‘What is Alté Sef?’ – ON TV, THE INTERNET AND TOSYN BUCKNOR, THE FIRST ALTÉ GIRL
90s Babies are all grown up now
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.
!!! It's @tosynbucknor herself as the #AreaBoss #tgif #tosinbucknor #celebshowcase #bidemiakinade #obaakinadeart #art #conceptart #movie #fridayfeeling #art_spotlight #artfido #artistry #drawing #digitalart #fbfridayThough 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.
So what is Alté sef?
Well, take a look around: it’s 2018. Banky W is running to become a legislator, Olamide’s most critical hit of the year is a social commentary piece on drug abuse, and Burna Boy is the biggest artist in the country.
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
Afropop on the rise: Kanye West’s adventures in Uganda and D’banj’s G.O.O.D music years
The Battle for Safe Spaces in Lagos’ Rave Communities Continues
As the economy withers, underground raves have emerged as a viable nightlife option, much to the detriment of...
Something shifts in the air when you walk into a Lagos rave. There is, for lack of better words, a quiet radicalism that settles over you. A knowing that here, you can move however you want, move however you like, because everyone else is doing the same. “Outside, I calculate every gesture, monitor my voice, watch my walk,” Deji, a 26-year-old graphic designer, tells The NATIVE. “But when I attend raves, I just exist and I dance. Raves taste like freedom.”
This feeling, the opportunity to finally breathe without reservations, is what these spaces offer to so many young Nigerians, particularly those marginalized within society. In a city where authenticity often carries devastating consequences, the thrumming basslines of underground raves have carved out rare pockets where vigilance can momentarily surrender to abandon, where calculation yields to expression, and the perpetual performance of conformity dissolves into the honest fluidity of movement.
A Community Built On Freedom
Cultural historians trace the beginning of Nigeria’s electronic music evolution to the mid-2010s, when local DJs began experimenting with blends of traditional African percussion and global electronic production. It started with house parties. WhatsApp & Telegram flyers passed like secrets. Intimacy mattered more than scale. It wasn’t about clout or big venues. It was about creating a space that felt safe. A space where people who often felt out of place in the real world could finally belong.
These gatherings were built around a shared love for the genre, a communal appreciation for sounds that weren’t mainstream. People found one another through EDM playlists and mutual connections, creating communities anchored by musical taste first. The spaces were accepting by nature, rejecting judgment and embracing differences. Queer people naturally gravitated toward this openness, finding rare solace in venues that didn’t question gender expression or sexual orientation. The rave community became a refuge not by explicit design, but through an organic understanding that everyone deserved to feel comfortable and free.
Gbadebo, a filmmaker who has been involved with the Lagos rave scene since 2019, recalls the early days fondly. “The buzzing DJs then were DJ Aye, DJ Combs, and Tigran,” he says. “It was low-key, chill community gatherings. There used to be mats and rugs spread on the floors during early raves, where people would lie between sets. It was lowkey, but it felt like home.” These spaces became and remain essential for queer people. Places where you could kiss who you wanted, wear what you wanted, move freely, and love loudly. The dance floor became one of the few places where it felt possible to exist on your terms within the melodrama of Lagos.
Back then, it was simple. You showed up with your drink, found your people, and flowed.
What Even Is This Sound?
What struck me most at my first rave was how present everything felt. People were there for the music. They screamed genuinely at beat drops, at brilliant transitions, at that one unexpected song. It felt like communion. Like everyone was holding their breath for that exact moment. The soundscape is difficult to box in. It borrows from everywhere—Afrohouse, Amapiano, and weird soulful remixes of Afropop songs. It’s layered, warm, and often bizarre. It loops when you expect it to break. It stretches where it should snap. It doesn’t ask to get under your skin, it just does.
The scene still sits at the margins of Nigerian music, described as too “alternative” or too “strange.” That strangeness holds its kind of magic. Strange, beautiful music for strange and beautiful people. The kind that gets side eyes at house parties or a confused “what kind of music is that?” But maybe that question feels familiar, because what kind of music is that, really, if not the perfect soundtrack for people who’ve always been asked: “Why are you so different?”
You Can Always Tell
You can always tell a raver from a Lagos outsider. Or at least, I can. The fashion is different.
Bolder colors. Intentional clashes. People wear things that might be seen as “abnormal” anywhere else—fishnet vests, platform boots, mesh, metallics, glitter, lace. What might be mocked on the street feels perfectly ordinary here.
