If you ask ten people what an A&R does, you’ll get at least twelve answers. The traditional definition is “artist and repertoire.” In Nigeria, however, the role is much broader. It encompasses discovering artists, guiding their development, coordinating teams, managing public perception, and ensuring that music reaches an audience.

For Timi Kevin Asaju, this responsibility is ultimately about building. It means building artists from the ground up, building the structures that support them, and building careers that can outlast hype cycles. He has seen the temptations of quick fixes—rushed releases, stream farms—but he has also seen the strength of patience, community, and loyalty. In this conversation, he reflects on his journey, his philosophy of artist development, and the values that make sustainable success possible.

What triggered the leap from journalism to the music industry?

I come from a family of journalists. I am a third-generation journalist: my great-grandfather was once president of the Nigerian Union of Journalists, and my father was the first president of the Guild of Soft Sell Publishers. So it felt natural for me to begin in journalism. I worked at CNN Africa, spent time at a couple of media houses in Nigeria, and also worked in radio. Those experiences introduced me to people and relationships that I did not realize then would later become important in my journey into music.

So when I left CNN and a friend of mine who was already more involved in music invited me into a project, I already had a foundation to build on. Around the same time, I was active on social media. I would not call myself a “banger boy,” but my tweets got solid engagement, and I understood how to use the platforms effectively. The project was at Chase Music, and they needed someone to handle marketing. I put together a draft plan, sent it in, and they asked me to lead.

The label was independent, and we had no budget, so everyone was contributing from their own pocket to push the act. I managed the marketing, and when the project dropped, it went straight to number one on Apple Music. That moment really caught my attention and showed me what was possible. From there I began working more closely with a couple of artists, and because of the network I had already built in radio and television, it became easier to connect them with opportunities that could help their careers grow.

Is it still possible to do it again with zero budget?

It is possible, but at the level I am playing at now, I do not want zero-budget projects. I would rather put proper resources behind a project and focus on scaling it the right way.

People often ask, what exactly does an A&R do? In your own words, how would you describe the role in Africa?

Let me use Nigeria as an example. Here, you really cannot limit the role of an A&R because it overlaps with so many other responsibilities. Traditionally, A&R means artist and repertoire, but in our ecosystem the role has grown. I see the A&R as more of a project manager, because you are involved in almost every stage of the artist’s journey.

It starts with scouting. An A&R discovers artists before they break out. That means going to clubs, open mics, checking social media, anywhere talent might show up. Some A&Rs work directly for labels, others operate independently. I do both, but I see myself more as a champion of independent artists.

Beyond discovery, there is also talent development. That is where you help shape the artist’s sound, image, brand, and artistry. Basically the storytelling. This is where everything comes together. So if your artist is about to drop a debut project, it is the A&R who says, “This is the direction we should take, these are the producers, songwriters, and engineers we need to work with.”

And that is only part of the job. Recording the music is maybe 30% of artistry. The marketing and storytelling behind it is often more important, because these days anyone can record. That is why the A&R also pays attention to market positioning, making sure creativity is balanced with commercial considerations. In the end, music is not just about making songs, it is also a business, and someone has to keep that in view. That is why everything around career guidance, both short-term and long-term, falls under the A&R’s role.

What if the artist’s vision clashes with that of the A&R or the artist does not want to listen? What happens then?

I think one of the most important skills an A&R must have is emotional intelligence. When you are working with artists, you quickly learn they are strong-willed and very opinionated people. You have to know how to communicate in a way that says, “I hear you, I see what you are trying to do, but let us also try this.”

Some artists are what I would call fast-food artists, chasing trends because they want to be in the moment. Others are more intentional, carefully curating their music, and those are usually the ones who go on to become legacy artists. As an A&R, you have to know how to strike that balance and find the right way to engage.

For example, in a camp, an artist may want to make a particular type of record. Because I have done this over and over again, I understand how to handle that situation. Sometimes I allow the artist to follow their own direction completely, because they might actually be right. After they have made the record they want, we can then try my approach. At the end of the day, the goal is to make great records, and you cannot get there without emotional intelligence.

How do you know which artist is worth your time and resources, and which ones you should walk away from?

I think that really comes down to each A&R or manager’s personal principles and values. For me, I have worked with a good number of independent artists over the last few years, and I have seen both sides. There was one particular case where we were making waves, everything was going well, but along the line we started having differences in values and vision. For me, there are certain non-negotiables, and if an artist does not share those priorities, then I do not think we can work together. And that is fine, because there are many A&Rs out there and an artist will always find the one that fits them best.

At the moment, I manage an artist called Jamz. I discovered her during one of the camps we organized in 2022. At the time she was still in university. We sent some demos from the camp to labels, and she started receiving really strong offers especially considering she was still in school. I showed her the deals and asked for her thoughts. She asked for my opinion, and I told her the money looked good, but the deal itself was not. She said she trusted me to do what was best, and together we rejected it.

What followed was more than a year of steady work: recording, balancing school, artist management, and development. Eventually, we released her debut record last year, and since then it has been growth step by step, feature by feature. Now we are at a point where she feels ready, and so do I, to make the kind of statement we have been building toward.

As an A&R, you cannot work with everybody. You need to have your own principles, and when those align with an artist’s, that is when you can build a truly beautiful working relationship.

How can you tell when an artist is ready to make that statement?

When I first met her in 2022, she had talent, she could sing, and she genuinely enjoyed making music. But over the last two years we have focused on developing different aspects of her artistry. A lot of people can sing. If you go to your church, you’ll find that there are better singers than you. That is why an artist has to understand not just the performance side, but also the business of music and the industry they are stepping into.

Part of that development is knowing how not to “over sing,” for lack of a better word. It is about learning how to narrow down the themes in your songs, having a clear focus. You need to build key branding elements that keep recurring in both your music and your visuals. Getting the music and the brand aligned is what creates the foundation for a loyal following

It does not have to be a massive audience at first. Even small groups that affiliate themselves with you and accept you are the beginnings of a cult following. When you can put all of that together, and it aligns consistently, that is when I believe an artist is ready to step forward and play big.

Many artists want to blow up quickly and think development is overrated. They would rather let the market decide. How do you convince them otherwise?

It still comes down to values. Take the case of the deal our artist was offered. If she was after instant gratification, she would have taken it. She was still in school at the time, and that money could have made things easier for her. But she chose to think long-term.

Our goal was not just a quick win. We wanted to build her gradually into an artist who could stand the test of time. We explained that vision, she believed in it, and she came on board fully. That alignment is what makes the journey possible, and from there we have been able to keep moving forward.

Can fans tell when an artist feels manufactured and should artists ever be created that way?

I believe you should always be true to yourself. If your music and your storytelling come from a genuine place, it will not feel manufactured or like another template artist. It is more about finding different ways to exist and evolve as yourself. That is what keeps it authentic.

What are the first steps an emerging artist should take to start building a real community or fanbase?

As an artist, your immediate community you should pay attention to should be your fellow emerging artist because no one can relate or connect to your struggle better than another artist that is probably going through the same thing. So they should link up with other artists at recording camps, network with artists there. Secondly you want to build up your presence on social media. For instance, with one of our artists, we decided that she should put our fire covers. That got us co-signs from big music execs and this wasn't engineered. It was just organic. And from there people began feeling her. They’d look out for whatever she does. And from there we had begun building a small community on social media. There are also many communities for artists springing up. The last thing you want to do as an artist is to not leverage that. Going to these events, building interesting relationships so you can be accepted into that community. There’s no one particular way to do it. If you can get yourself accepted into a community and they believe you’re one of theirs, you’re good to go.

In terms of the development process, beyond community, what else do you focus on?

With our artists, we are very particular about identity and vision, because that defines the brand. Each artist is distinct, but they all need to be clear on who they are, who they want to reach, and what kind of music they are making. You cannot say you want to speak to conscious listeners and then release music that does not connect with them.

We focus a lot on songwriting and put our artists in as many sessions as possible. Even if only a few records are released, we usually have a large catalog of demos in the vault. It is not about putting everything out at once. The goal is to make sure the story we are telling is cohesive.

Branding and imagery are also a priority. Consistency matters, because people need to see something that matches both the music and the personality. Live performance is another big part of development. We get our artists on stage at open mics and events, because performing live connects them to people in a way streaming cannot.

We pair them with different producers, testing sounds to see where the strengths are and where more work is needed. At the same time, we make sure they are part of the right conversations, because no artist can succeed in isolation. People in Nigeria, for example, class Davido, Wizkid, and Burna Boy together. It matters which set an artist is seen with.

On the business side, we structure short and long term plans and assemble a team around them: creative directors, stylists, photographers, and videographers, choosing the right people depending on the project. We also make sure our artists understand the business of music. Even when there is trust in the team, there are long term goals that go beyond just recording and performing. You can look at what Tems and Donawon are doing with Leading Vibes. That shows how the vision can stretch further than just being a singer.

All of these layers — artistry, brand, performance, networks, and business — are part of the development process, and we are constantly building on them with our artists.

That must cost a lot. How do you manage to fund several artists in development?

Development is very expensive. In truth, almost everything in the music industry is expensive. That is why it helps that I am not doing it alone. I co-founded a small management and talent company with partners who share the same belief that we have the resources and the knowledge to guide the right talents and give them a real chance. By pooling what we each bring to the table, we make the process possible.

At the same time, I think it is important for any independent A&R to treat the financial side seriously. For every naira you spend, write it down. You may not feel the need to track every detail, but do it anyway, because the day you will need that information will definitely come.

You mentioned being drawn to artists who are not making fast-food music. What makes those kinds of artists stand out to you in a trend-driven industry?

In this part of the world, people are driven by trends and whatever is hot at the moment. Personally, the kind of artists I connect with are not making fast-food music. I am drawn to those who take the long road.

If you look at what KVLT has done with Llona, you get a sense of what I mean. The storytelling is right, the branding is tight, and the music is on point. Beyond that, they are also putting in the ground work. They toured more than 20 states in Nigeria, which is probably the biggest tour anyone has done here in the last 10 to 20 years. That kind of effort shows what long-term development really looks like.

With Llona and KVLT, I think touring the country was quite courageous considering all the things that could have gone wrong.

I am from Kogi, and hearing that Llona was going there was crazy for me. I already respected them before, but my respect tripled after that. Pulling off a tour like that takes courage and serious commitment from everyone involved.

At the same time, it highlights what we still need in this industry. For long-term plays to truly work, we need proper infrastructure. We need arenas that can host shows at scale, and we need security to be reliable.

A lot of songwriting camps are being hosted in the country. In your view, what makes a great songwriting camp?

I can use myself as an example. In 2022, when I was leading operations at Chase Music, we organised two camps that ended up being the biggest in Nigeria that year. Altogether we catered to more than 600 creatives: the first camp had over 200 participants and the second was even larger. We partnered with TuneCore and kept the entry process simple. People sent in their names along with a performance, whether it was a released record, a cover, or even a freestyle. From there, we selected artists and a strong pool of producers and A&Rs.

