphrase “We thank the lord”, was often repeated throughout the show. In a country where there is any hardly any visible cause to embrace the hope religion promises, it was at least ironic.
But the more I listened, the more I came to understand Tosyn Bucknor’s charm offence.
The ‘Area Show’ as it was aliased, was a world of Tosyn’s own making. Asides thanking the Lord and bringing positive vibes all-around, she became the Area Mama during the traffic-report segment, “Areaa!”. Whether you are Dave calling with updates from Victoria Island or Mr Charlie from Ojuelegba, the first salute must first go to the Lord, then to Area Mama, who inspired the first salute.
Though unscripted and live-recorded, the “Top of The Morning” was structured accordingly to the day of the week. The week started with ‘Motivation Mondays’, eased up to ‘Women’s Wednesdays’, then concluded with ‘The Friday Area Show’.
Each day was defined by its own theme. But combined with a request hour slot where Tosyn took music recommendations from the public daily, two days particularly stood out: Women’s Wednesday and Alternative Thursdays.
As the name implies, Women’s Wednesday only features songs and interviews with female artists. Eva Alordiah’s 2011 “I Done Did It” is a great Women’s Wednesday success story. The single had dropped in February but didn’t become a phenomenon until later in the year. By the time other radio stations were catching up to her viral single, Tosyn had been months ahead of the curve. In fact, without Women’s Wednesday, Simi’s “Ara Ile”, Retta’s “Kolo For You”, and other songs by women that weren’t necessarily alternative but didn’t fit into the conventional Nigerian sound, would have never gotten their cult success.
‘Alternative Thursdays’, and a culture changed forever
My understanding of the word “Indie Artist” came from listening to Tosyn’s Alternative Thursdays. If Women’s Wednesday served a marginalised gender in music, ‘Alternative Thursdays’ served marginalised voices. Yes, there were other OAPs who did what they could, but none of them had a primetime morning slot or Tosyn Bucknor’s enthusiasm as a convener. This defined Tosyn Bucknor’s influence in the growth of Nigeria’s ‘Alternative’ scene.
At the dawn of the millennium, live music in Nigeria gave way to electronic replication and production of music. With major international labels in Lagos all gone by the late 90s, a new lawless industry was in full-swing with piracy headquarters, Alaba, as its centripetal centre.
We already had a roll-call of Trybesmen, Styl Plus, 2face, Mo-Hits, Choc Boiz, Banky W, Neato C, Wande Coal, 9ice, SoundSultan, Asa and Omawunmi amongst others by 2011, so it was not all bad. However, there was a problem with discovery.
Terrestrial TV and local radio rotated the same class of these seemingly top-flight artists, who already had funding, endorsement deals and big-budget music videos. Nobody was really trying to push the boundaries beyond snazzy instrumentals, good songwriting, and a great performance, which are – basics of a good artistry. But still basics.
Tosyn used ‘Alternative Thursday’ as more than a platform to plug new music. She introduced artists in catalogues and selections, easing fans into their personality and songcraft through interviews and rare personal co-signs.
Western indie bands like Switchfoot, Life House, Sixpence None The Richer, were among the oft-rotated favourites of ‘Alternative Thursday’. ‘Alternative Thursday’ was also home to soul singers Bez, Brymo, Aramide, and Timi Dakolo—whose 2011 “Heaven Please” tended towards hard rock.
Tosyn spotlighting growing voices extended beyond being the ‘Voice of Lagos’ on Top of The Morning. She joined the WePushGoodMusic Initiative to co-produce One Mic Naija, a live music and comedy showcase series.
The first edition of ‘One Mic Naija’, held in August of 2011, it was the first time, anyone in Nigeria attempted to curate a stage for Nigeria’s rising talents on a consistent monthly basis. As attendance for One Mic Naija became bigger, more mainstream acts also joined the line-up. Till date, One Mic Naija is the singular platform that has hosted the widest array of Nigerian mainstream artists as upstarts; from Wizkid in February 2012 to BOJ in 2014, Adekunle Gold in 2015 and Terry Apala last year.
