The life & times of Nigerian dance royalty, Zanku
How the Zanku survived a dominant 2-year run
Zlatan has never been one to shy away from spewing potentially polarising diatribes. His career has in part, been built on his proclivity to say the darndest things, and coast along on the chaos that ensues. But, in the foggy harmattan of 2018, one of his usual grandiose assertions was squarely on the money. Swapping verses with Burna Boy on the December-released club banger, “Killin Dem,” he rapped, “Mo gbe Zanku wole, mo ni kon fade Shaku Shaku”, loosely translating to “I introduced Zanku and dealt the death knell to Shaku Shaku.” Zlatan’s brag, on the most quintessentially visible song from the Zanku canon, was a crystallisation of the dance’s prominence as evinced by his collaboration with the biggest Nigerian act of 2018 — and the undeniable ascent of the snappy jam in the months to come.
This was all coming less than two years after the Shaku wave had ushered in a number of new street pop acts — Mr. Real, Slimcase, and Idowest — to the limelight via songs like “Legbegbe”, “Shepeteri”, and “Oshozondi”. One of the first streets-centric dance style/sound to permeate the Nigerian mainstream in a while, the Shaku was a glut of fresh influences, and after its predictable assimilation into Nigerian pop music’s industrial complex, it was reverse-engineered for stylistic offshoots like “Diet”, “Issa Banger”, and “Issa Goal”. Additionally, the Shaku received co-signs from all over the world thanks to Nigerian footballers playing across the globe as well as making an appearance at the 2018 World Cup courtesy of the French national team’s majority-black contingent. Perhaps ironically, the dance and all the hysteria around it shone its light tangentially on Zlatan — who had been grafting in the underground for a while — and his career, fast-tracking his come-up due to the visibility afforded street pop acts at that moment.
But, in the space of 18 months, due of a combination of savvy and an unbeatable work ethic, Zlatan went from playing a supplementary role in entrenching one dance craze to watching it fade into the ether, while leading the charge for another dance routine that, crucially, had his name imprinted on it. By deftly swapping the Shaku with the Zanku, Zlatan began a chain of events that would further laser Nigerian music, dance, lifestyle, and popular culture unavoidably into the world’s collective consciousness.
It is impossible to chart the history of contemporary Nigerian pop music without reference to the dances that have lined its path to global ubiquity. The alternate history of popular music from Nigeria is memorialised in the dance styles that have served as lodestars for the sound at different times in history. Nigerian pop of the late 90s and early-to-mid 2000s owes an eternal depth of thanks to the galala dance that originated from Ajegunle and its environs; the explosion in hypervisibility for Nigerian and Ghanaian culture at the turn of the previous decade stemmed from the popularity of the Azonto dance home and abraod; while the multi-cultural south of Nigeria blessed the culture with Kukere and Sekem circa 2012/2013. Nonetheless, the last decade of dance innovation in Nigeria has largely been defined by improvisations anchored on life in Lagos’ many gritty hoods (with perhaps, the sole exception of Davido’s Skelewu).
For so long, Olamide had been the primary exporter of catchy dance steps from communities at the fringe of Lagos, but Zlatan assumed that position with Zanku, teasing out the viral dance from its original roots in Agege, on the northern frontier of Lagos, to the big lights of music industry events on the Island and beyond. Zanku’s first appearance came on the video for Chinko Ekun’s “Able God”. Released early in the third quarter of 2018, the song seemed to sound like a staple of the Shaku sound which had slightly passed its peak at that point. But, the video for “Able God”, featuring Zlatan and Lil Kesh, debuted a more vigorous form of overlapped hand shuffling and an upgrade in the guise of bouncy leg stomping, complete with the now-iconic air kick that made it an instant attraction. In the video, which has gotten over five million YouTube views, Chinko Ekun alongside his collaborators work their way through beta renditions of the dance move. While that early rendition, in hindsight, feels amateurish, it set a framework for what the dance encompassed.