I can use myself as an example. In 2022, when I was leading operations at Chase Music, we organised two camps that ended up being the biggest in Nigeria that year. Altogether we catered to more than 600 creatives. The first camp had over 200 participants, and the second was even larger.

We partnered with TuneCore and kept the entry process simple. People sent in their names along with a performance, whether it was a released record, a cover, or even a freestyle. From those submissions we brought together a large group of artists along with a strong pool of producers and A&Rs.

On some days, we had seven recording booths running at once. But it was not just about making music. Alongside the sessions, we brought in industry experts in distribution, legal, and copyright to educate the artists on the business side of music. That way, participants were not only creating records but also learning how to navigate the industry.

For me, that is what makes a great songwriting camp. Recording and making music is important, but like I always say, it is maybe 30 percent of the whole arc. A proper camp should also teach artists how to package themselves, understand the business, and see the bigger picture. That is what makes it valuable.

How do you manage all the egos in a room

You really cannot anticipate the kind of madness that comes with putting more than a hundred adults in one space. You cannot control every detail, but you have to accept that tensions will happen and be ready to deal with them as they come.

For example, in the camps we organise, I make it a priority to ensure the women feel safe and comfortable. That means setting up women-only rooms, making sure they have spaces where they are not under pressure, and giving them the option of working in environments where they feel respected. We also made provisions for labels and their artists to have their own spaces, so nobody felt crowded out. Creating those layers of comfort goes a long way in reducing unnecessary friction.

We also placed resident A&Rs in charge of each booth or session. Their job was to keep things moving, settle disputes quickly, and make sure people stayed focused on the music. The camps were highly organised, and from the start we set the tone. We made it clear that if everyone worked together as a community, they would achieve something far greater than if they allowed their egos to take over.

That structure — from the way we designed the spaces to the way we managed the sessions — is what allowed us to channel all that energy into something productive.

What criteria did you use to determine which artists made the cut in your selection process?

Art is very subjective, but I believe that when you hear something good you connect with it. And when you hear something with potential, you should also be able to recognise that. That ability is part of what makes a good A&R. Sometimes artists send you the most distorted, noisy demo, and if you can see through all of that and still identify the spark, that is when you know you have the ear for it.

For example, earlier this year I put out a tweet saying I wanted to work closely with some artists and help them with distribution. I got almost 700 submissions and had to sit down and listen to each demo carefully. There was one demo I played, and 20 seconds in I sent it straight to our head of operations saying, “I think we can work with this artist.” Barely a minute later he replied, “Who is this? Let’s work with him.” We linked up with the artist, and they are now in development. What has impressed me since then is the artist’s work ethic.

That is the kind of thing I look out for. It is about potential, authenticity, and whether the artist is ready to put in the work.

At what point do you think an artist has outgrown their current team?

I do not think it is one size fits all. But as an artist, once things start to feel repetitive or predictable, and your audience is looking for more, that is usually a sign it is time to switch things up.

Big respect to Asake. I do not think there has ever been a six-month stretch where he is not evolving or changing something, whether it is his look or his sound. In terms of conversation, he always gives people something to talk about, from his blue hair to relocating from Nigeria to the US.

So while every artist should hold on to their long-term goal and vision, they also need to find ways to evolve along the way, as long as it still aligns with the bigger trajectory they are building for themselves.

Do you think audiences actually want artists to evolve, or do they sometimes punish them for changing?

I feel like a large portion of the Nigerian market just wants to be happy. People want feel-good music, something they can vibe and dance to. Personally, I love to see growth. I want to see how an artist can stretch their artistry. But not everyone sees it that way, and sometimes the audience is not as open to change.

How much can an artist evolve away from their current sound without losing their core fanbase?

It really comes down to research. You have to test your audience and see what they respond to. I will use Asake as an example again because he has gone through different phases of evolution. One thing that has remained consistent is what he sings about and the essence of his Yoruba roots and sound.

Even as he goes global, he does not lose that. If you listen to his record with Gunna on Gunna’s latest release, Asake was the only Afrobeats artist who sang fully in Yoruba. You cannot force him to sing in English because Yoruba is what feels authentic to him.

That is the key. You can evolve your sound in different directions, but you always have to hold on to your essence.

How can an artist satisfy their local fans while still aiming for global recognition? Because you can succeed abroad and be unknown at home, and if the global market turns away, you risk losing both.

It really depends on the phase you are in as an artist and what your goals are for that moment. From experience, it is very difficult to hold your ground in both domains: to be known internationally and still remain culturally relevant back home. Many have tried it, and not everyone has succeeded.

If we look at those who have gone global and still kept their base at home, there are not many beyond Wizkid, Burna, and Davido. Tems is a good example. She was global, but outside of a particular subset, the streets in Nigeria did not really connect to her records until she dropped Love Me Jeje. That song gave people here something they could relate to directly.

On the other hand, we have seen cases where a Nigerian artist had a global hit on their hands, but back home the connection was weak. I even went to their Unilag concert during that period, and let me just say the reception told its own story.

So the answer is this: it depends on what phase you are in and what you are trying to achieve. You cannot do everything at once. Sometimes you aim global, other times you lock back into your base. The key is knowing which goal matters most at each point in your career.

You are a fan of word-of-mouth marketing. How can you generate that without it feeling forced?

In 2023 I was working with an artist to put out a record, and I was completely sure it would do well. We had been holding on to it for a few months, and before the release I reached out personally to a number of music executives and A&Rs.

What I was really doing was making a promise. It was more like, “Give me a few minutes of your time, listen to this record, and you will want to have a further conversation afterwards.” I was that confident in the music. And it worked. Many of those conversations opened doors, and some of the executives I reached out to in that period are now people I count as friends in the industry.

That experience taught me something important: word-of-mouth marketing is only as strong as the product itself. If the music is solid, you don’t have to push too hard. People will share it because it feels natural to do so. When the product is weak, you end up trying to manufacture buzz, and that is when it starts to feel forced. The real trick is to create something so compelling that the “marketing” happens on its own once people hear it.

How do you know when a song is a potential hit, even if others do not share that conviction?

As a good A&R, you need to understand the market well enough to predict certain outcomes. For example, the record we dropped at that time was an Afro-Adura record, and I knew immediately it had to connect with the streets. That meant plugging it on radio, giving it maximum exposure to everyday listeners, and doing a proper DJ blast so it was in heavy rotation.

I even took it further. I went to Mushin, entered Agege, sat down with the egbons, bought them beer and ogogoro, and played the track off my Bluetooth speaker while teaching them the lyrics. Because when you are convinced about a record, you are willing to go the extra mile to make sure people hear it.

That is how you know. It is not just about believing in the song yourself, it is being ready to put in the work to make others believe too.

When the egbons in those neighbourhoods were singing along, you were reassured that you had a hit on your hands.

I knew I had a hit because they heard the chorus once, and by the second time they were already singing along without me even prompting them. That was the confirmation. It was a song the streets could connect to instantly, something that spoke their language and felt relatable.

You are strongly against using streaming farms. What makes them such a bad approach in your view?

I am not a fan of stream farms. If you are going to use them, at least have your other marketing drivers on point. I do not want to see a song in the top 10 with no conversation around it on social media. I do not want to see a charting song that is nowhere on the radio, or a record that is supposedly big but not showing up on TikTok. You cannot justify that. It is not sensible, and I will call it out every time.

I remember an artist who charted at number three the weekend they dropped their record. They went to a popular event in Lagos filled with Gen Zs and millennials. The artist got on stage, and barely 45 seconds into the performance, fainted. Someone beside me tapped me and said, “Tomorrow, just watch, this will be on Instablog.” And sure enough, the next day it was the first thing I saw. That happened because there was no groundwork to back up the numbers and no real momentum behind the artist.

And that is what annoys me about the industry. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry thinks they can make a number one record in Nigeria. It is not difficult to pull the levers: call a couple of producers, bring in songwriters to create an okay song, hand it to a TikTok influencer, give it to a good engineer, and suddenly it is on the charts. I know how easy it is to do that. But when shortcuts like this become the norm, they water down the essence and the value of those who put intention and real effort into their music.

The truth is even DSPs are now putting systems in place to curb that kind of manipulation. Because at the end of the day, without genuine groundwork, the numbers are empty, and the whole thing collapses the moment people are asked to engage in real life.

When it comes to distribution, what are the common mistakes you see artists and their teams making?

I see Oyedeji on this call. He is quite an expert on distribution and could probably chip in. From my side, one of the biggest misconceptions artists have is thinking that just because they are using a particular distributor, they are guaranteed playlist placement. It does not work like that. If you do not already have motion, why should an editorial curator put you on their playlist? It is the same principle as social media algorithms. They want to be fed with music, consistency, and engagement, and curators only push what they are convinced will move.

Another big issue is planning. I once had a meeting with an artist who wanted help with distribution. They played me the record, and I was open to supporting it. But when I asked what the plan was and when they wanted to release it, the response was, “Can we drop it tonight?” That is not how this works. If you want my support, I expect to receive the record three to four weeks before release so I can pitch it properly and give it the right push. Artists need to understand that as much as the art excites them, you cannot just drop without a strategy. And proper backing is not always about money. Strong relationships can also open the doors you need.

Metadata is another area where artists go wrong. Many upload their music without the right details, and it eventually comes back to hurt them.

Consistency is just as important. DSPs want to see that you are releasing regularly, not once in a blue moon. If they notice you dropped two months ago and another release is lined up soon, they are much more likely to support you with playlists because they can see momentum. That is how motion is built, and those are the kinds of artists editorial teams are willing to back.

Any two cents, Oyedeji?


(Oyedeji):

Your social media has to be intentional. It is not just about posting randomly, it is about making sure your pictures, videos, and overall content reflect the artist you want people to see. When music execs or curators check you out, social media is often the first place they go. They might like your song, but if they look further and find nothing else to hold on to, they will be less inclined to work with you.

This is why consistency matters. If your pages look abandoned or unprofessional, it sends the wrong signal. But if there is regular content, visuals that match your sound, and a sense of identity, it reassures people that you are serious about your craft. Social media is like your portfolio. It gives people a reason to believe in you beyond the music

Beyond social media, where else do you look when scouting for talent?

Away from social media, I make it a point to go to events and open mics. As much as everyone is online, I also want to hear what artists can do live, especially with a band. That tells me a lot about their raw ability and how we can build on it.

I also spend time on the streets, finding people who are freestyling or just performing in their own spaces. That too is a form of A&Ring, because you are discovering artists in their natural environment. From there the question becomes, how do we take what they already have and develop it into a sound that can travel further?

