This article is part of Had I Known, Zikoko’s theme for September 2025, where we explore Nigerian stories of regret and the lessons learnt. Read more Had I Known stories here.
Every artist has that one song they wish could be removed from their catalogue — the track that makes them wince whenever fans scream at shows, or the one they recorded just to please a label, a producer, or even their younger self who didn’t know better.
Not every gamble pays off in the fast-paced world of Nigerian music, where trends shift as quickly as TikTok sounds. Sometimes, the beat slaps, but the lyrics age poorly. Other times, the song simply doesn’t represent who the artist has grown to become.
In this list, we revisit 10 Nigerian artists who are brutally honest about the songs they’d delete if they could.
“It’s too vulnerable and it shouldn’t have been for public consumption.” — Sewà, singer-songwriter.
I just released my latest single, “Àsìkò,” and many people loved it. But what they don’t know is that the songwriting’s backstory isn’t sweet.
My mom’s friend’s daughter got married, which prompted my mom to ask me if I was seeing anyone. I told her I wasn’t and was focusing on only music for now. She said it was no problem, and I should take my time, whenever I’m ready.
After that conversation, I felt a little down and birthed the chorus: “Asiko n lo, oun lo o / Tell me when do I feel loved?”
The message has three parts for me. The first is a question of “Do I love myself?” The second is, “How do I love you if I don’t even love myself?” and the third is, “Why do you love people who don’t care about you?”
It’s too vulnerable and shouldn’t have been for public consumption.
Even one of my backup singers isn’t comfortable singing a part of the song where I say, “Do I even love myself?” That song should never have seen the light of day. Sitting in my vault, it’s one of those songs that should have been something solely for me.
“How could I be celebrating a new release when people were fighting for justice and getting shot at?” — Mo’Gunz, rapper and singer.
I remember the #EndSARS protest in 2020 clearly, but not in the way most people do. While the streets were filled with protesters and youths fighting for their lives, I was at home, celebrating. I had just released a new song titled “Top Boy.” The plan was to do a big social media push, get it everywhere, and celebrate the moment.
I was so focused on the drop. The song was a banger; it was something I’d worked on for months, and I was so proud of it. We had the artwork ready, the marketing plan, everything. I was on my phone, watching the streams go up, feeling that rush. But then I looked outside: people were marching and chanting. My friends were posting videos from the protests, their voices thick with anger and passion.
It hit me all at once. My new song was completely out of touch with the reality on ground. How could I be celebrating a new release when people were in the streets, fighting for justice and getting shot at? The moment I realised it, my excitement turned to shame. I pulled back from all the promotion, but it was too late. The song was out there. To this day, it’s a reminder of a bad decision.
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“The producer came back again and asked to be added as a primary artist to the release.” — Eniola Havoc, rapper.
Early in 2023, I was invited to a recording camp by a producer, and I was the only artist there. After transporting myself to the location and back with my money, the day ended quite productive and we made two songs. Not long after the session, the producer sent me an mp3 mixdown of just one of the songs we made together.
At the time I had a two-year management contract I was running on, but I had the creative freedom to make whatever I wanted. I played that one song I got off the session to my team, and they were confident the song would make a perfect single for the album I was making at the time. Months after that initial recording session, I called the producer to let him know my plans for the record and even offered a 50% split. He agreed to the terms, but insisted I give him an advance payment.
A year later, I officially released the song, titled “She A 10”, after so much drama and stalling, the producer came back again with a different request and asked to be added as a primary artist to the release. At that point I was already drained after spending over a hundred thousand naira on the post production and the distribution. It didn’t feel like it was worth the stress anymore. So, I didn’t give in to his request.
The producer took the song down. In less than a month, he came again, trying to get me to put the song back up on DSPs, but I was done and ignored him. The song is still on Audiomack, but that’s it.
Meanwhile, he didn’t even talk about the second song we made or send me a mixdown like he did with the first one. In fact, I still haven’t heard it since 2023 when we made it.