Rave fashion, which intersects heavily with the alté aesthetic, has long been criticized online. But in these spaces, people dress without fear of mockery. And that alone draws many in. Still, as rave culture expands rapidly, new faces arrive—some merely curious, others less understanding—which threatens the safe and accepting environment that initially defined these gatherings.
StyledByNasky, a rising Lagos stylist, explains this phenomenon: “There’s no limit to self-expression here, no policing of it,” she says. “For me, rave fashion embodies freedom, fun, and comfort.” She points out that practicality is as important as style. “It’s usually warm, and things get very heated, so comfort is essential. The choice of shoes, the amount of skin exposed, the selection of breathable fabrics; every element serves both style and functionality within the rave setting.”
Going further, she says that rave fashion in Lagos represents an intentional defiance of cultural norms around dress and presentation. In her words, what we see is a “visual language that communicates belonging to a counterculture.” The clothes become flags of identity rather than mere aesthetics. Oversized silhouettes, gender-neutral styling, and DIY alterations all signal a rejection of mainstream Nigerian fashion constraints.
For queer folks and other marginalized communities, these clothes transcend aesthetics. They become armor and announcement simultaneously. “Before, they felt safe dressing however they wanted, breaking gender stereotypes,” Nasky adds. “But now, in a country where dressing ‘weird’ or outside norms is frowned upon, these spaces don’t feel as safe anymore. It’s exposing.”
These spaces offered something rare: the ability to perform gender—or avoid performance entirely—without punishment. To show up in the truest version of yourself and still be enough. In a country where stepping outside of gender norms can mean ridicule, violence, or worse, the freedom to dress as you feel has always been a gift. But that safety now feels less certain.
The Shadow of Surveillance
More than ever, Nigeria’s Same Sex Marriage Prohibition Act of 2014 looms large over queer communities. Beyond banning same sex marriage, it criminalizes public displays of affection between same sex people, advocacy for queer rights, and even queer-friendly gatherings. Penalties can stretch to 14 years in prison.
The economy is withering, as it has been for years. But now, it feels like it’s on its last breath. Traditional nightlife is following the same path because purchasing power shrinks every day. Nobody can afford to order expensive bottles of alcohol anymore, and regular night crawlers are hunting for cheaper alternatives. Underground raves have emerged as a viable option, much to the detriment of the tight-knit communities that built them.
“Back then, there weren’t tickets; you just came and made ‘donations,’” Gbadebo recounts fondly. Today, a few raves still run on donations, but most have leaned into steep pricing. “Prices are now crazy,” Gbadebo admits. “I don’t attend races much ever since I paid 8k and had to stand from 11 to 4 am. I even saw a flyer for a rave with tables for reservation.”
In April 2025, a local online blog threatened to leak the location of Group Therapy, one of Lagos’s most beloved, queer-inclusive raves. The post was laced with moral panic and targeted language. It didn’t go viral, but it didn’t have to. In a city like Lagos, where rumors move faster than facts, it only takes one post to make people feel unsafe.
The damage wasn’t physical, but it was deeply felt. It was the first time some attendees realized just how exposed they were. “I didn’t even wait to see if it was serious,” Faith, a regular attendee, told me. “I just didn’t go. I couldn’t risk it. All it takes is one wrong person showing up.” Even after the post was taken down, the damage lingered. For queer people who rely on these spaces to feel normal, it was a reminder that the safety they’d built was still fragile.
“An attack on Group Therapy is actually an attack on the rave scene in Lagos,” one tweet said. “God forbid that actually happens. You cannot take out queer people from raves, it started from them as a refuge in music. We literally do not bother anybody”.
For some, these risks are worth it. For others, the threat is too high.
Holding On To A Fragile Future
Lagos raves are gaining popularity. As more people know about them, many more want in, and the energy is infectious. There’s talk about raves becoming mainstream. When that happens, many queer folks and original community members start retreating, creating smaller, more exclusive gatherings. These “mini-raves” become refuges within refuges — intimate, secret, and protected.
The question for organizers is: As raves gain cadence and popularity, is it worth risking losing the original community that gave them meaning? The people who built the scene, who know why it matters, who rely on it as a lifeline? Are we ready to welcome everyone — even those who might not understand the deeper value these spaces represent?
Rave culture in Lagos stands as a form of resistance, a reclamation of identity, and a fight for safe space in a world that too often denies it. It testifies to the resilience of a community that refuses to be erased. In a city as complex and vibrant as Lagos, where the stakes are high and the risks real, raves remain one of the few places where marginalized people can truly be themselves, if only for a night.
In these charged, fleeting hours, queer Nigerians reclaim what the world keeps trying to steal: joy, safety, belonging. By dawn, the masks of caution are back on. The city resumes. But somewhere, someone is already planning the next one.