Viral dances have always proven useful as marketing tools to elevate musicians to a higher career stratosphere, and sensing an opportunity to create a viral dance in his image, Zlatan made another play with his next solo release. If “Killin Dem” is regarded as the most visible of the Zanku-influenced singles, “Zanku (Leg Work)” is, undoubtedly, the most elemental, carrying the spontaneous spirit of the dance in its 2:58 length. Importantly, Zlatan paid homage to the spiritual home of the dance, shouting out Agege in the opening moments of the Rexxie-produced single. Primarily a rapper, Zlatan forwent a typical rap verse delivery for a more slanted rhyme-like flow that plateaued into addictive lines like “Gbe body e” or “Gbe soul e”. Calling on members of his crew, including a then-ascendant Poco Lee, to put their own spins on the dance in the video, “Leg Work” effectively set the stage for Zlatan to own a viral dance like few in Nigerian pop history had.
In one interview with vlogger, Moni, he said that no one could displace him as the progenitor of the dance despite admitting that he had first seen the move during occasional trips to the New Afrika Shrine in Ikeja. “You know anybody that comes out to sing about it, or does anything about it, automatically owns the dance,” he explained. “I brought it to people and they accepted it.” When asked if he feared anybody challenging his ownership claim, he laughed and replied that the dance bore his name.
Such a personal relationship with the dance meant that he never really faced a fight to maintain ownership of a movement he had popularised with his friends. And by the time “Killin Dem” dropped, with the intense public attention that Burna stepping unto the wave brought, the Zanku had, in a sense, evolved into an extension of Zlatan’s outsized personality. From holding the key to the movement, he had become the movement. This meant that Zlatan’s presence had the potential to arbitrarily determine what songs were Zanku songs. Street rappers had often chosen to use indigenous language as their means of expression and Zlatan largely stuck by this but the key difference of the Zanku from the Shaku was the pace of the music. While Shaku leaned on the guttural arrangement of gqom, South Africa’s traditional electronic dance music, Zanku was less frenzied, subsuming the formulaic yet rhythmical drumming patterns of typical Nigerian music into its core. Zlatan’s collaboration with Davido, “Osanle,” was a good example of this.
With Zanku taking over social media and club scenes, the dance became a must learn for anyone who wanted to rock the latest wave; and other musicians started making music primed to tap into the full-blown demand for songs that encouraged Zanku dancing. Remarkably, a good number of the songs that truly tunneled into the Zanku sound were by musicians from the streets, birthing music that mirrored the perverse, hedonistic, or survivalist realities of life around them. Danny S released his call-and-response earworm, “Oh My God” accessorising the video with variants of the Zanku; Rahman Jago assembled Zlatan, Chinko Ekun, and Junior Boy for “Ijo Ope,” one of 2018’s biggest posse cuts, which thematically presented itself as a dedication to the Zanku movement, however, the messaging hinted at something more unethical; and the mystique of “Ijo Ope” was abandoned for less nuanced soundbites on Rexxie’s “Foti Foyin” featuring Teni, Zlatan, and Naira Marley.
Olamide, Nigerian pop’s grand synthesiser, led the wave’s incursion into the top echelon with “Woske” and “Oil and Gas,” two smartly engineered records that rode the Zanku wave while maintaining its pop accessibility. And Davido fully stepped into Zlatan’s world on “Bum Bum.” As important as the Zanku dance was to the movement, it could not have enjoyed such a viral reach without the adequate music to set a pace for it to follow, and Rexxie’s scuzzy, chaotic beats were the right fit. The nexus of his work with Zlatan and Naira Marley would form a bulk of the dizzying highs of the Zanku and define much of 2019’s soundscape.
Still, for much of the early period of its reign, the dance had enlivened Nigerian audiences without crossing over outside the continent and still lagged behind the Shaku in terms of global visibility, but that was soon to change due to fortuitous circumstances. Burna Boy’s now-infamous Coachella rant and “Killin’ Dem” being the single that officially set the African Giant epoch on the roll put a global spotlight on Burna Boy, “Killin’ Dem,” and the joyfully innovative dancing that was taking place in the video, providing a narrative for the Zanku as the newest example of fresh impetus from Lagos, already regarded as one of the world’s most culturally-significant cities. Relishing his role as a cultural ambassador, by the time Burna made it to the Empire Polo Club in California in the second week of April 2019, he brought the Zanku on stage with him, looping his own little innovations into the mix memorably.