‘Alté Everything’
I try to evade the question, but every now and then, I find myself around music people and someone asks me: “What is alté” or “How long will the alté scene last?”. Usually, I become tongue-tied as to how to respond without offending the asker. Because, in my memory, after ‘One Mic Naija’ showed the potential of Nigeria’s youthful urban culture, Afropolitan Vibes, Basement Gig, Mainland Block Party and 90s Baby’s Kick Back etc, have all happened.
It’s easy to see now, why what is considered as “alternative” in Nigeria has always been defined by attention to detail and quality control. But while that is true, it’s merely half of the story. The other half is the story of a road taken for better or for worse, by artists who simply wanted to do what they loved. “Alternative” may be one way to describe their style, but alternative to?
The internet is changing what it means to be an alternative or independent artist altogether these days. The story of Asa, a chorister who left Nigeria to study abroad, due to incessant strikes, but spent all her money on a guitar instead, is unique. Yet, it’s a story just as distinct as Mr Eazi’s, a university party promoter, whose DIY style and strategic digital media use, have made him an international sensation. Or the story of the late Tosyn Bucknor herself, an award-winning, OAP, blogger, podcaster and writer, who was also the lead singer of alternative rock band CON.tra.diction.
Nigeria’s Instagram-generation has grown amidst accelerated leaps in innovation that have defined even this era in human history. You hear this in Teni The Entertainer’s Fuji-Hip-hop fused Afropop, the suspended-in-time feel of Odunsi and Davido’s funk-inspired collaboration, “divine.”, or the Afro-fusion of Burna Boy with undertones of social commentary. None of these artists make “alternative” music in the sense, but they’re also indicative of the natural progression influenced by social-economic shifts like mobile internet and Cable TV.
If newer generation artists are ‘alte’ for representing the music, fashion and pop culture, they grew up on, in their art, then the term “alté ” conceptually falls apart. They may be somewhat alternative, but that’s mostly because of the unique and far-reaching influences that inspire their DIY process.
Earlier this year, I read Malcolm Harris’ “Kids These Days: Human Capital and the Making of Millennials”. In the book, Harris introduces the concept of a “Pedagogical Mask”, a psychosocial tool he suggests society uses to fool young people into pouring hours of countless manpower into activities like education that promises a better life that is not guaranteed in reality.
While Harris’ book has a limited perspective because it uses the United States as its only model, the concept still put my years of writing raps, drawing comics and filming short clips with Akin in perspective. Had he not moved away, who knows how our “alte” story would have played out? Especially now that anyone can become famous off sharing content they created in their bedroom, at no cost at all.
******
A few days ago, I sat at NOK by Alara, with Mars and Barzini, two rappers who started making music while they schooled in Enugu. We were in the area for Nasty C’s exclusive listening session at another location around Alara, and got talking while we waited for the show to start.
Mars is quick to inform me, they only recently just moved to Lagos and naturally always had their guard up around strangers. But none of that mattered when we began to rib about the state of hip-hop globally. By the time we were headed to the Nasty C thing, we’d gotten lost in an argument about male feminism in African music, while discussing albums from Falz and PrettyBoyDO.
If what it means to be Alté is to do like Tosyn/Banky to get involved in a community you care about; or do like Fela/Olamide and make a song about a real-life problem affecting people who relate to your music; or be Burna Boy: a self-assured uncomprising artist, who can do no wrong; then everything has been alté for a long-damn minute.
The late-night ragers, retro filters, the auto-tune, laughs, memes, cartoons and innocence of good-natured friendships borne of similar interests; all markers of a generation born.
I know what my answer to the next person that condescendingly asks me about “The Alté scene” would be.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about”
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Toye is the Team Lead at Native Nigeria. Tweet at him@ToyeSokunbi
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...
