After enjoying a breakthrough 2018, rapper Zlatan Ibile’s having a longer time in the sun than anyone expected. He’s definitely one of the hottest Nigerian rappers, or artists for that matter, in 2019. And at the moment, he’s enjoying a streak that has taken him far beyond any worries about being a flash in the pan or another holiday-cycle fad like Mr Real.
While his skill is not in doubt, It’s perhaps telling that Zlatan is better known for his big dance hits than weighty rap songs. He may not have the insight to deliver scathing social commentary like Falz or SDC. But what he lacks in that department, Zlatan makes up for with raw energy, aggressive delivery and dexterity with slang. Those traits have resulted in some of the best verses by anyone this year. They have also taken him beyond the limits that his native language often sets on his fellow indigenous rappers.
Zlatan has also had a very eventful year, which means at any given moment, he has more than enough to talk about. And it’s shown in the variety of music he’s put out from his owambe starter, “This Year” to his post-jail single, “Four Nights In Ekohtiebo”.
To give you a better sense of just how much heat Zlatan has put out this year, here’s a list of his 5 best verses since January 1, 2019.
We’ve considered the themes in the music, his versatility and how much he’s strayed from his comfort zone.
Zlatan’s “Four Nights In Ekohtiebo”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xB6bsqnksJg
It’s easy to miss the fact that this song is just one long verse punctuated by Zlatan’s trademark adlibs. It was released after his detention and questioning by the EFCC and the subject matter is understandably dark. But Zlatan manages to make it more than just another post-jail rap song. He starts off by pondering over his previous few weeks, then exalts the habits – tenacity, self-belief and sadly, distrust – that he believes have given him his best year yet. His tone switches in tandem too; from aggressive to pained to grateful. It feels like Zlatan decided to just pause and take it all in, and the music feels great for it.
The sheer glee on this song, starting with Junior Boy’s celebratory verse, is excessive. “Ijo Ope” means dance of thanks in Yoruba, and all three artists explain what they expect will happen when their windfall finally lands. For Zlatan, it’s a good time to go through the days before his triumph. He reminisces on hours spent betting on virtual dog racing and performing for free at the Afrika Shrine. The rapper uses the perfect metaphors to tell his story. Baba Aja means “father of dogs”. He also describes his free shows at the Shrine as “performing at Fela’s house” making it sound like a rite of passage than anything else. The effect is that when he finally beats his chest in the end – it all feels very well deserved.
Candy Bleakz’s “Owo Osu” (w/ Zlatan and Naira Marley)
When Zlatan gets into ‘get that money’ mode, there are few rappers better in the game than him, except maybe the other guy on this song. Here, he’s enlisted alongside Naira Marley to provide support on rapper, Candy Bleakz’s debut single. Instead, Zlatan starts by almost pulling a Quavo and stealing the show with his adlibs. When it’s his turn to bless the mic, you can hear so much pent-up energy – like he has something to get off his chest. He impatiently tells us just how much he likes the bag by painting the picture of a chronic debtor who’s more concerned with popping bottles than paying up. On your first few listens, the verse sounds like a sub to someone only him will ever know. “I’m a mad man, pay my money and we won’t have trouble” perfectly captures this verse in one line. Please don’t owe Zlatan any money.
CDQ’s “Onye Eze” (w/ Zlatan)
“Tori mo j’eyan Onye Eze, ni girlfriend e sheyfejemi niete” (Because I’m with the kings, that’s why your girl wants to kiss my lips) is the fitting line to open this song. For one of his more recent guest verses, Zlatan joins fellow indigenous rapper, CDQ for an upbeat song about having powerful friends. While CDQ delivers in trademark fashion, Zlatan takes things a notch higher by showing he can turn on the style when he wants to. He makes the dual point of schooling the listener in moving like a big boy while running through 4 different flows in the space of 16 bars. When Zlatan’s verse ends, the descent into normalcy is so sudden that you just have to listen again.
Zlatan’s “This Year”
This is what success sounds like for a guy who’s spent years in the dark. Not many would have expected Zlatan to drop such an overt owambe anthem midway into the year, but the guy hasn’t really been one to play by the script. His opening verse here is everything we’ve come to love about him – he’s triumphant and energetic. It feels even better because of how he manages to switch styles across the beat while spitting bars like “Teletele mo waleyin bi ti Peter Rufai” (I used to be at the back like Peter Rufai). Zlatan manages to steer clear of curse words too, which makes it one of the few songs you can play for the kids as well.
Feel like any other verse should have made this list? What did we miss? Let us know in the comments.
In certain cultures, adulting is marked with rituals, tests and celebrations. But when you’re Nigerian, adulting often comes at you without warning. It comes in different forms; bills, family, responsibility, and you guessed it, kids.
Everyone who’s crossed either of those bridges has a unique story. A story that can help you see you’re not alone. That’s why every Thursday, we’ll bring you one Nigerian’s journey to adulthood, the moment it kicked off and how it shaped them.
The question we’ve been asking is, “When did you realise you were an adult?”
The guy in this story is “23 going on 24”. He makes videos for a living. For his age, he’s not doing bad – most people would kill for a good job, side gigs and a place of their own in these Buhari times. Unfortunately, his journey to this point hasn’t been as simple as the math would suggest. If there’s one thing he will never be accused of, it’s waiting for life to happen to him.