Do you think A&Rs get enough recognition for the work they do, or is it a thankless job?

I think it is a bit of both. The role of the A&R overlaps with many other functions in our space, so recognition is not always straightforward. When things are going well, people will say the A&R and the team are doing a great job. But when things go south, the first reaction is usually to blame the team. So you get praise in good times, but you also carry the blame when things do not work out.

Since the role of A&R often overlaps with management, how can A&Rs help protect artists from exploitative deals?

Education is one of the most important tools. Take the artist we are currently developing. From the beginning, we made sure it was not just about the music. Alongside the creative process, we have been teaching them about the business itself — their rights, how royalties work, and how to monetize properly. That kind of knowledge gives an artist confidence and helps them make informed decisions.

When artists are carried along in this way, they truly appreciate it because it shows you care about more than just the next record. And the truth is, if artists fully understand what they are signing, it becomes much harder for them to later say they were exploited.

That is where A&Rs can make a real difference. It is not just scouting talent or pairing artists with producers. It is also about guiding them through the industry, equipping them with knowledge, and making sure they are not walking into situations blind.

What values wouldn't you compromise?

Communication, loyalty, and hard work.

Is loyalty even possible in the music industry?

It is very difficult, but between an artist and their management, if loyalty exists, it shows. If it does not, it shows even more. There is an artist who has had two global records and was discovered by an A&R seven years ago. They have been working together ever since, and up till today they do not have a single piece of paperwork signed between them. I am not advocating for that because I have been burnt by it myself, but for them it works. I have seen big deals and serious money come their way — the kind that usually ruins relationships — but they have stuck together.

For me, that kind of loyalty is tied to a bigger value: not being short-sighted.

I personally am not in this for instant gratification. I am in this for the long play. I want to work with people so that, years from now, I can say I was part of their success story.

In essence you want to play long-term games with long-term people?

Yes

Speaking of being burnt, tell me more about that. What happened?

I was working with a particular artist who had everything you would look for. On paper it should have been the perfect partnership. We signed a contract and began a working relationship. I secured an advance and proper marketing support, and instead of pocketing my commission, I reinvested it back into the business because I was thinking long-term.

A few months later, after we dropped the debut project and it gained real traction, the artist came back and said they did not feel loved and wanted to walk away. It was surprising because the work, the investment, and the results were clear. That was when I realised we were playing two very different games.

You played a long-term game with a short-term person I suppose.

Exactly. So we cut ties. And not to brag, but the short-term play they chose did not pay off in the long run.

If that artist came back and asked to let bygones be bygones, what would you say?

It is a big no from me. Because once trust is broken at that level, it is very hard to rebuild.

So once bitten?

Funny thing, that wasn’t my first. So I can’t afford to be stubborn. I got the message. What those experiences taught me is to be intentional about who I work with

How do you want to be remembered by artists or the industry 30 years from now?

want to be remembered as someone who championed independent artists and helped them reach their full potential. If I can break three to five superstars from nothing to global stardom, that would mean a lot to me.

But beyond individual success stories, I want to build a global company that does not depend only on the rise of a few talents. The goal is to create an ecosystem that functions as a collective and a community.

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Lady Donli is one of the few Nigerian artists who has stayed independent while steadily building both her sound and her community.

In this conversation, recorded shortly after the release of Keep On Loving Me, she reflects on her journey so far. From the momentum of her debut album to the disruption of lockdown, and the slow process of finding her rhythm again, she talks openly about the phases that shaped her path. We speak about stillness, travel, and how everyday moments—like being on a train or in an airport—often generate musical ideas.

We also get into the realities of doing things without label support. Donli breaks down what it takes to organise live shows in Nigeria, the pressure of managing logistics without infrastructure, and why she remains committed to doing things her way. For her, growth has come from self-learning, curiosity, and a deep connection with her fans.

At the heart of it all is her pan-African outlook. It influences not just her music, but how she collaborates and builds trust. Her contribution to Wakanda Forever was made possible through years of working closely with live musicians—people she knows, plays with, and respects.

There’s a lot here for anyone thinking about music, agency, and how to build something that lasts.

Congratulations on your new single, “Keep On Loving Me.” What was the inspiration and songwriting process behind it?

This one was really free-flowing for me. I usually overthink my music, but with this song, it all came together naturally.

Toward the end of last year, Yinka (Yinka Onaduja) messaged me and said, “Donli, let’s make some music.” He sent over a pack of four beats. We’ve worked together before, mostly on vocal stuff, not so much on production. But we go way back. I’ve featured him on one of my songs, and he’s featured me on his. We’ve collaborated in different ways.

When I first listened to the pack, I connected with a completely different beat. That was the one I started working on. I went to his place, we worked on it together in his studio, and I really loved where it was going.

Some time later, I was feeling a bit down, and I decided to revisit the pack. I opened another beat, the one that became this song, and started playing it. As soon as it came on, I thought, “This is actually really nice.” I always have my setup with me. Right now, while I’m talking to you, there are monitors around me, my interface, mic, guitar—everything is right here. So I just plugged in and started recording.

I didn’t write anything down. I didn’t even plan it. I just sang. If there was a part I didn’t like, I cut it and kept going. The whole thing was pretty much one straight recording, and then I added some backups and harmonies. That’s not how I usually work, but it felt good in the moment.

I sent it to Yinka and he loved it. Then I shared it with a few people I trust, and everyone’s reaction was the same. They all said it was fire. I even sent it along with the other song we had worked on, but this was the one everyone responded to the most. That’s when I started thinking we should probably drop it.

The funny thing is, I don’t normally work with beats that producers send me. My process usually starts with melody, then I build from there. But Yinka is different. I love how he produces. I love the way he approaches music. And I love that we both have a deep appreciation for the same kinds of sounds. This song, for example, was influenced by our shared love for zamrock, which is this era of Zambian psychedelic rock music.

When I was listening to the record, I thought I could hear Sahel influences, like that Niger-style guitar playing, but I wasn’t sure.

The guitar definitely feels adjacent to northern Nigeria, which is something I really love about it. The other song in the pack actually led me to make a Hausa record, because I’m Hausa, and that was just the space I was in at the time.

In terms of influences, I listen to a lot of African rock music. And a lot of people who’ve heard this song say it sounds like soft rock in a way. I think it’s my own kind of exploration of soft rock, but through a more African lens.

The progression of the song is a little jumpy in that way—it doesn’t move in a straight line. And the guitar feels very home-y to me, especially as someone who’s from the North. It touches something familiar.

You mentioned feeling blue and then checking the pack. What do you usually do when you feel that way, aside from digging into beats?

These days, I’ve been feeling less blue because my mindset has shifted. I’m really learning to embrace the joy of the present moment, and that’s what I’ve been leaning into. I just realised that all I truly have is right now, and I need to enjoy it for what it is. That’s where my head is at.

I’m not obsessing over the future. Of course I’m still aspiring to better things, but I’m not letting thoughts of the future cloud how I feel today. I want to show up fully for this moment and find joy in the beauty and simplicity of what’s happening now. Then I just keep it moving.

Before, when I used to feel that way, I’d probably call a friend or write something down. I do a lot of writing—poetry, journaling—just to help regulate my emotions. That’s always been part of my process. But like I said, lately I’ve been in a better space.

You mentioned somewhere that when you want to write a love song, it doesn’t come as easy but if you have a heartbreak, suddenly you’re Shakespeare.

Yes, it’s definitely easier for me to write a love song when I’m feeling blue about love or going through something in a relationship. That emotional weight makes it come out more naturally. But I’ve also written love songs from happy, joyful places. I just haven’t shared those ones yet.

I’ve never really thought of myself as the kind of artist who writes or releases love songs. I do have a bunch from my earlier career, but I think after I dropped my debut album, Enjoy Your Life, my direction shifted so much. It’s been hard to return to that more sensitive era in my music. That’s probably why a lot of my older fans are connecting deeply with this new record. It reminds them of the kind of emotional openness I used to bring to my music when I was younger. But at the same time, you can hear the evolution. You can hear the growth. You can feel how my current influences have shaped the way I revisit my younger self—if that makes sense.

What have been some major milestones in your career, or unexpected hurdles that shaped your journey since then?

COVID, honestly. That was as unexpected as it gets. It happened right after I released my debut album, and it felt like the worst possible timing. I had all this momentum and then everything just came to a halt.

I was supposed to be on tour, and instead I got stuck in lockdown in Canada for six months. It wasn’t a pretty time. I was down, like most people were. You're indoors, it’s cold, you’re isolated, and it feels like nothing is moving forward. I was meant to play SXSW that year, but that didn’t happen. I was about to go on my first major tour, but that didn’t happen either.

It really disrupted me, and after that period I stopped working with my first manager. I just felt like life was staring me right in the face. It took me a long time to get back to a good space—creatively, emotionally, and even in terms of releasing music again.

But looking back, I’ve learned a lot from that time. As tough as it was, I take it as a blessing now.

Why did you decide to stop working with your first managers? What should managers avoid doing when working with artists?

It’s a complicated situation and probably something for a longer conversation, not this one. But to keep it simple, we just weren’t compatible anymore. We weren’t aligned.

When you were in Canada for those six months during lockdown, what did that time teach you? Even though it disrupted your career plans, were there any lasting benefits or personal shifts that came from it?

Honestly, lockdown was really great for me in some ways. It felt like two sides of a coin. For the first time in a long while, I experienced stillness. Before that, I had spent so much time on the road, moving from city to city, never feeling grounded. During lockdown, I was forced to stop and just be present.

There were a lot of positives. I started meditating. I picked up an instrument. I was recording more, training my voice, and becoming more disciplined. That stillness made me look inward and ask myself what I could do with the time I had. It helped me connect more deeply with myself and gain a clearer understanding of who I was.

Before then, everything was fast-paced. I had big goals, shows I wanted to do, places I wanted to be. It was all about chasing the next thing. But the lockdown made me slow down. And now, many of the things I started during that time—like working out, practicing mindfulness, and meditating—are still a part of my everyday life. They’ve become important to how I move through the world.

So there was a subtle blessing in that moment.

It was two sides of a coin. Bittersweet. The bitter part was that I was on the rise and everything just stopped. But I do believe things happen for a reason, even if that sounds a little sappy.

I think I needed that time to learn, to grow, and to evolve. At the time, I didn’t know that. But now, looking back, I can see that I was able to understand myself better. And that was important. If I had shot to fame at that moment, I’m not sure what kind of mind-space I would have been in.

You’ve spoken before about feeling a bit under-appreciated in Abuja earlier in your career even though you’re from there. Do you feel like things have shifted since then?

You know how they say a prophet isn’t recognised in their hometown? That’s exactly how I felt in Abuja. I would leave Lagos, go to Abuja with my full band, give the performance of my life, and the turnout wouldn’t be great. It just didn’t feel welcoming.