From California, the dance became a key component of Burna’s energy-sapping sets as he performed in venues all over the world for his African Giant tour — playing an interlocutory role as a visible disciple for the dance. At home though, a dark cloud had risen over the Zanku movement due to its seeming proximity with fraud culture, the nation woke up, in May, to news that Rahman Jago, Zlatan, and Naira Marley had been among a group arrested by the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) on allegations of Internet fraud among a number of things; their arrest spawned a number of memes, pontificating, and viral material which perhaps unwittingly further entrenched Zanku’s hold on the zeitgeist.
Naira Marley’s involvement in the case, due to his pioneering role in afro-swing, was a trigger for global inquisition into what the Zanku was all about and what made it vitriolic. However, as the months went by, the cynicism many felt for what they perceived the movement as, started melting away due to a number of inspired drops by Naira Marley that pushed him unto a new stage as a frontline star of the Zanku movement. Naira Marley’s arch came full circle at Wizkid’s London-held StarboyFest when his frenetic on-stage improvisation of the Zanku dance was remade into gifs and video loops that went viral.
Nobody can really predict what makes a dance spread afield beyond its home base. Some of the most iconic dance moves of the last decade were to a large extent, products of communities with an unprecedented capability to shape culture in their image. Dance tropes like Gangnam Style, Dougie Jerk, and Harlem Shake grew out of powerful nations like America and South Korea that possessed that soft power. Their dances were also relatively easier to mimic. In contrast, the Zanku is a more complex proposition comprising of sound style and dance: primarily delivered in a back-and-forth blend of pidgin, English, and Yoruba; and involving body-jerking levels of motion.
So, by the very nature of its aspiration, instead of trying to be hyperspecific about its sonic origin, the Zanku lent itself to globalism: ever so slightly letting interpretations of the dance be fluid from place to place in a bid achieve ubiquity as is observable in videos of non-Nigerians — and some Nigerians! — rocking to it. The video of Ludacris learning the dance is charming for the American rapper’s effort — and what it meant for a dance from Nigeria — if not the rigour of him actually getting the dance moves.
Described as “love letter to Africa, Beyoncé’s ‘The Lion King: The Gift’ gets some of its most sonically lush moments from its Nigerian pop-featured artists. “Ja Ara E,” the project’s sole no-feature song benefits from the Zanku movement as it finds Burna Boy reflecting on purpose and betrayal, with Zlatan’s signature adlibs forming a spartan base for Burna’s thoughts to reverb off. One year later, Beyoncé returned with her latest undertaking, ‘Black is King’, a grand, cinematic afro-fusionist visual album that needles threads of the past and the present to form a tapestry of African nobility and self-determination. Amid all the overt homage to African tradition and Beyoncé’s leaning into arcana to anchor this boundless universe of black joy, the Zanku provided some of the vibrant imagery of contemporary popular culture in Nigeria and Africa, being regularly returned to in between synchronised dances to lift the mood and add some randomity to the mix.
Perhaps, more than anything, this dalliance is what sets the Zanku apart from any other type of viral dance that has broken out of Nigeria – and even, West Africa. Galala laid the block for contemporary Nigerian pop; Azonto set the flight of west African culture’s popularity in motion; the Shaku inched us closer to global attention, but Zanku is the dance for when the most astute curator in the music business made her African-American rapprochement body of work. Pertinently, it is the dance of when Nigeria’s biggest popstars intersected with the royalty of general popular culture.
Already, many are predicting the banishment of Zanku to the same ether where Zlatan sentenced the Shaku. The shuttering effect of COVID-19 has robbed the wave of what could have been its peak months, and in that time Nigerian music has undergone tweaks to mirror the ambiance of lockdown. It’s been a bit over two years since we first heard Zlatan croon “Zlatan abeg no kill us” on “Jogor,” but in that time-frame, the dance has already pushed beyond its humble origins to the kind of phenomenon that has touched all parts of the globe and inspired one of the most swashbuckling runs of singles Nigerian pop has ever seen in a calendar year (Naira Marley).