The one thing I always wanted to do growing up was leave home. As a kid, holidays were the only aspect of my life I looked forward to. I didn’t hate school, I never languished at the bottom of my class and the highest I ever came was third position. In primary school, I was punctuality prefect for some reason. I was an okay student. I could say the same about my family.
I grew up the first of three kids in a corner of Iyana-Ipaja, a far-flung area of Lagos. My family was ‘the normal, average family’. They had enough to afford the necessities and a safety net – we ate well, went to school and wore good clothes – but we weren’t rich. My mother, a teacher, often reminded us to be content and make the most of what we had. These lessons are still with me today.
In a way though, that was the problem: I was not content. Every school holiday, from primary school till my late teens, I visited my mother’s family house in Somolu. I spent most of my time there with one particular friend, every holiday. We chased excitement, new experiences and the kinds of high that bored, young boys crave. That freedom was everything.
It felt like my regular life had become too mundane, too predictable. Somolu was important because it was alive. Iyana-Ipaja wasn’t; It was filled with memories I’d rather forget.
My dad likes women, a lot. Chronically, even. When I was much younger, he dropped me off at school everyday. It would be just two of us in the car – me and him in the front seats. We’d drive down a few streets before he would ask me to move to the back seat. The front seat was for the woman joining us on that day’s ride. There were many of them. So many that it was hard for him to keep it under wraps. He brought these affairs very close to home several times; so close that my mother knew about them. Our neighbours were aware. Fam, he even did it with people in the compound. One time, he had a fling with a married woman whose husband didn’t let it go till he told the entire neighbourhood. Another time, his fling’s spouse got the police involved.
I think I was around 14 when I first asked my mother why she was staying through all of it. Why was she letting him do this to her? She would nag and sometimes, he’d come home crying in remorse, but nothing changed. Him still dey do am till today. I haven’t stopped asking her.
Holidays at Somolu continued to be the only bright light. We never went out, never travelled; we lived a perfectly boring life. By the time I was rounding off secondary at 15, I didn’t want to go back home anymore. So I didn’t.
Fresh out of secondary school, I lingered in Somolu while I wrote JAMB and tried to get into UNILAG. The best part though was learning design from my aunt. She’s a photographer who started showing me basic stuff early on. From there, I found myself in a design program at a branch of the Mountain of Fire And Miracles Church (MFM). It was the first time I felt good. It sounds corny but I felt like I’d found my tribe.
Around this time, in 2012, my parents moved to Magboro, a small community along Lagos-Ibadan Expressway. If Iyana-Ipaja was boring, this place was dead. So dead that they didn’t have light. My dad had lost his job abruptly. He gathered his pension and moved the family into his house there. It wasn’t in its final form. I didn’t always go there. I was 17 and practically living with my grandma in Somolu by then. My mum had to call to get me to visit.
That I left home after secondary school is something that my dad often says he regrets. Of all my siblings, my mother says she’s least closest to me. We don’t talk the way she does with my siblings. We just can’t. We didn’t have the time to build that relationship.
I had this Uncle who lived in London when I was in my early teens. Brother Kunle. He’s the only one on my mother’s side who didn’t go to university. But every time he came home, he had goody bags for everyone. He was the one who managed to build a home for his parents as well. I always assumed he was balling, even without going to school. The details mattered little to me; I just wanted to be that guy.
In 2013/2014, I got accepted into UNILAG to study Industrial Relations. I hated it from the first class. After a couple of months, it was obvious something was wrong. I couldn’t will myself to attend lectures; I skipped school for months. That first year, I flunked like crazy. Everyone, including my parents, was at a loss as to why. I was too. The second year was a bit better but I knew it wasn’t working. So I dropped out.
I told my parents a week after it happened. They were understandably upset, but what was done, was done. I had put my life solely in my own hands now, my dad made that clear. I spent the rest of that year – 2017 – trying to come to terms with that. That meant meeting everyone that I looked up to, asking questions and trying to make sense of my decision. All of that talking helped me realise that I just needed to put my head down and work. I did.
I don’t know if I left home too early. My mum complains about the divide between us and it feels familiar: I’ve been accused of not being able to stay in touch by some of my best friends. After we had spent a year together, an ex-girlfriend told me that I was incapable of love. Thinking about it still hurts. I know I struggle with maintaining relationships. Sometimes it’s deliberate, but more often than not, I just lose track.
I’ve spent the last few years figuring things out. I won’t say I have, I don’t think anyone ever really does. But for my age, I’m not doing too bad. What started as a small hobby led me to form a three-man group with some of my friends from the church. We lived off lucrative web design gigs for a while. Sometimes, we’d get as much as 3000 dollars for one job. I moved to a place of my own in 2018, and since then, I’ve found more stability in life and my career. Unfortunately, old wounds are still open.
I know I suppress certain memories – like leaving school and certain parts of my childhood but for the life of me, I can’t tell why. For everyone who I’ve flaked on, there are a hundred others who swear that I’m the most caring friend they ever had. You can never see yourself as objectively as the people in your life do. Behind all my inconsistencies is a chronic desire to please the people I care about. I need to give more to them than I take. Maybe that’s why I left home – not because we were sad, but because we weren’t happy. And I couldn’t do anything about it.