Even when I was younger, just starting out, I would perform at shows and do everything I could, but the energy never felt receptive. It was very different from what I experienced once I moved to Lagos and started doing shows there. The love in Lagos felt stronger.

So it’s a mix. I’m actually performing in Abuja again for the first time in a couple of years, in just a few weeks. We’ll see if the energy has changed.

Are they funding the gig?

It’s not my gig. Someone else is bringing me to Abuja for their event, so I’ll be supporting them. As for doing my own personal show, that’s going to take some time. It will happen when the moment feels right, but I’m not in a rush.

I still love my Abuja fans. At the end of the day, that’s my city. I love the people there. My family is there. I spent most of my life there. It’s such an important part of my story, so it will always mean a lot to me.

When it comes to touring with your band or going solo, how do you handle feeling overwhelmed? Do you deal with any pressure or anxiety before a tour, and has that changed over time?

I don’t really feel nervous or anxious before shows. If I’m prepared, there’s nothing to be worried about. The only time I do feel some stress is when I’m performing in Nigeria, because something always comes up. There might be issues with the sound, the lights, the stage, or some kind of middleman or service delay. That’s usually when I start to feel concerned.

But when I’m touring abroad, I’m usually fine, especially if it’s my own show. If people bought tickets and came out on a Monday night to see me, that already tells me everything I need to know. Like when I headlined in London on a Wednesday and 500 people showed up—that’s amazing.

As long as I feel prepared, I don’t really get anxious. Preparation gives me peace of mind.

You handled a situation in December 2024 like a boss, even with all the technical difficulties. How did that come about, how did it make you feel, and how did you cope with it? I personally admired how you managed it.

You just gave me PTSD, man. Why did that even happen? Honestly, it’s just a Nigerian thing. There’s always something. The truth is, when it comes to putting on shows here, everything is DIY. You have to bring your own sound, your own set, even your own lighting. We don’t have proper venues in Lagos, and that’s one of the biggest reasons shows start late.

Of course, some artists take the piss and come out late just because they can. But most of the time, it's not that. I try to explain this to people. You're dealing with Nigerian servicemen. Anyone who lives here knows how hard it can be to fix something in their house. Now imagine that stress on a large scale, where you have to get someone to build a stage, another person to bring in lights, someone else to handle sound. You are producing every element of the show yourself.

And as an independent artist, I don’t always have the kind of capital that lets me hand all of that off to a production company. So the responsibility falls on me and my team. If you’re a bigger artist with a budget, you can hire a full agency to take care of it. But for us, one person showing up late or one piece of gear breaking down can throw everything off. And that’s exactly what happened. Even while setting up, things were breaking down.

I honestly dread putting on shows in Lagos. I’m in no rush. People keep asking if I’m going to do another show in December and my answer is no, I’m not in a hurry. Not after what happened last time.

And what hurts even more is the perception. I’m not someone who shows up late. I hate lateness. It irritates me. So when I started seeing comments online after the show, it got to me. Some people understood what happened, but others didn’t. I was really sad because I gave everything I had. I was at the venue by 5am. My assistant was there. The whole team was there. And things still fell apart.

There’s nothing more frustrating than watching something you’ve poured into start falling apart piece by piece. That really hurt.

How do you manage doing all of this independently, especially without the support of a major label that can bring in their own infrastructure and handle those kinds of problems?

I’ve never done it any other way. This is all I know. Handling everything on my own, dealing with the chaos—that’s been my entire experience. It’s even hard for me to delegate or ask for help, because I’ve just gotten used to doing things myself.

I don’t think there’s a magic formula. I’m just a very determined person. If something needs to get done, it will get done. With or without help, it has to happen. I don’t really see it as a choice. It’s just what has to be done.

Do you think your law degree has helped in any way when it comes to the business side of music?

I don’t think my law degree has helped in any shape or form. It hasn’t helped me in any way. I’m educated on paper, sure, but what’s really helped is my exposure to the world and my ability to adapt. Most of what I know about the music business has come from experience: asking questions, talking to people, reading books, taking short online courses, and doing a lot of external research on my own.

It’s something I’ve gradually learned over time. I still don’t know everything, or even half of everything, but I keep learning. So when people say, “Oh, that makes sense, she has a law degree,” I just laugh a little. That degree is so far behind me. I graduated in 2017. It’s 2025 now. It’s not even ten years ago, but it feels like a lifetime. I can barely remember anything from it.

Speaking of self-learning, is your approach structured, or is it more like figuring things out when a problem comes up? Do you just research as needed, or do you try to keep up with things regularly?

It’s a combination. If I have a problem, I’ll definitely research it. But on my own, I also try to stay informed. I read, I go online to see what’s happening, I try to keep myself updated. There was a time I took a music business course online. Right now I’m trying to learn music theory.

I think for me, it’s really about challenging myself. I just want to keep my brain working, keep it active. That’s what drives my learning most of the time.

I read about a moment on tour where a Rasta gave you a few books, and it sparked something in you. Can you expand on what that encounter meant and how it’s shaped your work since then?

It wasn’t exactly a meeting in the formal sense. I was on tour, and one of my stops was Ottawa. I was rehearsing at a studio, and right above it was a bookstore—a Pan-African shop owned by a Rasta. After my rehearsal, I went upstairs to check it out. He had heard me rehearsing, and we got to talking. I still had my locks then, and I still do now, so maybe that sparked a sense of familiarity.

I don’t remember the exact words of our conversation, but he gave me a couple of books. One of them was on Marcus Garvey. Up until that point, my only understanding of Garvey came from a Western lens. I had done A-levels in the UK and took a module in government and politics. In those classes, Garvey was described as a radical with extreme ideas, like the notion that Africans and Black Americans should return to the continent. I remember thinking, even then, that it sounded bizarre—but I didn’t question it deeply.

Reading that book was the first time I saw Garvey in a different light. I began to understand the bigger picture of pan-Africanism and what it really meant. It felt like a kind of awakening. I realised I had been moving through life without fully understanding my place in it as an African woman in the world.

When you’re in Nigeria, you don’t really think about being Black in the same way. Everyone around you is Black. You just exist. But once you start moving through the world—in Europe, in North America—your identity starts to feel more visible. You’re confronted with all kinds of ideas, and the biggest one is racism. That book didn’t just teach me history. It shifted how I saw myself.

There was a quote in it that stuck with me. Something about a tree without its roots. The message was simple but deep: to really understand yourself, you need to understand where you come from. That’s what set off this whole journey for me. It’s when I first started calling myself a Pan African rockstar. It opened up this new layer of identity. I started asking questions I’d never asked. Who even am I, really? What does it mean to be Black beyond just being Nigerian?

So when I started working on my first album, I made a conscious choice to approach it from a Pan-African lens. That was the first time I really went deep into listening to African music from across the continent. I was studying Oumou Sangaré, Fatoumata Diawara, Angélique Kidjo, Ali Farka Touré. I was also listening again to the Nigerian music I grew up on. I wanted to understand those artists through their music, because music is what I do. Music is who I am.

Would you say that influences your aesthetic as well?

Identity and aesthetics are always evolving. The more I grow and understand who I am, the more I find myself wanting to change things. Right now, I’m actually in a bit of a dilemma. I hate everything in my wardrobe. I feel like I’ve outgrown that style. It doesn’t represent who I am anymore or who I’m becoming.

My style shifts with experience, with travel, with age. I’m getting older, and all these things are starting to inform my choices more. So when I started crafting the image of a Pan-African rockstar, it wasn’t just about how I looked. It was about understanding myself on a deeper level.

The more I understand myself, the more comfortable I become in my own skin. And that comfort shows up in how I present myself. When someone is comfortable, you can see it. The more comfortable I feel, the more I’m able to embody what being Pan-African really means to me.

How do you approach collaboration, especially when it comes to managing different egos in the room?

I 100% believe in collaboration. I think it’s a beautiful thing. You can put different elements into one pot and create something special.

What I don’t like is when people say they want to collaborate, but they don’t actually mean it. What they really want is to co-opt. They want to do little or no work and still take the credit. Or they want you to work for them for free and just find a nice way to phrase it.

Real collaboration is when two people come together, contribute equally, and do the work to make something good. It’s not about one person trying to disguise a request for free labor as a partnership.

That said, I really do love a good collaboration. When it’s done right, it’s powerful. My entire debut album was built through collaboration, and I’m proud of that.

For the work you did with Ludwig Göransson on Wakanda Forever, how did you manage to bring the musicians together for the sessions? What was your approach?

I love live music. That’s always been a big part of who I am. One thing I’ve tried to do over the years is build genuine relationships with live musicians. Not because I had some strategy in mind, but because I really respect them. I respect their instruments, their craft, and what they bring to the table. I respect musicians, period.

One thing I’ve noticed in Nigeria is that a lot of artists don’t respect the musicians they work with. Especially live instrumentalists. They treat them like they’re just hired help, and that’s always bothered me. So any time I found myself in a room with live musicians—whether it was a session or a rehearsal—I made a point to talk to them, to get a sense of who they were. I wanted to send some positive energy their way and make sure they felt seen in an industry that often ignores them.

I know what it feels like to be at the bottom of the food chain, and it’s not a good feeling. Because of that, I’ve been able to build a strong network of live musicians across Nigeria.

So when the Wakanda Forever team reached out and told me they were coming to Nigeria and needed live musicians, I was ready. I started speaking with Ludwig, and he told me about the specific African instruments he wanted to hear. From there, it was easy to tap into my network. I already knew who played what, or who could help me find someone who did.

I started reaching out to people I knew in the North (musicians from Jos, Kano, different parts of the country) who play unique traditional instruments. And that’s really how the process came together.

If you had the chance to write the film score for any movie, which one would it be?

I’d really have to think about that. I’m not sure. I don’t watch a lot of movies these days, so I wouldn’t be able to answer that question accurately.

Not even Doctor Strange?

I love Doctor Strange. I love Marvel films in general. I’m a superhero junkie. But honestly, I don’t know what I would make for something like that. If I were to score a film, it would probably be for a Nigerian movie or something from the continent. I think my style of composition would fit African stories more naturally.

When it comes to collaboration, what are the key things that need to be in place for you to say yes—aside from people actually being willing to do the work?

If I love your music, I think we’ll probably get along. That’s a big one for me. But more than that, I like to vibe with the person first. I’d like to grab a drink before we work together. I want to be able to hang out and think, okay, this is cool.

Take Yinka for example, who worked on my latest record. Every time I’d go to his studio, we’d start by getting a beer, or we’d go out to eat or stop somewhere to buy fried yam. People would message me and say, “Oh, you’re working with Yinka?” And I’d be like, no, we’re just hanging out.

That’s what matters to me. If I enjoy the work you make, and we can just kick it and chill like normal people, that’s all I need on my checklist.