Somewhere, safety is being rehearsed. In another place, the bass is warming up.
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True Clrs Want People To Dance
True Clrs, a travelling party series launched by Adeola Kofoworade and Menab Tesfu, aims to bring the dance...
One of the more pressing topics of discussion amongst party-goers today is the curious question of why people don’t dance at gatherings anymore. While partying, theoretically, includes other activities like talking to strangers, getting drinks, and conducting business, it is primarily geared towards dancing and living in the moment.
These days, however, there seems to be more emphasis on these other activities than actual partying. People are doom scrolling on the dancefloor or are more occupied with trying to take the perfect selfie. Enter: True Clrs, a travelling party series launched by Adeola Kofoworade and Menab Tesfu that aims to bring the dance back to the parties by centering on the richness of African sound and the communities that love it.
“We found that there were a lot of parties in Dallas that had cultures that didn’t encourage dancing or interaction between customers,” Kofoworade tells The NATIVE about the inspiration for True Clrs over a Google Meet conversation in July. “Seeing how parties were being thrown in L.A., New York and other places in Europe, we thought to bring that idea here to Texas.”
Since its inception in 2023, True Clrs has hosted over 15 editions of its travelling party series across cities in the United States. In addition to a dedicated real-life following that engages with their series, they have also cultivated a robust online presence thanks to their meticulous branding and active CRLS YouTube page that features various thrilling DJ sets.
Ahead of the latest Houston edition of True Clrs, which featured ODUMODUBLVCK and Sarz headlining the Global Sounds Stage and others like Native SOUND SYSTEM’s DJ Sholz, Lowkey Ade, and Khulumars on DJ duties, we caught up with Adeola Kofoworade to discuss how they’ve managed to position True Clrs as the go-to party series in Texas, what makes them unique, and what their long-term plans are.
What inspired True Clrs?
We originally started True Clrs about two years ago because we noticed that there was a space in Dallas that we could infiltrate. We found that there were a lot of parties in Dallas that had cultures that didn’t encourage dancing or interaction between customers. That’s something pretty notable down here in the South. In clubs, there are a lot of sections and no big dance floors, so people are stuck in their sections without really interacting with other people. Seeing how parties were being thrown in L.A., New York and other places in Europe, we thought to bring that idea here to Texas. At first, we started with Afrobeats and Amapiano-centred parties, but then we started branching out to other genres as well.
How have you been able to position True Clrs as one of the go-to diaspora-focused party series in the U.S, especially in Texas?
We try to be innovative. We always try to make every event better than the last one. So if you came to one of our events the previous month, we try to switch things up and make sure you have a better experience the next time you come. We do this by booking notable DJs from around the country and even around the world. We also started booking a lot more talents. Last year, we had Lancey Foux; we had Sholz, who brought ODUMODUBLVCK; and we also had Skyla Tyla. This year, we’re looking to do more of that so we can always give our audience a notable experience.
How do you balance catering to the African diaspora with appealing to a broader audience that might be unfamiliar with the music and experience?
There are a couple of ways we try to do this. First, since we have monthly events, we try to switch between different genres and vibes. So let’s say, one month we have an Afrobeats and Amapiano party, the next month we could switch to this concept that we call the R&B rave. In the R&B rave, we basically play all types of R&B music, whether it’s old, contemporary or alternative, and we curate a rave-like setting.
We also run this concept where we have like two or three stages playing different genres. We could have one stage playing Amapiano, the other R&B and the other more global sounds. I guess it just depends on the venue we use. But we’re able to offer different experiences even at the same party.
Are there any other unique elements that set the True Clrs experience apart from other nightlife events?
One of our main appeals is recording DJ content. I know DJ content has become saturated recently, but what separates us is that a lot of our content is very genuine. It’s not made up or staged. We get real-time reactions from people. A lot of the time, people don’t even know they’re being filmed. Our content makes us notable, and it’s helped push our brand forward.
Since you began True Clrs, how have you been able to cultivate a strong online presence as well as a thriving community in real life?
With our online presence, it’s really been our content that has helped put us out there. We’ve had a couple of reels or YouTube sets go viral, and that’s definitely helped our online presence. Also, just being the kind of people we are, we take our time when it comes to branding True Clrs. We get a lot of feedback from people regarding our content, and we take it into account moving forward. For our real-life community, my partner and I had already been heavily involved in the entertainment space and the African community here before we began True Clrs. So we got a lot of support when we first started, and we’ve just kept building from there.