I have no regrets. Things could have turned out differently, but if it counts for anything, I’m doing what makes me happy. I never let my siblings breathe when it comes to their education. And I support when I can – like giving my younger brother 100k to kick off his fishery business.
I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m not doing enough. If I met a younger me, I’d ask him to not procrastinate – to break everything and keep moving. Maybe I’d be more fulfilled if I had moved that way. Maybe not. As things are, I have zero regrets.
Midway through “Opotoyi“, Naira Marley’s first song since his release on bail as he faces charges of fraud, the rapper stops what is a fast-tempo dance song to preach:
“Ko s’ogun aiku, iku lo gara ju, werey to’n s’ogun aiku fun gan, t’oba ku tan bawo lo se fe gba refund“
In English: “There’s no way to beat death; if there’s anyone who’s gullible enough to pay for such charms, how will he get his refund if he dies?”
In isolation, it would be a confounding statement, but as a part of “Opotoyi”, it is a targeted show-off of street smarts that stands out on a song that’s little more than an exercise in crass shit-talking, delivered in perfect street lingo.
In the last few months, the rapper/singer, real name Afeez Fashola, has become a phenomenon mired in controversy. Not much is known of his early life. He moved to the UK as a teenager. According to a recently-surfaced news report, he was one of many young people declared wanted by Lewisham Police for crimes ranging from robbery to sexual assault on a night bus in 2014. He made a light splash in the UK rap scene shortly after before a brief hiatus.
When he returned, he was the perfect hybrid of two cultures. Naira Marley raps in a mix of Pidgin, English and Yoruba in a drugged drawl spiced with a South London accent. In subject matter, he’s more similar to Obesere, the vulgar Nigerian fuji icon than Kida Kudz, another Nigerian/UK rapper from his generation.
A string of hits and ample use of social media, buoyed by strategic friendships with Lagos socialite, Rahman Jago and one of the hottest commodities in Nigerian music, Zlatan Ibile, shot him into the top 10 of streaming charts and made him a party staple.
Since March 2019, Naira Marley has owned at least two of the 10 most streamed songs in Nigeria. In a notoriously fickle music space like Nigeria’s, such a drastic change in fortunes often inspires artists to tighten their bootstraps. Not Marley.
Over the course of three months starting April 2019, Naira Marley grabbed a seat on the back of outrage and shot himself to infamy. On April 6, soft-spoken singer/songwriter Simi criticised internet fraudsters in a Live session on her Instagram. Simi has an appetite for social commentary on issues from football to politics; and after several tweets on the topic, a fan had told her to leave yahoo boys alone.
The IG live session appeared spontaneous but it was not unwarranted. As Simi would go on to say, “I’m not the problem, the world is laughing at us”. Nigeria has earned an unhealthy reputation for breeding a daring strain of internet fraudsters who, in 2017, earned themselves the 3rd spot in global internet crimes.
They are the more imaginative spawn of the ‘pen pal’ fraudsters of Nigeria’s 1980s, and more profitable as well — About N127 billion was lost to cybercrime in Nigeria in 2015, according to Professor Umar Danbatta, CEO of the Nigerian Communications Commission. They haven’t discarded the old playbook either — Nigerian prince scams still rake in over $700,000 a year, as this report by the CNBC claims.
In a sea of vitriolic responses to Simi’s video, Naira Marley stood tall, launched his own Instagram live session and offeredreasons, including reparations for the transatlantic slave trade, on why internet fraud is justified.
The events that followed read like the final chapters of a Ben Okri book. Days later, on April 22, Naira Marley took to Instagram to accuse Simi of snubbing him at an event, “@symplysimi I saw u at d homecoming last night, u look sad & upset.. why? Am I a yahoo boy?” he wrote beneath a picture of him. The caption has since been changed.
No publicity is bad publicity, someone once said. And once online conversation pushed the spat to viral proportions, it was only a matter of time before Naira would take advantage. Released on May 9, “Am I A Yahoo Boy”, a trap single featuring Zlatan, expanded on Marley’s IG video by asking rhetorically, if the two were in fact internet fraudsters. Within hours, the song shot to the top of digital streaming charts.
Naira Marley may have offered answers on the song but the EFCC wanted more. As the cock crowed in the wee hours of May 10, Zlatan, Naira Marley and three others were arrested during a raid on Zlatan’s residence at Ikate, Lekki, Lagos.
While Zlatan regained his freedom after days of questioning, Naira Marley’s fate was more thorough. On May 30, the rapper was arraigned before a Lagos court on 11 counts of violating the Cyber Crimes Act of 2015, and granted bail in the sum of 2 million naira. Days later, Marley was free.
Many had first expected Naira Marley’s first song after his arrest to be a plaintive reaction to his stint in jail. Music typically reflects the state of whoever’s making it. As shown by every artist from Sinzu to Zlatan, who recorded “Four Days In Ekotie-Eboh” upon his own release, time behind bars typically inspires bars of the written kind.