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.
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...
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.
In a reversal of events at the turn of the 2000s, Afropop is profoundly reshaping the texture of music...
Over the last two and a half years, some of Afropop’s biggest stars have denounced the genre to advance...
Over the last two and a half years, some of Afropop’s biggest stars have denounced the genre to advance their personal agendas. In a wide-ranging interview from 2023 with Apple Music’s Zane Lowe just ahead of the release of his last album, ‘I Told Them…,’ Burna Boy derided Afrobeats for a perceived lack of contextual subject matter. “Afrobeats, as people call it, it’s mostly about nothing, literally nothing,” he said. “There’s no substance to it. Nobody’s talking about anything. It’s just a great time, it’s an amazing time. But at the end of the day, life is not an amazing time.”
Just a few months later, Nigerian music superstar, Wizkid, also disavowed the genre, claiming that he was not an Afrobeats act and that his then-forthcoming album, ‘Morayo,’ would not be an Afrobeats album as he considered the genre – and the classification it infers – too limiting for the type of music he made. Predictably, fans were incensed by both artists’ stances and the casual dismissal of the genre that their statements invited. What was almost lost in the whirlwind of that discourse is that for all the attempts to capture the totality of African music under the loaded ‘Afrobeats’ label, African music has never been just one thing; and, in that spirit, Afrobeats itself has always been all-welcoming of a multiplicity of influences and styles.
From its earliest iteration, Afropop has always been a potpourri of sounds that took influences from various parts of the Black diaspora and distilled them with an African sensibility. The work of early Afrobeats pioneers like Junior and Pretty is a direct descendant of the burgeoning Hip-Hop blueprint of the ‘80s; while the early 2000s popularity of Ajegunle-based rabble-rousers like Daddy Showkey, Danfo Drivers, and African China occurred tangentially to the rising profile of Reggae on a global scale. The mid-2000s to early 2010s saw the arrival of several dulcet-toned singers like Banky W and Tiwa Savage rooted in the R&B and Soul traditions, introducing a slicker dimension to Nigerian popular music. As always, homegrown stars adapted these foreign styles for their own market while continuing to work on a distinctive style that centered genuine indigenous expression and ingenuity.
Over the years, the fruit of those experiments has ripened to produce a scene that’s bustling with life and talent. As the genre has attained global attention, many sub-genres have come to the fore, showcasing the depth of African music on a global scale. If Wizkid’s sonorous melodies and unbeatable charisma made him the sun of Afrobeats in the 2010s, Olamide’s militaristic bars and Pop anthems rooted in their street sensibilities mark him out as the genre’s moon. It was on Oamide’s back that a nascent indigenous rap circuit rested. Taking the mantle of DaGrin, the Bariga-raised rapper who helped institutionalize rapping in Nigerian languages with cult classics like “Eni Duro” and “Voice Of The Street.” Along with the effort of other stars like Reminisce, Phyno, Lil Kesh, and CDQ, the indigenous rap movement gained steam and, recognizing the Nigerian market’s zest for melodies, soon morphed into Street-Pop, a distinct hybridization of local genres like Fuji, Apala, and Highlife.
Inspired by the work of their forebearers, a new crop of artists have taken Street-Pop to new heights. Zlatan and Naira Marley served as a transitory generation; together with Rexxie, they patented a more melodic take on Street-Pop while infusing a devil-may-care disposition that launched them to the top of Nigerian music. It is fitting that Olamide was the one to hand the baton to Asake, the biggest Street-Pop star of the moment. Similar to the YBNL head’s legendary album run, Asake has released three albums and one extended play in three years, each coming out to a world paying more and more attention to his work. Impressively, Asake has also established himself as a global touring star, regularly playing sold out arena concerts across the world with a music style that is rooted in Yoruba oral tradition.