How’s Arsenal treating your heart?

I actually stopped watching Arsenal games because I was just tired. I try to avoid Premier League matches now. I mostly watch the UEFA Champions League. When I hear that we win, I’m happy but I’ve tapped out for this season.

What’s your songwriting process like? Let’s say there’s a blank page in front of you—where do you begin?

I don’t really have a set process. A lot of the records I’ve made just started with words popping into my head. Most times, I build from melodies. Something might be happening around me, and I find it funny or interesting, and I just start singing it in my head as a joke. Then I realize, wait, this actually sounds nice.

Half of my songs probably started with a melody or a scenario. When I made “Suffer Suffer,” for example, I just started singing it—no plan, it just kept flowing. The only time it’s different is when someone sends me a beat and I really connect with it.

For my last album, Pan African Rockstar, there was a lot more back and forth with beats. I’d start something and send it to my producer. He’d send something back, and we’d build from there.

Sometimes it’s boredom that sparks something. Or movement. I’ve made some of my best songs while traveling. I wrote “Pan African Rockstar” on a train from Kaduna to Abuja. There’s something about motion that opens up my mind. Train stations, airports—that kind of in-between space helps me tap into new ideas.

But in terms of sitting down with a blank page and saying, “I want to write a song today,” that’s not how it works for me. I have to feel it. Some days I try, and I’ll play a beat and tell myself I’m going to make something, but I never really enjoy what comes out. It has to happen organically.

You’ve built such a strong community around your music. For a lot of artists, your fanbase is something they pray for. How did you make that happen? What’s the secret sauce?

It’s really just consistency. You have to be consistent. If you want something, you have to keep showing up for it. One thing I always try to do is nourish my fanbase, especially in Lagos, because that’s where most of my people are. Every time I’m in Lagos, I’m thinking about what I can do next. What’s the next activation? What can I do to make people feel like they’re part of this? Because they are.

It’s about staying in conversation with people. Doing shows. Every year I try to put on a show. I know who some of my core fans are. When I dropped Pan-African Rockstar, I sent out care packages to a few of my most loyal listeners. Things like that matter. You want people to feel seen, to know they’re not just being told “go stream this” or “listen to that.” It has to be more than that.

I try to engage with people as much as I can. If you see me outside on a good day and you want to ask me something or have a quick chat, I try to give my time. Of course, I’m not always in the mood. I’m human too. But when I can, and when someone’s genuinely curious about the process or the music, I’ll talk to them. Because at the end of the day, who else am I making this for?

I think community comes from small, consistent actions. That’s what builds trust.

Besides making music, how do you spend your time?

These days I read a lot. I was about to say practicing, but that still falls under music. I also watch a lot of TED Talks and YouTube videos. That’s mostly it. Nothing too exciting. Sometimes I take online classes when something catches my interest.

Which TED Talks have you been watching?

I can’t really remember them by name. It's usually topics like living in the moment, self-confidence, or public speaking. I just watch whatever shows up in my YouTube feed that feels interesting that day. There’s so much to learn online, and my mantra is to try and learn something new. A lot of people start thinking it’s too late to learn once they get older, but I believe as long as you're alive, you're right on time.

In the Music Business Club we have a weekly tradition: something to read, something to watch, and something to listen to. You’re this week’s curator. What are your picks?

I’ve been watching The Residence on Netflix. For reading, I’m just about to finish Zami by Audre Lorde. I’m on the last chapter. And for listening, I’d say “Keep On Loving Me” by Lady Donli. But if you’re not in the mood for me, then Dunya by Mustafa is a great choice too.

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In the first part of our conversation, Lemi Ghariokwu walked us through the stories behind some of Fela’s most iconic album covers and how his artistic journey began. But the second half of our chat goes deeper into the hard questions about legacy, belief, and personal values.

Here, Lemi talks about mental slavery, religious systems, and the quiet manipulations that shape how people see themselves. He recounts the moment he walked away from church, the years he spent challenging the expectations placed on him, and the rebellious decision to live on his own terms.

Some people say the system makes it hard to build anything here, especially in the creative space. Do you think that’s a valid concern, or just another excuse we’ve learned to live with?

It’s just excuses. You hear people say, “Nigeria is too hard, I want to go abroad.” But abroad, those people didn’t run away from their problems. They stayed and worked through them.

We shouldn’t keep comparing ourselves to places like America. Yes, they’re a few hundred years ahead. But if the early Americans had all run away, they wouldn’t have solved anything either.

Here, people say they don’t want to die, yet some are willing to risk everything. They go through the desert, end up in Libya, and keep trying to cross into Europe. If that kind of endurance is possible, then why not put that effort into fixing what’s here?

As for whether visual artists should get a percentage from album sales, I don’t think we’re ready for that conversation. I won’t indulge in that theory. For now, it feels like a fantasy. The mindset just isn’t there yet.

Let me tell you something real. Back when CDs were still the main way people bought music, I ran a printing company for 25 years. For 11 of those years, I printed for artists under Kennis Music. I worked closely with ID Ogungbe, and together we came up with the envelope-style CD packaging that Kennis used instead of the standard jewel box. It was our way of tackling piracy.

At the time, pirates would buy one original CD for 250 naira, duplicate it in bulk, and sell each copy for 100 naira. Kennis was losing a lot of money. But during my research, I spoke to someone in Alaba who was not a pirate. His colleagues used to laugh at him and call him “Mr. Copyright.” He said if record labels could eliminate the jewel box, it would disrupt pirate activity.

That idea stayed with me. I had just bought a Nokia Communicator, and the software CD came in a kind of cardboard sleeve. I used that as inspiration. We created a design using that same kind of material and added a small printed cover. It worked. The jewel box cost Kennis 18 naira each. Our paper packaging cost just 3 naira. That difference helped the label stay profitable.

Even today, people still use that packaging style. But do I get royalties? Of course not. The system is not set up for that kind of recognition.

I’ve got a few Fela records on my table, and I’d love to ask you about the inspiration behind some of the album covers. Let’s start with Yellow Fever. What was the idea behind the art direction for that one?

Fela was deeply concerned about African women bleaching their skin. Even today, that mindset is still here: the belief that the lighter your skin, the better your chances in life. He wanted to address it head-on. He made it sharp, even harsh, because sometimes that’s what it takes to wake people up.

One of the most hurtful things you can say to someone is that they’re not beautiful. So in the song, Fela sings, “Who tell you say you fine, you no fine at all.” He talks about the uneven skin tones that come from bleaching: the dark patches that show up in certain places. He also sang, “Your face go yellow, you go get moustache, and your yansh go black.”

I picked up on those exact points and reflected them in the artwork. You can see the blemishes on the woman’s body on the cover. I also created an imaginary cream for it like the kind that comes in those old bleaching tubes. I called it Soyoyo, which is a Yoruba word used to describe something that’s over-shiny, overly glittering in a fake way.

Even now, many African women haven’t stopped. They’re still indulging in these practices. The message is still relevant. Gentleman’s cover was done before I met him. But here’s an interesting fact—there’s actually an album where Fela designed the cover himself. We had a falling out at the time, and he was in a hurry to release the music, so he didn’t wait for me. He just did it himself.

He also released that album on his own label, because the major labels were pressuring him to tone down some of his lyrics. But he refused. He wouldn’t water down the message.

You mentioned that Fela had a niche audience, but made a huge impact. These days, the focus is on getting to number one on Apple Music or getting the most streams. Do you think those are useful metrics, or is it better for artists to go niche and build their own audience?

It’s better to go niche and grow from there. That’s what I did.

It’s just like the art market. People look at sales figures online and think they’re seeing the full picture. But when I made my biggest sales, no one knew. What they see online are just past exhibition prices. They don’t reflect what’s really happening.

I have personal relationships with my collectors. If I mention the prices of some of my works, people wouldn’t believe it. That’s why the key is to work with intention. Forget hype. Focus on the work.

What would your advice be to a creative director—let’s say, a visual artist working on the creative direction of a record? These days, some artists are thinking more intentionally about the visuals around music. Is that where things are heading?

That’s exactly the role I played. A lot of people who commission me come for that kind of direction. But for me, the music has to stand on its own first. The visuals are meant to strengthen what’s already there.

Still, the foundation is the same. Know yourself. When you know yourself, you get guidance.

I saw Burna Boy write recently that when he was growing up in Port Harcourt, nobody believed music could take him further than the politicians he saw around him. But it did. And the truth is, most of those politicians didn’t make their money honestly. They stole it.

I can’t say this enough: know yourself. Society doesn’t want you to. They don’t want you asking questions. They want everyone to follow the same path like we’re in a factory.

But if you know yourself, you will follow your own path. And eventually, the same people who once dismissed you will start calling you an icon.

When did you first start questioning the system and deciding to live by your own values, rather than what society expected?

I had always known. I wouldn’t call it a privilege, but I became aware quite early. Remember the books I mentioned earlier? Some of the ones I read when I was still young had a deep impact on me. And many of the ideas in those books became part of how I chose to live.

I was born into a Roman Catholic family, so we went to church regularly. One of the core principles that stayed with me from that time is simple: do unto others as you would want them to do unto you. But in Africa, religion often isn’t something you choose for yourself. It’s chosen for you by your parents. After physical slavery came mental slavery, and that’s even worse because it can continue indefinitely. It’s like being sick without knowing it, so you never get the right medicine.

As a child, I even had the ambition to be a mass server. But now we’ve heard the terrible things that were happening behind the scenes in the church. I remember going for confession every Saturday. We lived in Akoka, Yaba, and around 90 percent of the people there would kneel before an Irish priest. Some of those priests were probably sent to Africa to start fresh because they had done something wrong back home.

I also remember how strange confession was. Every week, you were expected to have sins to confess. If you had none, it was seen as pride or dishonesty. So I’d make some up. I’d say I grumbled when my mother sent me on errands, usually because I was too focused on my art. At least that way, I’d have something to confess.

But when I started reading books that triggered a deeper consciousness—especially books about African history—I began to question things more seriously. I realised what role the missionaries really played. They taught us that Mungo Park discovered the River Niger, as if it wasn’t already there or as if local fishermen didn’t guide him to it. That opened my eyes.

It also hit me that this priest, hearing confessions from hundreds of people every week, had access to our thoughts, fears, and private struggles. He could have written reports back to his superiors in Ireland. That’s how control works. I was 19 when that realisation really sank in. That’s when I started seeing the structure behind things.

My father never went to church. He practised traditional religion. But my mother warned us that it was diabolic. Then one Sunday, she was getting dressed for church and saw that I wasn’t. She asked why, and I told her I wasn’t going. She nearly collapsed. She was angry but still went to church. Eventually, she came around. She said she knew the kind of child she had raised.

The African Shrine became my own version of church after that.