Instead, Naira released “Opotoyi (Marlians)”, a lewd song for drunken nights, filled with vulgar appraisals of the female body and drug use. In any other artist’s case, it would have gone down as a wasted opportunity to attract valuable sympathy. For Naira Marley however, his devotion to a certain way of life and his efforts to celebrate it trump everything else.
https://www.instagram.com/p/BxSYYarAhRs/
Despite introducing himself to the audience as a semi-IJGB schooled in Lagos street life, Naira Marley has always shown allegiance to the latter part of his identity. His early releases wouldn’t sound out of place on a London DJ’s playlist, but over time, Naira has gradually unveiled his ‘real face’.
From his frequent Instagram Live sessions to his very public responses to trending issues and his affiliation with suspected gang members, even when singing about seemingly innocuous topics like football on “Issa Goal” or the paparazzi on “Illuminati”, Naira has always offered up subtle and sometimes overt praise for two of the biggest scourges that are defining a generation of Nigerian youth today — internet fraud and drug abuse.
Covered by the sheen of celebrity and glossy music videos, Naira Marley can be easy to digest. At best, he’s seen as a playful charlatan; at worst, a harmless nihilist. It belies the fact that the real-life version of the persona that he offers is much darker.
You’ve seen him before; the average street boy who is as quick to hustle for a wad of notes as he is to explore the shorter route there. He doesn’t care what you think; he is often eager to project power, physical or financial. He is one of the people who make up Naira Marley’s core fanbase.
https://www.instagram.com/p/Bs55zK5DvVS/
The “Marlians”, as they are called, are a survivalist bunch, groomed in a dog-eat-dog world where morality is a fickle construct and strength in numbers is a policy. While well-meaning Nigerians applauded on Twitter his arrest, they complained that EFCC chose to arrest him on his birthday.
The burning question of how Naira Marley secured their attention and devotion and became a “national star” is worth discussing. For decades, the music of Nigeria’s most culturally-vibrant ghettos has often existed in its own vacuum – with only a few artists making the journey to nationwide acceptance and becoming relative ambassadors. The analogy that best describes this process is crossing the third mainland bridge.
No one crosses the Third Mainland Bridge except to meet a need on the other side. In a sense, it can feel more like a journey between social classes, than a trip on a 14km-long bridge. One end of the bridge has always felt left out when it comes to popular music.
It’s easy to recognise what we’ve come to describe as street music – amateurish production, aggressive delivery, subject matter that focuses on dance or occasionally larger-than-life ideas ranging from ‘hustle’ to ‘fate’.
https://www.instagram.com/p/BpXdh3cDARU/
Since Kerewa became a national hit and topic of concern among Nigerian parents fearing for their impressionable young kids, the music of Nigeria’s slums has only ever blown up courtesy of acceptance on the other side of the bridge – in Lekki’s snazzy clubs and lounges, behind location filters and retro-cameras of highbrow Lagos and its islands.
The Shaku-Shaku sound and dance that dominated 2018 are the most definitive examples. According to its biggest ambassadors, Slimcase and Mr Real, Shaku-Shaku and the drum-heavy sound of hit songs like”Legbegbe” and “Diet” became integral parts of the culture in Agege, a not-so-highbrow area of Lagos since 2016. Yet it did not reach nationwide acceptance until the dance became a social media phenomenon, with celebrities from Genevieve to D’banj taking stabs at it.
It soon showed up in the Island’s biggest clubs. DJs, ever the willing suppliers, found the songs to fit – and introduced new audiences to its stalwarts. Collaborations spurred more hits and by the time concert season came in December 2018, the only thing that mattered was Shaku-Shaku.
On your first attempt to juggle your memory, it would appear Naira Marley’s journey happened on the shoulders of the Zanku – the dance style popularised by Zlatan that leveraged Shaku-Shaku’s entry into the mainstream and hasn’t gone away since.
The reality is much less linear: Naira Marley crossed the third mainland a lot earlier, in the most innocuous of ways. It happened thanks to a song you may remember from that one time Nigeria’s World Cup jersey stunned the world – 2018’s “Issa Goal”.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=im22OgaMImk
Unknown to most of his audience prior to its release, the song presented Naira Marley as a UK resident who was in love with the country of his birth and had the lingo to earn his place alongside Lil Kesh and Olamide . It was also picked up by Coca-Cola as the Nigerian National Team’s unofficial theme song for the 2018 World Cup. It was a move which, unwittingly, put him in a class alongside other prominent young Nigerians with more friendly brands, like Alex Iwobi and Wizkid.
His follow-up, “Japa” contains a more overt reference to credit card fraud, but if anyone heard, and some people raised concerns, everyone soon got drowned out by the noise of feet stomping on both sides of the bridge.
“Am I A Yahoo Boy” will perhaps go down as the most definitive song in Naira Marley’s career. The song’s title was the perfect query for the situation that birthed it – which is why it is worth noting that both artistes glorify internet fraud on a song which was supposed to acquit them of these accusations. Naira Marley’s arrest was celebrated in certain circles as a quick reaction to a budding menace. And it would have an effect, just not the one we expected — Marley’s message had stuck.
In the eyes of his fans, he’s become the street kid who’d made it enough to earn himself a love/hate relationship with the elite. He’s known by everyone from A-list artists to an audience out of Nigeria and the UK that loves his music but refuses to accept his violent nihilism — a way of life that Marlians are all too familiar with. What’s not to aspire to?