The future always felt like it was going to be a fight for re-invention and Zlatan seems up to it; one of the hottest songs in Nigeria presently is Jamopyper’s Mayorkun-assisted “If No Be You,” a more expansive, rambunctious take on the Zanku sound. Jamopyper, a Zanku Records signee, also had a star turn on “Of La La,” a collaboration with Zlatan and Rahman Jago that hinted that he might be the custodian of whatever Zanku morphs into next. What is sure is that as the Zanku ascends to the pantheon of iconic Nigerian dances/movements, something else is bursting at the edge, ready to come to our attention. We can only watch on with curious eyes.
Wale Oloworekende Is A Lagos-Based Freelance Writer Interested In The Intersection Of Popular Culture, Music, And Youth Lifestyle.
ICYMI: NAIRA MARLEY & THE EVOLUTION OF STAN CULTURE IN NIGERIA
Afropop is the love child of its many influences
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 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.
Keep reading...
The Cathartic Melodies Of Mereba
Ahead of the release of ‘The Breeze Grew A Fire,’ we sat down with Mereba to discuss putting together her...
Mereba exudes a palpable warmth. When she speaks, as she did with me via Zoom one evening in late January, she’s gentle and perceptive, speaking in soft, meandering passages that paint an intimate portrait of the LA-based singer’s mind. Similarly, her stirring discography, which dates back to 2013, evokes a keen sense of serene intimacy. “I’m inspired by those little moments in life where you’re like “Ah that’s really beautiful,”” she tells me halfway into our conversation, making sense of the ethereal quality that her music possesses. “It could be an interaction between two people, it could be something in nature, it could be a memory I have. Those are the moments that drive me to go get my guitar and write a song.”
The 34-year-old singer, songwriter, producer and instrumentalist has been writing songs for as long as she can remember. Growing up between Alabama, North Carolina and Pennsylvania, as well as an unintended one-year stint in her father’s native Ethiopia, ensured that Mereba picked up a wealth of influences that would go on to inform her richly diverse and understated sound. After years living across multiple cities, she finally settled in Atlanta where she became a staple in the city’s indie music circuit. “There, I met my peers who I made music with and are still my peers to this day. People like J.I.D, 6LACK and my crew. We all were just coming up during a really rich time of music there so that was a big part of my journey,” she reminisces fondly.
In the years that Mereba lived in Atlanta, she released 2013’s ‘Room For Living’ and ‘Kotton House Vol 1,’ two extended plays that neatly outline the foundations of the balmy and eclectic style that she would perfect years later, leaving ample room for her soothing vocals and evocative songwriting to shine. She also joined Spillage Village, a musical collective that comprises others like Earth Gang and JID, contributing to various releases like ‘Bears Like This Too Much’ and the critically acclaimed ‘Spilligion.’ Following her time in Atlanta, Mereba moved again, this time to Los Angeles, where she signed her first major record deal and released her debut album ‘The Jungle Is The Only Way Out.’
Since the release of ‘The Jungle Is The Only Way Out’ in 2019, Mereba has continued to hone her unique sound, continually experimenting and ironing out the rich textures of her temperate style on subsequent releases like 2021’s ‘AZEB.’ Ahead of the release of ‘The Breeze Grew A Fire,’ her first project in four years, we sat down with the LA-based singer to discuss the story behind her well-received debut, her various influences as well as the process of putting together her highly-anticipated new album.
This is your first album in about five years. How are you feeling?
I feel really excited. I’m definitely excited to give my music back to the world again. I’m also ready for connection, performing the songs, and sharing these new stories.
You’ve been making music for a long time now, but do you still feel any nerves before a major release like this?
I don’t know if it’s nerves. I think I feel anxious about the fact that the music is being released and people are going to hear it. But I guess I’m anxious in a good way for them to hear the music, to get to experience what I’ve been toiling away at and what I’ve been excited about for a while. It’s more like a good anxiety.
I think the first time I came across your music was in 2019. I heard “Heatwave” with 6LACK off of your debut album ‘The Jungle Is The Only Way Out.’ I believe that album was sort of a breakthrough moment for you. Can you tell me a bit about how it came together?
That album coming together was quite a journey. I started ‘The Jungle Is The Only Way Out’ years before it came out. I had left Atlanta and moved to L.A at this point. I didn’t know so many people when I just moved and so I was kind of starting over in certain ways. I was writing a lot of songs that felt really powerful to me but they were sonically different from what I used to make before. I was also learning how to produce, I was in Ableton learning how to make beats and just produce my music. Because I didn’t know so many people, I couldn’t outsource some of these things so I was just experimenting on my sound on my own.