I remember wanting to study art in university instead of engineering but Fela advised me not to. He said that since I loved to read, going to school might strip me of my originality. All my friends laughed at me. But I told them, back in 1975, that one day everyone would have a degree and it would lose its value. That talent would matter more. And I think that’s still true. 🌶️

That’s the full conversation with Lemi. We’ve got more thoughtful voices and behind-the-scenes stories coming soon. Subscribe so you’re always in the loop. 🍿

In the first part of our conversation with Lemi Ghariokwu, he shares how a daily drawing habit and a record sleeve led, step by step, to a life-changing encounter with Fela Kuti. He talks about growing up in Lagos, the value of early commissions, and the unexpected chain of events that connected his art to music in a lasting way. From designing a Bruce Lee poster to getting his first invite to Kalakuta, Lemi reflects on how preparation and intuition shaped the beginning of his journey.

You can see some of Lemi’s album cover work and other projects here.

Can you take us back to the moment things first started to shift for you—when someone outside your circle noticed your work and things began unfolding from there?

The first time someone commissioned me for a portrait, I didn’t know how much to charge. I ran to ask a mentor for advice, and he told me to charge 30 naira. That was a big sum at the time. A school certificate holder earned 21 naira per month. Renting a room cost about 4 naira. So 30 naira wasn’t small money.

Back then, I had a habit of creating one piece of art every day. Some of those early works are still in notebooks I kept. I used to listen to records while I worked, and one day, I picked up a Fela record called Roforofo Fight. I didn’t know what to draw that day, but my spirit said, "Why not try your own version of the album cover?"

The original sleeve showed Fela singing into a microphone. But to me, the sound of the music painted a different picture. Rofòrofò means mud in Yoruba, and in the song, Fela was talking about two friends fighting in the mud. He joked that if they kept going, they’d end up looking like twins because you wouldn’t be able to tell who was who. It was funny, but it was also a smart form of social commentary. I didn’t follow the lyrics too closely. I just knew what I felt. So I drew Fela dancing in the mud. That was the energy I got from the music.

At the time, I had no idea I was laying the foundation for something bigger. I didn’t think I’d ever meet Fela. He was already famous, not yet for political reasons, but because of how he lived. Like a rockstar. He had this commune, and people were fascinated by him. But the activism hadn’t fully started yet.

One of our neighbours, who lived in the building next to my parents, owned a small pub where he sold ogogoro and pepper soup. One day, he asked me to make a piece of art for him. I assumed it was a portrait of his wife or something, but no. Enter the Dragon had just come out, and Bruce Lee was a sensation. This man wanted a movie poster for the film. I made it. He paid me and hung it in his pub.

That’s where destiny started working in ways I couldn’t see.

A journalist named Babatunde Harrison, who wrote for Sunday Punch, came to drink at the pub. He saw my Enter the Dragon poster and asked who had done it. The owner pointed him to me, the “small boy next door.” Babatunde said he wanted to meet me.

Luckily, I had been doing a drawing every day, so I had a lot of work to show him. Among the pieces was my version of the Fela album cover. He asked if I could design album covers. I said yes. I had even done one for my uncle’s band, though it was never published. I still have it, fifty years later.

Then Babatunde told me something surprising. He said he and Fela had been discussing album covers two days earlier. I thought he was either joking or drunk. I didn’t believe he actually knew Fela. But then he offered to bring me a photo of Fela from the paper’s archives. If I could make a portrait, and if it was good enough, he said he would take me to meet him.

I didn’t even care about meeting Fela. What got me was that "if it’s good enough" part. That’s what fired me up. I thought, bring it on.

Because I had been practicing every day, I finished the piece within 24 hours. My mother supported me. She gave me money to buy art supplies. That evening, when Babatunde came around for his usual drink, I ran down to show him the work. He was shocked that I had finished it so quickly. He said he wasn’t going to drink that night. Instead, he would take me straight to Fela.

That’s when I realised he wasn’t bluffing.

I ran back upstairs to tell my mom. She told me to be careful. A lot of young people had been running off to join Fela’s commune. One girl from our street had already gone.

We got to Kalakuta that evening. Babatunde asked the gateman if Fela was awake, and the man said he was still sleeping. So Babatunde told me to wait and left to find a drink nearby.

I sat there nervous. Around me were young people, some barely dressed, smoking and lounging. Then I saw that same girl from our street. She recognized me immediately and said, “What are you doing here?” I told her about the portrait, and she said, “Oh, you’re the one Babatunde was talking about.” That’s when I knew this was real.

She asked me to wait, and ten minutes later she returned with Fela.

He came out in just his briefs, so low I could see his pubic hair. I almost fainted. I said, “Good evening sir,” and he said, “Don’t ‘sir’ me, just call me Fela.” That was a cultural shock. In Nigeria, you don’t call someone older by name.

He looked at me and said, “Are you the artist?” I said yes. “Make I see wetin you bring,” he said. My hands were shaking as I unwrapped the piece, so the girl took it and helped me. Fela looked at it and said, “Wow. Goddamn it.”

He led me inside the main house, asked for my name, and wrote me a cheque. He used to roll his cheques like cigarette paper. He handed me the rolled-up cheque. I opened it. It was 130 naira. Four times what I normally charged.

He had no idea what my usual rate was. But he valued the work, and in that moment, I started to value it more too.

Still, my spirit told me to return the cheque. So I gave it back and said I was offering the piece as a gift from the heart.

Fela took out another piece of paper and wrote: “Please admit bearer to any show free of charge.” Then he signed it, Fela Ransome-Kuti.

That slip became my ticket to Kalakuta. My visa to destiny.

If I had collected the money, I probably wouldn’t be where I am today.

You had that habit of making one piece of art every day, and it sounds like it prepared you for when opportunity finally showed up. Do you think young people today should take that same approach? Is it still important to have a body of work ready before the spotlight finds you?

Yes. And not just in art. In whatever field you’re in. One of the most important instructions in life, which hardly anyone is taught, is this: know thyself. That’s the foundation for growth. When you really know yourself, you can listen to that still, small voice within. That voice carries memory, experience, sometimes even things beyond this life. It helps you find your path and avoid being tossed around by what everyone else is doing.

A lot of people end up frustrated their whole lives because they didn’t listen to themselves. They’re in the wrong profession. But when you listen, really listen, you start to sense what you're meant to do. You find the thing you value, the gift you have to offer the world.

Everyone has a unique role. No role is more important than the other. A car mechanic’s work is just as essential as anyone else's. If a person’s Bugatti breaks down, they can’t fix it himself, can they?

Once you locate that thing within you, the next step is practice. You keep honing the skill. And by doing that, you build a body of work. Over time, you also build a brand because people begin to recognise what you do and associate you with that excellence. One day, someone will need your service. That’s how your gift starts to make room for you. That’s how your brand begins to pay you back.

The problem is that most people are in a hurry. They want quick results. They start by asking, “How much money can I make?”

Take Usain Bolt, for example. People see him win and think it looks easy. But those few seconds on the track? That’s just the surface. Behind that moment are years of waking up early, training hard, putting in work like a man possessed long before he became a champion.

So yes, it’s important to practice. Over and over. That practice becomes your fingerprint. And one day, it becomes your purpose. That’s how you serve.

Did your cover designs usually follow the music or were there times the visuals came first?

For me, it all started with the music. I like to say, in the beginning was the music. The sound was so powerful, so full, that it eventually needed a visual companion. That was where my art came in and found its role.

Fela’s music had that kind of energy. Just by listening to him speak and sing, images would begin to form in your mind. That’s what music does. Think about it. Radio gave us sound. Then television came and added images. That’s the role my art eventually came to play. It was a visual response to the music, something that completed the experience.

I always talk about destiny, because I truly believe I was being prepared for that role long before I met Fela. I became race-conscious very early. I must have been about eleven years old. I remember it clearly. Millicent Small, a Jamaican-British singer, had a global hit that was also big in Nigeria. I liked every track on her record, especially My Boy Lollipop.

Cadbury brought her to Nigeria on a promotional tour around 1966. It was part of a loyalty scheme where if you submitted four Bournvita foil wrappers, you got a gift in return. My aunt took me to one of the events, and Millicent Small was there in person, handing out prizes like umbrellas.

Until that moment, I had always assumed she was white. But when I saw her, I turned to my aunt and said, "Eyan dudu ni sha," which means, "She’s Black." I felt goosebumps. It filled me with pride. That was the first time I felt race pride in a deep and personal way.

By 1969, I was already listening to Miriam Makeba giving interviews about apartheid in South Africa and the struggles across the African continent. I also loved reading, so I was very aware of what was happening around the world.

So by the time I met Fela, we had a lot to talk about. We discussed politics often. He gave me books to read, including some by Lobsang Rampa. What shocked him was that I had already read The Third Eye and some of Rampa’s other work. He was thrilled. That became a spark between us.

When we spoke about race, consciousness, and Pan-Africanism, we shared something special. It became a bond. I had the privilege of seeing his creative process up close. At some point, I brought two of my close friends in, and we formed the political youth wing of Kalakuta. We called ourselves the Young African Pioneers, or YAP. The idea came from Kwame Nkrumah’s books. In Ghana, he had started a similar group to replace colonial clubs like the Boy Scouts and Boys' Brigade. His goal was to re-educate, to rebuild confidence, and to create a new kind of consciousness.

We were out in the streets a lot. Sometimes, after long conversations, Fela would write songs based on what we had discussed. I understood the thinking behind many of those tracks. When it came to the album covers, I wasn’t just illustrating the lyrics. Most of the time, I was expressing the energy and the deeper meaning of what he was projecting, but from my own perspective.

That’s how my art became an added layer. It gave people more than just the music. You could learn something from the lyrics, and you could also learn something from the cover. It was a collaboration. Sound and image working side by side.

And to this day, I’m still preaching what Fela preached. I’m still representing Kalakuta.

You mentioned earlier that you sometimes saw how Fela composed his music and the thinking behind it. Do you think there’s still space today for protest music or for music that carries strong ideals?

There’s always space. I would even say there’s always space for life itself, because life continues. If you look at history, it keeps repeating. The real issue is that we, as human beings, refuse to learn from history. So we keep reliving the same cycles.

What we need—especially in Africa—is to learn our true history. To shed the lies we've been told and carried for generations. There will always be room for the philosopher, the artist, the musician who wants to protest or offer a different point of view. Society isn’t meant to go in one direction only. But fear holds people back. And that fear often comes from systems like religion, government, or just the pressure to conform.

You see it in the African context. Today, Afrobeats is going global, and people are drawing inspiration from what Fela built. But Fela’s music—Afrobeat—was more serious in tone and content. A lot of young artists are borrowing the sound but avoiding the political substance. They’re afraid to speak out. Fela was direct. He challenged the government, he took on oppressive systems. That’s part of what made his music powerful.