What’s the long-term vision for True Clrs? Are there any plans to expand into other U.S. cities or even international markets?
Definitely. Last year, we had our first international event in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. My partner was up there for a holiday, and we decided to throw an event there. In the future, we do plan to expand to other countries, whether in Africa or Europe. With our connections with talents like Lancey Foux, Skyla Tyla, we’re also looking to see if we can put together festivals. That’s what’s on the horizon for True Colors.
What would you say to someone who’s never been to a True Clrs party? What should they expect, and why should they come?
Our goal is community curation through music. So what I would tell someone who’s never been to a True Clrs party is they should come with an open mind. They should trust our DJs because they might hear songs they’ve never heard before and still be able to have a good time. Also, while we don’t force people to interact, we encourage people to interact and dance while listening to good DJs.
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Best New Music: Tiwa Savage and Skepta Are Stuck In A Loop On “On The Low”
After over a decade helming some of the most romantic cuts in Afropop, Tiwa Savage’s dalliance with R&B is...
There are only a few artists in Afropop with the range, longevity, and lustre that Tiwa Savage has. Since she emerged on the Nigerian music scene in 2011, Ms. Savage has set an inimitable standard in terms of platforming the point of view of women at the pinnacle of Afropop, working to show that women are multi-dimensional and layered, capable of going through the motions of joy, angst, distress, and optimism just as much as the next person. By unapologetically leaning into the very minutiae of what makes her tick as a woman, she’s become a fan favourite and an undisputed legend of the genre.
Impressively, she’s done this while making great strides sonically. From the throbbing afropop of ‘Once Upon A Time’ to the swaggering house-inflected triumph of ‘R.E.D,’ and the dense polyrhythmic structure of ‘Celia,’ Tiwa Savage has continued to tincture her R&B-adjacent sound with influences from home and abroad. It is an accurate reflection of Tiwa Savage as a person: grounded by her Lagos heritage but shaped by global influences. For the last six months, she has been talking up her forthcoming fourth album, describing it as a full-throttle return to the R&B sound that was her stock in trade before she returned to Nigeria in 2011 to establish herself as an Afropop powerhouse.
In April, she released the emotive “You4Me,” clearly establishing the direction for her new album, ‘This One Is Personal.’ Produced by Mystro Sugar, “You4Me” put a fresh spin on Tamia’s ’90s classic “So Into You” with percussion work by Magicsticks adding a decidedly Afropop sheen to the song. Upping the ante, Tiwa Savage returned with “On The Low,” a delightful sung-rap bop featuring British-Nigerian rapper, Skepta. Like “You4Me” before it, “On The Low” is steeped in R&B tradition, finding Tiwa Savage pining after a love that feels like a taboo or forbidden pleasure. Produced by Rymez and Mystro, it is a surefire pointer that Tiwa Savage wasn’t joking when she said ‘This One Is Personal’ had overt R&B influences.
After over a decade helming some of the most romantic cuts in Afropop, Tiwa Savage’s dalliance with R&B is helping to propel her artistry to new heights. Just as the soundtrack for ‘Water & Garri,’ her debut as a filmmaker, pared down universal emotions like longing, desire, and anxiety into digestible bits on standouts like “I Need You,” “Lost Time,” “Love O,” her latest song chronicles the intangibles of a romance that’s quite not out in the open. “I know you want to link on the low / We have to stay discreet, you don’t know,” she sweetly intones on the song’s hook, clearly obfuscating the true status of the relationship but revealing just enough to let her listeners know that the dynamic of this relationship is not the usual.
It’s a premise that is established from the opening lines of the song when Skepta breezily starts with an offer to travel, presumably after being unavailable for a while. “Yeah, I’m off tour, we should celebrate / Dedicate some time for you, baby, it’s a date,” he says. It sets off a sequence where Tiwa Savage admits to being annoyed by the complexities of this relationship.
Still, there’s something about the thrills of these tenuous romances that keeps one tethered to them, and Tiwa Savage manages to capture the dilemma of the situation when she sings, “Boy, you make me stressed, you don’t know / Then you send me sweet texts on the low.” Her measured delivery and tonal inflections lend an air of believability to the story that would be inaccessible in lesser hands.
It helps that even as she revisits her R&B origins, the singer still maintains a strong connection to the sonic references that made her an Afropop juggernaut. There is seriously impressive percussion across “On The Low” with enough Yoruba ad-libs sprinkled across to remind any doubters that this is a Nigerian star paying homage to an elemental part of her evolution without losing touch with her roots. It sets the stage for This One Is Personal’ perfectly.
Listen to “On The Low” here.
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