Asake is not spreading the Street-Pop gospel alone, though. Ikorodu star, Seyi Vibez, has also grabbed mainstream attention for his gritty take on the genre. Initially a divisive figure, his 2023 song, “Different Pattern,” saw him reach a new level of cultural relevance in 2024 and his new extended play, ‘Children Of Africa,’ arrived in February 2025, marking a new era in his career. The yearning for a reclamation of cultural heritage that has created a Street-Pop golden era has not evaded other parts of Nigeria. Shallipopi’s drawling, sprawled-out sound mimics the playful pulse of South-South pidgin while Jeriq, hailing from Nigeria’s South-East, has emerged as one of Nigeria’s most acclaimed rappers. Outside Nigeria, there’s a yearning in Ghana to preserve the purity and history of its Highlife genre, an elemental component of Afrobeats. British-Ghanaian producer, Juls’, ‘PALMWINE DIARIES’ and ‘High Life Sessions,’ both pulsate with the beguiling riffs of the storied genre while the work of Nigerian brother-duo, The Cavemen, is reintroducing Eastern Nigerian highlife to a new generation of listeners.
A youth-led zest for exploration outside the framework of Afropop has also produced a sub-culture that rejects the tenets of mainstream conservatism. Beginning as a band of friends and collaborators who prioritized freewheeling experimentation, Alte music has emerged as one of the most important sonic evolutions of the last two decades. First championed by OG pioneers like DRB Lasgidi, LOS, and Show Dem Camp, the Alte community drew in left-field thinkers and madcap auteurs setting the stage for a new generation of stars to emerge from the depths of SoundCloud circa 2016. In the hands of stars like Odunsi (The Engine), Cruel Santino, and Lady Donli, the Alte experiment reached an unprecedented level of critical and commercial success.
Odunsi’s ‘rare.,’ throbbing with influences from ‘70s Disco and Funk, sits in the canon of great Nigerian debuts and Lady Donli’s ‘Enjoy Your Life’ artfully melded Folk music with Afrobeat and Soul across its 15 tracks. Taken along with the work of producers like GMK and Genio Bambino, these acts built a community that successfully created the blueprint for a sound that reflected the tensions and joys of younger Nigerians who saw life in a specific fashion. It even took flight beyond the borders of Nigeria with a young Amaarae cutting her teeth working alongside some of the most prominent names in the Alte community. The inventiveness and clarity of vision that the community prioritises is evident across both of the Ghanaian-American artist’s albums, ‘The Angel You Don’t Know’ and ‘Fountain Baby.’
In a reversal of events at the turn of the 2000s when Afropop was heavily influenced by outside sounds and genres, music from the continent is profoundly reshaping the texture of music outside its borders. Much like how the Windrush Generation and other immigrants from the West Indies helped to introduce Britain to Reggae, Dancehall and Soca, generations of African immigrants are making music that signals their African heritage, with Afropop as a base influence. The rise in popularity of African sounds has helped UK artists mesh the lingo and sonics from the continent into their work, creating a new genre referred to as Afroswing. Taking influences from Afrobeat, Dancehall, and Grime, Afroswing is distinctive for its use of lyrics from Africa with British rapper, J Hus, credited as one of its pioneers. Songs like J Hus’ “Did You See,” Ramz’s “Barking,” and Not3s’s “Aladdin” signal to the sound of the homeland and speak to Afrobeats’ incredible stride to global popularity as a base reference point for global Black music.
Nearly a decade out from “One Dance,” the Drake, Wizkid, and Kyla collab that pushed Afropop into a different stratosphere, the genre is in safe hands with several stars emerging across different sub-genres that speak to our past, present and future. It is perhaps more than the pioneers imagined when they were making music all those years ago, but all the roads have led here to Afropop being a global sensation that offers various forms of expression to a watching world. There are no limitations on what can be done within the genre, that sense of open-endedness and possibility was always our strength, and it’s why Afropop will stand the test of time.