Now, when I speak with young artists, they often tell me people don’t want conscious music anymore. They say what sells is what plays in clubs. But the irony is, one of the biggest Afrobeats artists today—someone shutting down stadiums around the world—is deeply political and pan-African in his message. I won’t mention names, but it’s clear. Even in Fela’s time, he didn’t sell the most records. Other artists were more commercially successful. Yet today, he’s the one being celebrated globally. Just a few days ago, there was a Felabration in Japan.

I’m not saying every musician has to be political. But it’s a mistake to follow the crowd blindly. If you look back at African music history, the artists we remember—Fela, Hugh Masekela, Miriam Makeba—were the ones who stood for something.

A lot of artists say protest music doesn’t sell. Even the big names with political songs only have a few in their catalogue. Do you think that concern is valid, or is it just fear holding them back?

That’s exactly what I keep coming back to. Know yourself. If more people truly knew themselves, we’d see more protest music. It’s fear that kills the spirit. And it’s not just fear it’s also society, the pressure to fit into what’s expected.

It’s like when a child grows up and the parents insist, "You must become a mechanical engineer like me." You have no idea how hard I had to fight my own father. But I won. And later, when I became successful, that same father was the proudest man, always saying, "That’s my son." If I had let that fear hold me down, I would never have become who I am. I would never have felt truly fulfilled.

There are so many people who have the ability to speak up through their music. But the moment they try, friends or colleagues warn them, saying things like, “You’ll get into trouble.” So they back out. And they do what everyone else is doing. But even that doesn’t guarantee success because the space is crowded, and the competition is high.

When people say that the times are different from Fela’s time, that now we live in a democracy, I think that’s just an excuse. Oppression is still oppression. Today, people are struggling. Prices are rising. Salaries aren’t keeping up. Just walk into any market and see how hard it is for the average person to afford basic things. That alone is enough reason for conscious people to speak up.

Protest music doesn’t mean you have to sound like Fela or copy his exact style. But you can still speak to what’s happening in your own voice. A true creative is supposed to reflect the times they live in.

Think about it. If your environment is falling apart, but you’re singing about cars and jewelry, what are you really saying? Fast forward twenty years. Your children grow up, watch your videos, and say, “Wow, things must have been amazing back then.” But that’s a romanticized version of reality. It’s a gloss. It’s not the truth.

Do you think we also avoid protest music because the problems feel too big to fix? Like it takes so much effort, and even then, it might not change anything?

Competence is very different from having ideas.

But like I said earlier, it all comes down to roles. Every role matters. Some people are observers. Their job is to speak about what they see. Others are the ones who take that information and create solutions. That’s their own gift.

It’s like the person who invented the phone or the television. They might not have come up with the original idea themselves. It could have been a writer or an artist who imagined it first. I remember when I was in Norway, visiting Edvard Munch’s museum. His most famous painting is The Scream. While I was there, I read some of his letters. In one of them, he had written about how a planned meeting with collectors didn’t work out as expected because of poor coordination. And he said something like, “I wish there was a phone I could carry in my pocket.”

That was just an idea in a letter. But someone else—someone with the technical skills—could take that idea and bring it to life.

In the same way, protest music doesn’t mean you have to be the president or take to the streets. It means you’re documenting what’s happening. You’re inspiring the people who do fight, who do fix. You’re offering something that helps others act.

Usually, the artist just pays the cover designer a one-time fee. But do you think visual artists should start taking a percentage from the record itself? I know when I go vinyl shopping, I’ve bought albums just because of the cover art even when I didn’t know the artist or the genre. Since visuals are such an important part of the experience, how often do visual artists actually get a share of the record’s success?

I remember meeting Peter Tosh in 1982 at Sonny Okosun’s house. Sonny was hosting him during his visit to Nigeria. His wife introduced me and said, “This is Lemi, he did those covers.” Peter looked at me and said, “You should be a millionaire, man.” I smiled and replied, “I know.” We ended up talking for the next two hours.

My love for album covers started back in school. During our Christmas parties, some of the kids from Surulere would bring records to play. At the time, Surulere was known as “New Lagos.” It had the same kind of status that people today associate with Lekki. These classmates often came from more comfortable homes. One of them brought a record that had a flying elephant on the cover. It was Woyaya by Osibisa.

I picked it up, and on the sleeve, I saw the name of the band and also the artist who designed it. His name was Roger Dean, a British artist. His work had this dreamy, otherworldly feeling. It really struck me. A few weeks later, that same classmate brought me a magazine that had a feature on Roger Dean. I read that his older brother did stage design for rock bands, while Roger created album covers for groups like Yes. These were huge acts, selling millions of records.

What impressed me most was that Roger licensing his artwork to record labels and earning real money from it. That was how he built a career. That realization stayed with me.

It reminded me why we need to keep working on fixing our continent. Those who know must teach those who don’t. And those who know better must do better. We need to be examples of the kind of society we want to live in. It is not enough to keep talking. Talking is good, but there must be action to match the words. We have to put our money where our mouth is. 🌶️

This is just the first part of our conversation with Lemi. In the next, we talk about the responsibility artists carry and what it means to reflect the times. Hit subscribe and stick around for that. 🍿

In the second part of our conversation with Anita, we dive into her approach to collaboration, leadership, and the challenges of working with different teams in the creative industry. Anita shares her process for selecting the right people to work with, emphasising the importance of passion and synergy. She also discusses her preference for building sets from scratch, her experience with property owners, and the complexities of sidestepping location challenges.

We also explore Anita’s journey into art direction, her passion for blending African culture into her work, and her commitment to pushing creative boundaries. Her insights into the role of an art director, team dynamics, and the lack of recognition for behind-the-scenes professionals in Africa offer valuable lessons for aspiring creatives in the industry.

How do you figure out the people you don’t want to work with?

I think it’s about synergy. It comes down to their delivery. I’m very detailed and love working with people who have an open mind, are creative, and are willing to go above and beyond to make things work. You’ll meet people who are just doing it for the money and don’t have the passion. But I believe you can do it for both—the money and the passion. Some people won’t put in that extra effort, whether it’s research or going the extra mile, because they think others will manage it. So, they don’t bring their A-game. When I notice that kind of energy, I’ll likely cut ties with that work relationship. You can still be my friend, but we won’t work together.

I’m open to working with people, but I’m also very observant. I pay attention to how people interact with the team because I’m trying to build an environment where we work like a family—where we learn from each other and take our work seriously. If I see that someone doesn’t fit into that dynamic after a couple of tries, I won’t force it. I’ll just let it be. Creativity is a talent, and not everyone is creative. Part of my job is walking into a blank space and thinking, “We’re building a spaceship here.” You need to be able to visualize that and transform a spaces into that. You have to think outside the box, almost to the point of being crazy. That’s what I look for in people. If you’re negative and only point out what won’t work, instead of figuring out how to make it happen, then I don’t want you around. Our work is about doing the impossible and creating magic. That’s how I filter through people I want to work with. And they also have to be hardworking.

Since you likely rent spaces for the duration of a music video, what is your relationship with property owners, and what challenges have you faced in that process?

It’s been tough. Not everyone understands film or production when you’re asking to shoot in their space. Many people think we want to shoot in their house because we like how it looks, but when I walk into a space, it’s often the structure that stands out to me, not necessarily everything else. If I like the structure of your house, I might need to build a wall to block off a door. I might not like the color of a wall and want to change it to red or pink. We often need to transform the space to fit the vision, and not many property owners understand that. This sometimes leads to issues.

Another problem we face is that property owners don’t always realize how many people are involved in a project. They might expect only ten people on set, but then 100 people show up. They’re surprised and frustrated, thinking we’re overstepping. That’s when they might say, “No, you need to leave.”

I personally love building from scratch. I recently went to film school to learn how to design my own sets and models, so I can have full control over everything. When you build from scratch, there are no restrictions—you don’t have to worry about asking if you can paint a wall or hang a frame. But building from scratch is expensive because we aren’t working with an existing structure. We first have to build the structure itself before adding any designs.

Sometimes, we work in abandoned houses that have no tenants or properties that are about to be renovated. These kinds of spaces allow for creative freedom because the owners are going to tear them down soon. These spaces are helpful when we have a smaller budget, but it really depends on the project’s scope and budget. There’s usually a lot of back and forth when choosing locations, which is why we have a location manager for every project. I’ll provide the location manager with the type of locations we need, along with a mood board and references for them to scout.

What I also do is create a location document when I have my design plan. This document explains everything I need in the space, which the location manager can share with the property owner. I make sure the property owner understands what we might do—such as painting their walls or removing a part of the space—but I also assure them we’ll return it to its original state. Sometimes, property owners ask for extra money, like a caution fee, and other times they’ll say they’re not interested because the changes are more than they expected. I always try to be transparent about my plans so they’re not caught by surprise or shocked.

Can you walk us through how you approach a typical brief? How does it come to you, and what’s your process for handling it?

The director or producer usually reaches out to me. It’s the producer who hires the team to help the director achieve their vision. The producer sends me the director’s treatment, or sometimes the director calls me directly when the brief comes in from the client, like an artist. For example, if Davido wants to shoot a music video or release an album and needs a video for the first single, the director might call me to brainstorm ideas together. We sit down, listen to the music, and bounce ideas back and forth. Then we develop the story and create a treatment.

Other times, the director has already done the work and provides me with the treatment. I take that and create my own art direction treatment, which focuses on how everything will look visually. This includes details like the environment for each scene, what the models and dancers will wear, the kind of models and dancers we need, the pace of their dance, the lighting I want on the dancers, and the color scheme for each scene. My art direction treatment is very detailed and aligns with the director’s treatment, but I also tailor it based on who the artist is. For example, the way I approach a Davido video is different from how I would treat a Rema video. They have different aesthetics, different visual languages, and different audiences. Thanks to my background in marketing, I can also identify the target audience and treat it like a marketing campaign.

Once the treatment is ready, we take it to the client. We go back and forth, but often we’re aligned because I’ve worked with some of these artists before and know their preferences. Once we’ve aligned with the artist and their team on how the video will look and feel, I take my art direction mood board to my team. My team is divided into two groups: the glam team and the execution team.

As the production designer and art director, I also handle the execution of my creative vision. A production designer typically develops the treatment and oversees the execution, and that’s exactly what I do. I pass my treatment to the glam team, which consists of the costume designer, makeup artist, and hair stylist. They use my treatment as a reference to create specific looks. For example, if we have five models, I’ll specify what each one will wear. I might provide references for the look I want—if I want it to be gritty or gothic, I include references, and the costume designer develops specific looks from there. They may even sketch out what the hair or clothes will look like. I also provide a color palette for the models and the overall look, making it clear if I want the makeup to be vibrant or if I want the hairstyles to be bantu knots or an afro.