Over the years, the community that I was a part of in Atlanta, everyone started finding their way in music but we still stayed closely in touch even though I had moved to L.A. I featured on a song with J.I.D and that kind of got me back into making music properly again because at that point, I was working random jobs, my car got taken and I had to start taking the bus to work. I was living a completely different life. It was my friends that put me back in the zone. They would invite me to sessions and just remind me that I wanted to do this music thing. Then I started putting together songs I had made over the years like “Sandstorm” and “Heatwave” with 6LACK which we made way before the album came out and even my solo songs like “Black Truck.” Most of the songs on that album had come from that period where I was struggling but knowing I was meant for music somehow.
How many years did it take to put your first album together?
I’ll say about four to five years. They say you write your first album for your whole life. “Highway 10” is the first song I made on that album. I made that song in 2014 and the album came out in 2019. In the years before the album came out I was signed to a bad record deal and I couldn’t get out, I couldn’t release music. All I could do was just create and that ended up forcing me to just hone in on my sound.
After your debut, you released an EP titled ‘AZEB’ two years later. Listening to that project, it felt lighter than your debut which was a lot darker and more melancholic. Do you remember what headspace you were in when you made this EP?
I was definitely feeling a lot lighter when I was making ‘AZEB.’ I felt like I had shed a lot of the weight that I carried during all those years of uncertainty. I was in a much more hopeful place when I was making one-half of the project. The other half was made during the early days of the pandemic so it was like a mix. Songs like “Rider,” “Beretta,” and “My Moon,” those songs represent beautiful, light type feelings to me while some of the other songs like “News Come,” and “Another Kin” are more intense lyrically and sonically.
Let’s talk about ‘The Breeze Grew A Fire.’ How did you land on that as the title for your second album?
The making of that title was different from how I titled my other projects. It didn’t come to me right away and I decided to not force it, I believed it was going to come eventually. So the making of this album has always felt very gentle. In contrast to what I had been through for so many years, I felt like I was in a much softer space creating this album and this feeling of a breeze just kept coming to me. It was also kind of like springtime going into the summer and the idea of a breeze became so prominent that I was going to title the album breeze. But as I continued on the journey of finishing it, it felt like the album was saying something a bit more. I realized that the album wasn’t just about all these gentle feelings and relationships I’m singing about like friendship, family, and my son but these things also inspire me to live with purpose, conviction and to have a spark in me. Things that make people “strong” are inspired by these little moments and experiences that we have and less by the force of trying to make a fire forcefully.
You co-produced “Phone Me” and “Counterfeit,” the lead singles for this project and you’ve also produced a lot of your older stuff as well. I’m curious to know how taking the reins on the production side affects your music-making process in general.
I got really into producing during that period when I felt lost in life. I got into Ableton, playing the guitar on my computer, sampling my voice and just experimenting. So songs that I produced from ‘The Jungle Is The Only Way Out’ like “Sandstorm” and “Kinfolk,” were me experimenting a lot with learning how to produce. With this new album, the first two singles were heavily produced by my co-producer Sam Hoffman. When he sends me things that I like, I’ll add things to them and it could be the opposite as well where I produce a song and I’ll have him or another friend add something to it. That process is personal because I could completely be in my world and get the feelings that I want to convey out through production as well as writing the song out lyrically. When I unlocked that part of myself, it felt like my whole life that’s what I’ve been wanting to do. To be able to make the music arrangements and compositions come to life.
A lot of the time I would start with a simple beat or drum loop and I’ll build chords over it with my guitar. I experiment with writing when it’s bare and then fill in the production as I write the song. They’re a very interwoven process.
I’ve read that you’re heavily influenced by legendary acts like Stevie Wonder and Lauryn Hill. Are there other acts that inspire you when it comes to the production side of music specifically?