“One can tell that it was just a good day in the studio, not a lot of thoughts were put into it.” — Mo’Believe, singer-songwriter.
I should have thought of a better plan before I released “Perfect (Ebe)” in 2020. My producer and I were on a high when we made that song, just two guys in a room, happy to be making music. You can hear it in the track; it’s pure studio euphoria. No big plan or deep thought, just a good vibe. I listened to it and thought, “What’s the harm in putting this out?” My team loved it, so I figured that was all the sign I needed. I released it without a second thought.
And then, nothing. The song just existed. It didn’t blow up, but it didn’t flop either. I thought I should’ve had a better plan to push it. But looking back now, maybe why the song just sat there, adding nothing to my career, good or bad, was because one can easily tell that it was just a good day in the studio and there weren’t a lot of thoughts put into it.
I released the song in the spur of the moment, and now I have a track out there that I wish I shelved for good or took the time to properly finish. Though I’m learning these days that songs are like kids, we give birth to them, but can’t be sure what they’d turn out to be. The best I can do is put out what I won’t hate releasing after some time.
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“I realised the title itself carried a perception I did not want associated with me.” — Samvsthekids, rapper and singer.
The year was 2023, and I had just arrived in Enugu for my youth service. The city had an energy I immediately connected with, and I was soaking it all in, meeting people, exploring, and feeling inspired.
It was around that time I linked up with Jubal (J-V-B-A-L), a talented producer from the University of Nigeria, and Munna, an experimental alternative rapper. We decided to make a track that sampled a trending sound at the time called “On Colos.” Just to be clear, the song was not about glorifying any substance, it was just a vibe, a piece of music we felt people would enjoy. And they did.
We performed it a few times, and the audience loved it. On Spotify alone, it racked up over 10,000 streams in just a few months. It felt like one of those moments where everything clicks, and you cannot help but smile at the reception.
Fast forward to 2024, when I finished NYSC and stepped into the professional workforce. A few weeks into my new role, some of my superiors discovered my TikTok, and specifically, that song. I was called into HR. The conversation could have been intimidating, but I did not panic. I just said something along the lines of, “Ma, if you are the one who sings like this, will you not post it online?”
Was I bold? Definitely. Surprising? Absolutely. But it worked. I left the room calm and unshaken.
As I continued to grow professionally, I started reflecting on the song. Even though the message was not about the substance, I realised the title itself carried a perception I did not want associated with me professionally. So, I made the tough decision to take the song down, even though it had been one of my most popular tracks.
“I had to remove a long-time friend from that record just to fit in this artist’s verse.” — Sosa TTW, rapper and producer.
There was an artist I really wanted to collaborate with in 2022. I reached out, and at first, he acted interested and responded like he was down to do it. But then, out of nowhere, he ghosted me. No replies. Nothing.
Trying to keep the idea alive, I decided to offer payment for a verse. As soon as money came into the picture, he suddenly showed up again, responsive, cooperative and ready to record. We agreed and he sent in his verse. As the release date approached, his manager started acting very enthusiastic. He even said I should be open and communicate with them about the release. The artist echoed the same sentiment. They both made it seem like we were all on the same page and excited to push the song.
When the song finally dropped and I reached out to the manager for help with Audiomack support, he hit me with, “Do I work at Audiomack?” That one sentence told me everything I needed to know.
The artist barely did any promo, but when it came time to talk about royalties, he was quick to ask for his share.
What makes it worse is that I had to remove a long-time friend from that record just to fit in this artist’s verse. I made that choice thinking it would elevate the track. In hindsight, I regret releasing the song at all and that was eventually pushed me to remove it from all DSPs.
“That shit hurt my motivation, for real.” — T.O.D SZN, rapper.
So far, in my career, I’ve tried out a bunch of different sounds. I’ve never been scared of new beats and styles. That’s how I keep my creation process natural and unforced.