Make no mistake; Naira Marley knows exactly what he’s doing. Behind the braids, droopy eyes and seemingly haphazard behaviour is an artist who cross-pollinated Nigerian andUK street culture to produce a hybrid that has done what countless PR firms and record labels have struggled to pull off.
He’s dropped three songs since his arrest in May: “Why”, “Opotoyi” and “Soapy”. If you’re willing to explore the pattern, it goes far beyond his recent releases; he’s learned to pick the most targeted song titles, using words that draw instant reaction or take advantage of a trend.
“Issa Goal” made him one of the faces of a country’s appearance at the World Cup. “Japa” brought a common slang to life by embodying a generation’s obsession with evading haters, hard times or in his case, London’s Met Police. “Illuminati” was an attempt to elevate perceptions of his stardom by name-dropping a group that is believed by some to give musicians stardom in exchange for their souls. “Am I A Yahoo Boy” took advantage of the heavy buzz following his defence of internet fraud. “Opotoyi” stamped the “Marlians” as a community. Each of these songs has been streamed over one million times.
His latest release, an unfortunate dance single titled “Soapy” is an effort to strengthen his hold on that community. The song references his stint in jail and has been described as an effort to draw attention to the terrible conditions in Nigerian jails. However, on the morning of its release, Naira Marley took to social media to unveil the “Ijo Soapy”, the accompanying dance style that mimics public masturbation. It has taken only a few days for the song to become a menace.
“Don’t you trust me; trust me, I don’t trust myself” – Naira Marley (“Jogor“, Zlatan, Kesh and Naira Marley, 2018)
What Naira Marley represents isn’t just his music. The rapper may be his own biggest fan and his brand of pedagogy is largely self-serving. What more evidence does one need than that cringe-worthy self-comparison to Africa’s greatest individuals – Fela Kuti, Nelson Mandela – on “Am I A Yahoo Boy?”.
Yet it’s finding a greater audience than we expected because it’s the reality of a street culture that we’ve ignored for so long. It’s why the primary defence by most of his fans is that his music reflects reality; they’re correct. If terms like ‘maga’, ‘opotoyi’, ‘ase’ seem to be entering the popular lexicon, it’s because they were already in use before – albeit on the wrong side of the bridge.
The best evidence of the diversity of Naira Marley’s clan is best found on his Instagram. Hundreds of his fans have volunteered submissions of themselves doing his Ijo Soapy. Those who have made it to his page are more varied than you’ll expect; a group of young Peckham teenagers dancing around in circles, young Nigerian women in glossy lace at an Owambe, a stripper and not least by any means, Lil Kesh.
https://www.instagram.com/p/Bp_7wWADVjb/
He may be an outcast in the hallowed halls of Naija twitter. But in the places where it often matters, away from the moral certitudes of ‘woke’ conversations, Naira Marley has held himself up a beacon of rebellion and young adult angst.
Like Simi did in April, many of Naira Marley’s colleagues have described his newest offering as what it is — a new low. Dancer, Kaffy is the latest person to do this. “In the history of Naija dance, I’ve never seen a more disgusting dance immoral dance called Soapy. It should never be encouraged,” she wrote in an Instagram post.
https://www.instagram.com/p/BzbV-IxBwb1/
For all its worth, her voice and that of many others count. But when compared with the viral rates with which new videos of people dancing Soapy are popping up on social media, the reality gets even more worrying.
The question we need to ask is this: Are we ready for an artist who does not care what anybody thinks and has a horde of raucous if misdirected young adult males hanging on his every pronouncement?
Naira Marley knows what he’s doing, do we?
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There’s so much music out there that it’s hard for even the most loyal fans to stay up with their favourite artists or what’s new and hot right now. That’s why we’ve created #BumpThis – a daily series that features the one song you need to listen to, every day. Don’t say we never did anything for you.
“Where did Mojeed go?” is a question that every Nigerian rap aficionado has asked or had to answer in some form over the last five years.
A notoriously-reclusive rapper with a penchant for descriptive storytelling, Mojeed warmed his way into the hearts of fans with what some argue is the best mixtape out of Nigeria in a decade.
5 years after “Westernized West African” was released, the mixtape is back on streaming platforms as a remastered album.
“No Time”, a song about ambition, success and longevity, is one of the mixtape’s standout cuts. Backed by a spaced-out beat by Leriq, Mojeed sings a prayer for long life and enough time for his dreams to come through.
“Cream of the crop, I swear the root of all evil got me paying these tithes now“, is how he opens the first verse. Mojeed’s stop-start delivery is one of his main quirks and he pauses for effect often here. He raps with more aggression on the second verse and his biggest influences – East Coast rap, Jay-Z and Juju shine through. “Shey waw’ago mi if you don’t know what time it is” is an invitation to keep up with him. It sets off snapshots of stories about the pace and the distractions of fast-paced paper chasing.
“No Time” has everything that won Mojeed his fans and kept them loyal since. He has an uncanny ability to switch between English, Yoruba and Pidgin mid-verse. The multilayered verses remind you of Hov. And the Surulere/NYC rapper does it with a slurred but precise delivery that is pretty much ear candy.