That’s a great question. In certain ways, I’ll say it’s the same people that I look up to because most of them produce. Interestingly enough, what I love most about these musicians is that they are very involved in the sonics of the music they’re making. So the people that you mentioned, like Stevie Wonder who mentored me and encouraged me to continue on the path of producing my music versus being a singer who works with a producer. I feel like it’s important to the language of an artist to at least know how to contribute in some way to the sonics of their music.
I’ll say Quincy Jones is the blueprint for me just because of the span of work that he did. He’s the concept of producer I’d like to work towards in my life.
Do you have a favourite memory from creating ‘The Breeze Grew A Fire’?
There are a few. There was a time when I made this song on the album called “Hawk.” The song is dedicated to a really dear friend of mine who passed away unexpectedly in 2021. It was not easy to write and when I first wrote the song, it was sad, slow and reflective of the whole situation. I listened to it after I made it and I started thinking about my friend and the things that he liked. He was a very expressive and hilarious person who loved dancing and dance music. At that moment a light bulb went up and I felt like the song needed to be more of a dance song because I wanted to make something that he would love and not something he would think is corny. It was a really beautiful moment musically and personally.
If there’s one thing you would like your fans or listeners to take away from ‘A Breeze Grew A Fire,’ what would it be?
I hope it brings a sense of comfort and warmth. I also hope it tells a clear story of what matters to me. I just really hope it makes people feel better, that’s really it. I think it’s one of those albums where it’s a personal album for me and I think it’s meant for personal moments too. I hope it lives in people’s lives in comforting ways.
Listen to ‘A Breeze Grew A Fire’ here
Keep reading...
Is the “Mr Money” era over?
Asake broke the internet when he unveiled his new tattoos earlier this year, and he’s doubling down while...
Asake broke the internet when he unveiled his new tattoos earlier this year, and he’s doubling down while ushering in the GIRAN Republic era. On “Military”, Asake ditches the log drums & Amapiano-inspired beats that paved the way to his rapid ascent to stardom. Rapping over stripped back production dominated by a live drum loop, he picks up where he left off sonically on ‘LUNGU BOY’, drawing inspiration from his Hip-Hop influences, as he delivers a defiant, heartfelt battle-cry to his fans and doubters alike.
For the last few months, rumours have swirled around Asake on the gossip blogs, on everything from who he’s dating to his record label situation to his physical appearance, with fans, critics and disgruntled ex team members all throwing in their two cents. Since his emergence in the limelight, Asake has been a man of few words – we should know, we did his first ever magazine interview back in 2022. But on this track, he addresses the chatter head on, opening the song dismissively rapping “ Awon lo lenu won koma so lo/ Tio ba affect bank me, ko ma soro” loosely translated to “let them keep talking, if it doesn’t affect my bank account, there’s nothing to say”. He goes on to flex his financial muscle above everyone in his “set”, despite being “low-key”, while affirming he could drop an album tomorrow with no tracklist, and it would still slap.
He takes a break from the braggadocio between verses to directly shout out his mentor Olamide, the man who gave him his big break. While it does appear their business relationship may have run its course, the mercurial artist is making it clear he remembers how he got here. The Asake & YBNL run will be studied for years to come. In the midst of the continued rise in global consumption of Nigerian music, Asake hilariously raps “Oyinbo koro lenu mi”, a reminder that he will not be diluting his sound for the benefit of our friends in the West.
Quietly dropping the track exclusively on YouTube & Audiomack a couple of days after the 2025 GRAMMY ceremony, in which he was nominated for the second year running, this response may have gone over the heads of those who lurk in the comment sections of the gossip blogs. But it is the most Asake response we could have expected, isn’t it? On his own terms, in his own native tongue, he pulls no punches as he ushers in a new era of independence.
This morning, Asake released another record, the Magicsticks-produced “WHY LOVE”,which notably comes under his new imprint Giran Republic. Reverting to a more familiar sonic cocktail of pulsating log-drums and choral vocals, he sings melodiously,“You know I’m a Soulja boy, but in your case, I’ll calm down.” The duality of man.
The rumours will keep swirling and people will keep talking, as they tend to do when you reach the heights the Lungu Boy has soared to. And for all the aesthetic change and talk of a new era, it appears Asake is going to continue to do what he has done more consistently than nearly every artist in Nigeria since his mainstream emergence in 2022: drown out the noise with new music.
Keep reading...