I once made a song titled “Fall” in January 2024. It’s a drill song with trap influences, and I delivered a strong vocal performance in both pidgin and English. When I played this song for friends and sent it out to fellow creatives, their heads bopped uncontrollably. They urged me to drop as a matter of urgency, and with the way the drill soundscape was gaining popularity, I felt like that was the best idea. I was feeling myself and thought I had done something special with the song.
But it didn’t drop on time. I relocated to the U.K and had to get acclimated with my new environment and figure many things out first. This led to a 6-month hiatus. When I got back to music and was ready to release the song, I thought, “Why give them one song, when I can put out an EP and make them understand what’s been going on with me?”
So, I added three other songs alongside “Fall”. When I eventually did release the tape in August, “Fall” would get the lowest streams across all platforms. Mentally, I couldn’t understand why no one was listening to this one in particular. I thought it was the best.
What exactly I did wrong with that track, I don’t know. I used to think I should have packaged it as a single, but from the way it was regarded and overlooked, I’d say I’d rather have not dropped and enjoyed that one with my friends.
“After a deep reflection, I began to see why they thought the line signals tribalism.” — VRSD, rapper.
In 2020, I released an EP that has a song titled “Hold Your Glass,” a straight up braggadocious display of lyricism. Everyone that jammed it when it dropped loved it. I received great responses. Someone even said, “This is the kind of rap jam one would expect from the OGs.” I felt good about that compliment.
Then in 2021, I joined a cypher and rap battle competition to win $1,000. I prepared seven fresh verses and added the verses from “Hold My Glass” to it. I made it to the second tier of the competition. When it was my turn to battle again, I went hard, using the verses from “Hold My Glass.” I was confident AF in what I did.
When it was time to get the verdict, I was disqualified. Why? A few of the judges didn’t like one of my lines: “I came from where the Civil War hero came from / Benjamin Adekunle, the Black Scorpion.”
In all honesty that’s a clever line and an homage to someone from my town. The person just happened to participate in the Nigerian Civil War, which in the judges opinion shouldn’t have been lauded..
I lost that round and any chance of winning the prize money. After a deep reflection, several listens and deciphering of my own lyrics, I began to see why they thought the line signals tribalism, even though it wasn’t my intention. Now, I have a song out that people are likely to call tribalistic streaming.
I’m not a big fan of the song anymore, but I really regret not realising what those judges did before I put it out.
“What made me regret putting it out was when my seven-year-old nephew found that particular song.” — TillDayBreak, rapper.
So, I made a song titled “Spiritual” in 2023 and it’s about sexcapades and smoking weed, but I don’t indulge in those in real life. Over time, I began to feel weird and cringe whenever I heard it play. It isn’t who I am and doesn’t represent me in any way.
But what caused the regret of putting it out was when my seven-year-old nephew, who is a big fan of my music, picked up his mom’s phone to search for my music and found the track. I felt shame, like I had disappointed the little lad. From thereon, I have kept most of my songs socially conscious and PG-13.
“I was completely consumed by grief and couldn’t even think about promoting the music.” — Don Mappy, singer-songwriter.
I had just recovered from a nasty femur fracture that happened in late 2020, when I got back to making music. I poured everything I had into a new EP, a project that was deeply personal to me. I even titled it Ad Meliora, which means “towards better things.” I was ready to move past the injury and the struggle. The first track, “Anytime,” was one of the best records I’d ever created. I felt it was a strong start, a sign of better things to come.
I dropped the EP on July 7th, 2022. Just five days later, on July 12th, my dad passed away.
Suddenly, the whole meaning of Ad Meliora felt twisted. It was a cruel irony. I was completely consumed by grief and couldn’t even think about promoting the music. The project just… dropped. All that effort, all that hope, and it landed with no post-release promotion. I struggled with grief and eventually took it down. Looking back, I just wish I hadn’t released it when I did.
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