Five years after it first cracked our consciousness, “No Time” sounds as up-to-date as the day it was released. Maybe it’s a small sign that Mojeed’s prayers may have been answered.
Where the hell is Mojeed, man?
After years of seemingly waddling on the edges of his breakthrough, Burna Boy’s celebrating his 28th birthday as one of, if not the biggest artist out of Nigeria in 2019.
The Port Harcourt-born singer/rapper had a stellar 2018 as we outlined here, and he’s maintained that energy in 2019.
This year, he’s strung together a run of hits and wins that seems endless. With his fourth studio album, “African Giant” scheduled to drop in the second half of this year, there’s no sign he’s letting up anytime soon.
As Burna turns 28, we celebrate his five biggest moments since his last birthday.
His Coachella Debut
Rocking a custom design by Kenneth Ize, Burna Boy made his Coachella debut in 2019. The announcement was almost overshadowed by his show of ‘big font energy’ – his way of asking for greater recognition among peers from around the world.
Burna’s set was also polarizing as we reviewed here . In retrospect, it was a welcome sign that stakeholders in the right rooms and audiences had become aware of this rebel’s talent.
Winning Artist of The Year at the SoundCity MVP Awards
Once upon a time, the Headies (or the HipHop World Awards as they were once known) were the biggest stamps of a Nigerian artist’s success over the year in review. After many reiterations, the Soundcity MVP awards have emerged as another worthy seal. The 2018 edition was particularly remarkable in that it cosigned an important change of the guard.
After years of Wizkid and Davido dominating best artist awards, Burna Boy was named the artist of the year at a ceremony that felt like an oft-postponed coronation than anything else. The award was an early call that Burna had won 2018.
His mother’s warning to “expect more madness” as she received the award on his behalf was even more poignant. It was a perfect way to let us know that Burna wasn’t planning on relinquishing his new throne anytime soon.
“Killin’ Dem” w/ Zlatan Ibile
As 2018 drew to an end, it seemed pretty certain that “Ye” would be the song of the holidays. Despite taking its time to warm its way into our hearts and playlists, the song has reached anthemic proportions by the end of the year.
Then, out of the blue, Burna tapped Zlatan Ibile and the Zanku sound he’d made popular to create “Killin Dem”. The song ensured that Burna had the three biggest songs, “Ye”, “On The Low” and “Killin Dem”, as we entered the December concert season, and set a marker for his 2019. 6 months later and the songs still bangs like a fresh release.
Burna Live
Controversy typically follows the biggest artists like moths drawn to a flame. In Burna’s case, however, it has shown up at the most unfortunate moments. One of the sadder instances happened in 2017; after a fairly good year, Burna was scheduled to headline his own showcase, “The Burna Boy Concert”.
However, the show was suffocated by allegations that Burna had sent thugs to harass fellow PH singer, Mr 2kay. The police soon intervened and Burna appeared in court. After days of uncertainty, the show was cancelled. In retrospect, it would go on to mean next to nothing.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eLTAR5fCkWc
Burna Boy pulled off an even better year next time around. As 2018 drew to a close, Burna announced “Burna Live”. This time, fate dealt him a better hand. He might have been four hours late to his own show but when the man climbed on stage, his people claimed him, in screams of “Burna”, “Rankin” and all the other nicknames he has come to be known by. An ascension five years in the making was complete.
Winning Best International Act at the 2019 BET Awards
Award shows have become notorious over time for going off-script. Popular examples include Kanye West’s outburst at the VMAs and Burna’s walk-out after being denied the award for the Next Rated Category at the 2012 Headies. Burna’s nomination for the 2019 BET Awards was expected. The events that followed his announcement as the winner of the “Best International Artiste” award were anything but.
“Every black person should please remember that You were Africans before you were anything else” -Mama Burna #BETAwards
Noticing that her son was missing from the hall, Burna’s momager. Bose Ogulu took the stage to receive the award on her son’s behalf. The final words of her brief speech – “Every black person should please remember that You were Africans before you were anything else” – have become a watchword on Malcolm X’s Internet.
It’s Burna’s day; but Mama Burna deserves all the roses too.
There’s so much music out there that it’s hard for even the most loyal fans to stay up with their favourite artists or what’s new and hot right now. That’s why we’ve created #BumpThis – a daily series that features the one song you need to listen to, every day. Don’t say we never did anything for you.
It was 2011 when Wizkid and Olamide – seemingly predestined to be Afropop’s next torchbearers – made “Omo To Shan”, a rap/sung collaboration that embodied the nuances of that year’s popular hit songs.
Eight years later, the duo’s reunion on “Totori” – while not their first since the days when Wizkid slept and woke in snapbacks – is the perfect representation of just how much the sound they helped build on and export throughout their respective careers has evolved.
“Totori” is not remarkable for the reasons that superstar collabs often are; instead, the two, now icons with the numbers and cultural impact to show for it, emphasise the traits that have given them their longevity.
All Wizkid needs is a mid-tempo beat with the right pre-hook pause and he will have your body dancing while your mind works overtime trying to figure what he’s talking about. Olamide is deep in his pocket on this one – he’s always willing to vividly describe his antics with women, real or imagined.
The real stars of the show are behind the scenes. ID Cabasa – the iconic producer who introduced Olamide to the world – delivers an evergreen, reggae-inspired beat that both artists find a home on, years after he did the same on “Omo To Shan”.
In the music video for “Totori”, Director T. G Omori builds a restrained portrait of Nigerian street culture – complete with colours, references to style and scores of kids gathering for a night’s entertainment in front of a lone TV screen.
Together, the four seem to capture 10 years worth of evolution in the space of three-odd minutes. Take it all in. It took a lot to get here.
Nigerians, much like the country we come from, can be varying reiterations of the same living, breathing paradox. One of the best examples is in how we view our attitude – Any description of Nigerians that does not use the word ‘resilient’ often feels incomplete, yet we have unimaginably short fuses.
Ever walked through Ojuelegba on a Monday evening, preferably between the hours of 5 to 6 pm? You can almost taste the anger in the air, whether it manifests as car horns tooting unnecessarily or frustrated office goers trying to find their way back home in time to manage 2.3 hours of sleep.
If you’re lucky enough, you might even catch a fight or two. Did you hear that short burst of noise followed by a heavy thud and then even more noise? That’s the fight. It already happened.
Nigerians get angry at just about everything. But older Nigerians – well, they’re in a class all their own. We could chalk it down to a number of things, but what matters is that they like things a certain way.
Never mind that this ‘way’ is like the Manchester United way, a myth that is only usefuul for criticising perceived slights. When things don’t go the way an older Nigerian wants, you will know.
Sometimes, as in one case that involved a certain Nigerian Nobel Prize winner and Tony One Week, they begin by acting like they’re angry on behalf of other people. But do not be deceived – as we’ve learned from our mothers and fathers, it can be beautiful to watch, except more often than not, like the bicep-tattoo guy from this story, you’ll end up being blamed for everything, even if you were completely within your rights.
To avoid stories that touch, many of us have had to learn the inner working of the older Nigerian’s mind since we first tried to hand our parents money with our left hands and spent the remaining week wondering if we were adopted.
We want to help you too – that’s why we put together a few things that are sure to annoy any Nigerian. I would advise you to not do these things, but seeing as you may be Nigerian too, just do as you wish. I’m not trying to annoy you either.
Tell Them To Line Up In A Queue
Nigerians live by our own laws – and we make them up as we go. It’s not that we are allergic to queues. It’s just that we know there are faster ways to get inside that bus than asking people to line up.
When you’re younger, it may involve flying in through the window. But when you’ve lived up to 60 years in this endless re-enactment of “12 Years A Slave”, the average Pa Bayo believes he’s earned the right to jump the queue and just get what you need done. Woe betide you if you dare ask him to respect the line? What could you ever know about respect?
Show Them That You Don’t Know Who They Are
This is how 90% of fights that happen in traffic get escalated. Random guy bashes other random guy’s car. The two begin a shouting match, then the older man hits turbo mode, beats his chest, raises his hands and shouts to the high heavens, “DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?”.
No, we don’t, oga. Nobody does. Who you epp? Who are you? Do you have grey hair and stories of fighting in the Burma War that just don’t add up given you’re still alive? No? Now that you’ve been stupid enough to ask, kindly enjoy the endless trolling you just earned yourself.
Ask For Your Seat Back
Kindly see the Twitter post below. May God save us from fighting on behalf of people who did not send us message.
Or worse still, do something that shows you do not acknowledge or regard their presence. See, respect is to older Nigerians what croissants are to the French and Pasta is to Italians. That’s why the preferred Yoruba way of greeting older people can range from a slowed-down push-up to lying down with legs flailing like a beached whale.
I’m convinced that Nigerians have a secret pouch that you collect when we turn 30 where allows us to collect respect throughout the day and convert it into dollars or something. That’s the only explanation.
Serve an older Nigerian food without obstacles
‘Obstacles’ or ‘motivation’ is slang for the random, often lonely piece of meat or fish that motivates the average Nigerian to finish his/her meal. Never mind that in other climes, meat and fish are major parts of people’s diets as opposed to the way we present them as the cherry on the top of a giant bowl of rice.
God forbid you serve an older relative their food without meat; on the rare occasion that it’s unavoidable, you’ll have to apologise in person before serving the food. When you don’t, if they’re nice enough to not insult you in person, you’ll see it in the Church or Family Whatsapp group in a matter of weeks. Don’t ask how.
Having a Foreigner Insult The Country
No one knows how shitty Nigeria is more than the people who come from here, for obvious reasons. So kindly explain why we should allow a foreigner to leave their own country and drag our own through the mud? Answer na!
The funny thing about this is that we could well argue that the older generation of Nigerians oversaw our descent into the abyss – and many of them agree. But here’s the thing – they might not like the men in charge of our country’s affairs or how they’re running the country, they may drag us and our name in the mud in their Whatsapp BCs on a daily basis, But please be informed that they are the only people allowed to do these things. This thing should be in the official Nigeria Travel Guide even.
What other ways do you know to annoy just about any older Nigerian? What did we leave out? Let us know in that box below..
There’s so much music out there that it’s hard for even the most loyal fans to stay up with their favourite artists or what’s new and hot right now. That’s why we’ve created #BumpThis – a daily series that features the one song you need to listen to, every day. Don’t say we never did anything for you.
Call it the rainy season or summer if you will – the holiday season between June and October is synonymous, on a global scale, with lavish parties, holidays, colour and the kind of music that you can absent-mindedly party to.
Songs don’t become party anthems because of their storytelling. But on “Greed”, two of Nigerian pop’s more exciting upstarts, Jinmi Abduls and Oxlade, manage to fit a stern story about cheating on their babes into what is sure to be a certified summer bop.
Both artists are at the forefront of a generation that is extending the ranges of a new mid-tempo take on Afropop; as such it is not surprising that the song starts out bare. Oxlade’s voice providing much of the melody singing out in apparent desperation, “I no fit do without you, my love” before Jinmi Abduls launches into his tale about cheating on his woman because of greed.
The song starts off in smooth folksy/R&B territory – a lane that Jinmi Abduls‘ has laid in on songs like “Prada” from his 2017 project, “Jinmi Of Lagos” and “Eko” on the follow-up, “Jinmi Of Lagos 2”.
But just as you begin to get comfortable, heavy drums bring it to life and place you smack in the middle of the most laid-back summer vibe. The tempo alternates between languid, through both artists’ verses and upbeat – when Oxlade calls to his “Oga pastor” to convince his woman that cheating is actually off-brand behaviour for him.
This constant inflexion is what stands out most about “Greed” – the hook delivers on traditional pop tropes, yet it incorporates Abduls’ taste for languid production & Oxlade’s love of percussion and rhythm.
“Greed” may be about cheating but it’s happy enough to move to and its multiple layers have enough to satisfy the most avid listener.
There’s so much music out there that it’s hard for even the most loyal fans to stay up with their favourite artists or what’s new and hot right now. That’s why we’ve created #BumpThis – a daily series that features the one song you need to listen to, every day. Don’t say we never did anything for you.
Genres exist for a reason. Artists like Remy Baggins and Tomi Thomas exists to subvert that reason, however strong you think it may be. The former, a multi-versed audio creative has, with projects like “Eigengrau” and production credits ranging from trap to sultry R&B, shown his ability to build a home in diverse, often detailed soundscapes. On “Vibrate”, he enlists another genre-bender in L.O.S member, Tomi Thomas.
https://www.instagram.com/p/Byiy4w8AJWc/
The song is a cut from Baggins’ just-released album, “Hentai” which is named after the sexually-lewd variety of Japanese anime. As its name suggests, the song oozes sex. The production, however, doesn’t give it all away. It is detailed, yet bubbly afro-fusion – the kind that makes you believe Lagos is actually a holiday destination and demands to be listened to in a cab speeding towards a beach party.
Yet, the two artists let you know that the subject matter is the oldest dance and little else. Baggins sings in absurdly lewd detail about the things he wants to do to and with this unnamed woman he’s obsessed with. He promises to do right by her, describing elaborately just how much she’ll enjoy his ‘company’.
Much like the rest of “Hentai”, the song transforms sultry into adventurous, straddling the fine line between music for knacks and “put me in your summer playlist and jam with the guys”.
Tomi Thomas speeds things up even further – conjuring the image of a confident, adventurous lover. He does what he’s always done well – putting your imagination to the test with lyrics sung with the verve of a preacher. And he does so without overshadowing Baggins.
Together, the two make knacks as much of a vibe as it ever has been. 100% recommended for this June weather.
Stream Remy Baggins & Tomi Thomas’ “Vibrate” here.
There’s so much music out there that it’s hard for even the most loyal fans to stay up with their favourite artists or what’s new and hot right now. That’s why we’ve created #BumpThis – a daily series that features the one song you need to listen to, every day. Don’t say we never did anything for you.
Not since Wande Coal has an audience and artists alike been as voracious in their praise of an upstart as they are of Oxlade, the 22-year singer from Surulere who made “Shugar” and “Causing Trouble” w/ Dj Tunez.
He has cosigns saying the exact same thing from NotJustOk founder, Ovie and one of his closest peers, Blaqbonez. On “Legend”, his third major release in a matter of months, Oxlade creates a self-fulfilling prophecy that shows why.
The horns and backing vocals on “Legend” sound like what happens when a Jon Bellion OST meets the women of a Nigerian church choir. The melody created is fitting because of Oxlade’s against all odds story.
https://www.instagram.com/p/By5ji5zASY6/
One of the best things about Oxlade and thus this song is that he sings like he has no other option. Passion oozes when he sings painfully about being rebuffed by his family for choosing music over more formal professions – “Family no wan gree make I do music, Them say which of my brothers wey dey do music“. It’s a scenario that is instantly relatable for any average Nigerian who’s ever tried to convince their parents to see the value of a life spent chasing one’s dreams.
And like the melody and the backing vocals, the songwriting elevates the entire song -“No be me sabi pass, I no be Xavi” – is the kind of cheeky line that makes you chuckle but ultimately reminds you that Olaitan knows where he stands and what he’s doing.
Oxlade’s “Legend” drips with a certain self-awareness of his promise. He says he recorded it in 2017 – before his more popular hit, “Shugar” which makes it even more poignant. Self-assurance never sounded so good.