My treatment essentially becomes the bible for the visual direction of the project. On the execution side, I also have an art direction execution team. I take the treatment and tell them, “We need to build four sets.” My team consists of carpenters, painters, prop masters, set dressers, and others who source the materials to design the world the characters will inhabit. I create the sketches with dimensions, and my carpenters give me the cost and budget. Once I approve the budget, they start building, and I supervise the process, making sure everything aligns with the vision. I’ve learned the ins and outs of materials, so sometimes I even go to the market to mix paints myself to get the exact shade I want.

While all of this is happening, I check in with the glam team, asking, “How’s the look coming along?” We do fittings to ensure the clothes look good on the models’ bodies. Another part of the process is reviewing the cast. When the director has selected the cast, I go over it and select the models based on their looks. For instance, if we need a rich aunt in a scene, I’ll choose someone who can carry that attitude.

On shoot day, I sit in front of the monitor with the director while my team is on standby. Before the camera rolls, I ensure everything looks right and I’m happy with how things are set up. The director handles the lighting, the DOP handles the camera, and we all align to make sure both the technical and creative aspects come together smoothly before we start shooting.

In Nigeria, where the cost of goods and services is always fluctuating, how do you handle situations where the budget is initially set at X dollars, but two weeks later, you find that costs have increased to Y dollars?

I don’t think that’s happened yet. If the client isn’t paying for a project immediately, they’re usually aware that there’s a possibility the invoice will expire after a certain number of days. The budget is not guaranteed if they come back a month later, as costs can change due to inflation and other factors. If they insist on sticking to the original budget, we’ll see how we can scale things down, understanding that some compromises will need to be made. For example, instead of creating individual performance sets for each artist—let’s say there are four artists featured on a song—we could reduce it to two artists and adjust the lighting for both to manage all the performances. We might also change the dancers or choreography to accommodate the new budget. There’s always a way to make it work.

How do you manage your energy, especially considering that a week of intense shooting can be physically demanding? How do you cope with burnout, particularly when you have back-to-back projects?

I am blessed and thankful for my team. they are superstars. for a large part of the beginning of my work I wasn’t in Nigeria but I was shooting videos. people knew Anita but they hadn’t met me in person because I had a team on ground that could execute. I was just blessed that before I left I was able to train my them and there was structure in place. i was also on video calls, I saw everything from morning to night as they were working and filming. even now I am on set right now and I am here, I am not worrying or panicking , i know everything is going smoothly because I have been able to train my team to understand my mood board and I have sub teams. let’s say I have four projects in a stretch, I delegate. I do the overall bible that’s really detailed and then I brief my art directors and they understand this is what Anita would like. because we’ve worked together over time, they know me. they know me. they know what I would or would not like but I still give the final approval for everything. The client also trust my team because over time they have become familiar with my team and they know that they will deliver provided that I am the one supervising. And even when I am away, I am approving things on whatsapp, having zoom meetings to align with the team. I think building a team and structure has helped me. I am currently recruiting because I want to expand even more. I also thankful for clients that trust me. and I have also trained the team for them to know what looks good and what doesn’t.

In your Medium post, you mention feeling a sense of responsibility, as though you’re carrying Africa on your back through images, and you hinted at using music videos as a way to promote culture. Can you expand on that idea and explain how it animates the work you do?

I am very African. My mom is from Tanzania and I also went to school in Kenya, so being African is a big part of my identity. I also have a grandmother who doesn’t speak English—she speaks Swahili. I’ve been blessed to be around people from various backgrounds.

Growing up, media had a huge influence on my fashion choices. I was inspired by Nollywood films starring Genevieve and Omotola, with their bottom belts, mini skirts, eyeliner, and glossy lips. We wanted to dress and look like the people we saw on TV. Later, Destiny’s Child, J-Lo, and Janet Jackson became the icons people wanted to emulate. I realized that a big part of how I wanted to dress and what I considered beautiful was shaped by what I saw on TV, rather than what my own culture represented.

But despite that, I love Africa and my culture. Sometimes, I want to wear my braids, my hair in an all-back style, or just leave it out. Who says I have to wear wigs to look beautiful or feel beautiful? Who says I have to be skinny to be considered pretty? I realised that these were very Western standards of beauty, and that’s what really drove me. When I discovered I had the power to challenge that or even make a small change, I jumped at the opportunity.

Whenever I work on a music video, I always try to incorporate African culture in some way. It could be through a person, an item, or just a subtle element. Most of the time, the client receives it well. Most recently, when we worked on "Na Money" with Davido and Angelique Kidjo, I was so excited because it was my first time working with her. I told everyone, “This video has to showcase our culture—we need to go all out.” They were open to it. Angelique Kidjo has been representing African culture for decades, and I was able to express that through the fashion and the art. We took an African royal style to Paris, and that was really exciting for me.

In everything I do, I always try to incorporate African culture because it’s part of who I am as an artist. It’s my signature. I always sprinkle elements of our culture into my work—whether it’s a broom somewhere, Ankara fabric in another place, or through hairstyles, tribal marks, Maasai earrings, or beads. There’s always something African in my art, and I’m very intentional about it. I even bought some African sculptures recently, and if I’m designing an office scene, I’ll add an African mask to the shelves. And that’s my signature.

I know you’d love to work with Beyoncé, but besides her, who is someone else you’d love to collaborate with and why?

I’d say Rihanna. I think she’s such a boss lady—she’s gone from being a musician to a powerful force in business. I’d love to work on a Fenty project

Question from Audience:

What’s the difference between a video director and an art director, and can a video director also be an art director?

As I’ve mentioned, the video director is more technical. Some video directors are creative, but it would be exhausting if you tried to handle both the technical and artistic sides. So, they’re really two separate roles.

What’s your biggest challenge in general?

I think it’s coming up with fresh ideas every time. Each project needs its own unique concept, even if the brief is similar. I try my best not to copy, because as an artist, it’s embarrassing to do so. Sometimes, creative blocks happen, and no matter how hard you try, the ideas just aren’t coming. In the past, my challenge was manoeuvring my way through the industry, but I’ve overcome that. Now, the biggest challenge is staying creative.

What tools do you use in developing your treatment as a production designer?

I use Keynote or PowerPoint. I create the presentations from scratch. It’s basically a visual reference document where I include ideas from movies, YouTube, Google, Pinterest—anything that inspires me—and put those in my presentation to help visualize the treatment.

What do you look for when selecting your team?

I look for creativity, optimism, imagination, and a strong team player mentality, along with a can-do spirit. And I can tell if you’re being dishonest.

What film school did you attend, and how has it impacted your craft?

I took a short course at London Film School, but I’ve never done a full-length film course. Most of what I’ve learned has been on the job, with the help of online resources and conversations with other art directors. I remember seeing the work of an Indian art director that blew my mind. I chased him for six months before he finally agreed to a 20-minute conversation. I’m that persistent when it comes to my craft because I want to learn. I asked him questions about how he works, the tools he uses, and how he handles briefs, and that really helped shape my process. So, while my film school experience helped with learning how to build models, it’s a mix of that, practical experience, and the lessons I’ve learned from others that have shaped me. For anyone starting out, I think you can learn from scratch with a full course, but it all depends on your budget. The course definitely paid off for me, and my clients appreciate it.

In what way do you think you can give back to society or share your knowledge in the future?

I have a workshop program called The Art of Things. It’s usually a two-day workshop. If you’re interested, you can apply when we announce this year’s session. Plus I love to teach.

As an art director, do you collaborate with fashion stylists or other creative directors?

Yes, definitely. As a production designer, I lead the glam team, and the fashion stylist falls under that team.

What’s your advice for someone trying to get into art direction?

Just start. What I’ve noticed is that people often want to work with the biggest names without first gaining experience. What helped me was finding someone who was also starting out. My friend was transitioning from photography to directing, and we started out together. Find someone on your level who’s willing to grow and learn with you. If you have a friend who’s an artist and they have a small budget, create a music video together. You can even convert your bedroom into a set. Start small, challenge yourself, and keep growing. You can really start from your own bedroom.

How often do you rent props or do you prefer to build everything from scratch?

I prefer to build from scratch because it gives me more control. I can decide on details like whether the ceiling is high or low, and how much lighting the space needs—whether it’s a day or night scene. If the budget allows, I even make my own furniture.

What happens to the props you build from scratch?

I have a storage space, and I recycle a lot. Once it’s full, I repurpose the materials and donate them. For example, when we shot for Bayanni, we built a restroom and bought toilets. Afterward, I donated them to a school. Some of the leftover wood from other projects was used to make desks, which we also donated. Sometimes, I keep the props and reuse them for other shoots.

In terms of awards for people like you, those working behind the scenes, what do you think the industry can do? Is there even an award for art direction in Africa?

There isn’t one for art direction in the music industry, although there’s one for feature films at the AMVCA. I’m not ready for feature films yet, but there’s still no recognition in the music industry for art direction. My first-ever nomination was in Germany. Without the art director, there’s really no video—if we mess up, the camera isn’t rolling. What we do is essential; it makes or breaks the video. It shapes the artist’s identity and makes the video memorable. It’s what gives the artist their style and aesthetic. It’s what helps people feel the music and how they interact with it. We need to pay more attention to the craft and encourage people to step into art direction. There’s a huge gap, and we need more art directors in the country. It’s not glamorous, and we rarely get credit, but you need to do it with passion. People know the director and the artist, and you need to be okay with that. The Headies Awards could do better, and so could Hip TV. Right now, they only give awards for directors, but no one else involved in the music video gets recognition, even though it’s a music video channel.

What’s your vision for the music industry? What can we do better, and where do you see it in ten years?

I think artists need to start seeing themselves as a brand, not just as musicians. That’s why they have a stage name—it’s part of the brand, which is sometimes separate from who they are as individuals. If you have a brand, you can create structure around it: a visual style, a brand bible that ensures consistency throughout your music journey. Many artists lack this. I’ve worked with both big and small artists, and only a few have clear direction. Many are just going with the flow. International artists, however, have a brand bible that shows how they want to be represented. We need to take our brands more seriously. It’s not just fun and games—it’s about what you, as an artist, are communicating to people and what your consistent story is. I see the industry in the next ten years with more structure and collaboration—not just about who is doing it better, but about how we can all work together to push our art globally.

We have our three things weekly: what should we watch, listen to, and read?

I’m currently watching Chaos. I love fantasy and sci-fi because they open my mind to the possibilities of what the world could become. I’m listening to Fireboy’s album, and I’m reading Never Never by Colleen Hoover. 🌶️

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In the first part of our conversation with Anita Ashiru, we discuss her work in art direction and production design within the music industry. She talks about how her career shifted from advertising to art direction and how her connection to African culture influences her approach to every project. She provides an honest look at the challenges of collaborating with different teams and maintaining creative control while working within the complexities of the industry.

You can check out some of the incredible projects she has done here

What have you been up to?

I’m currently working on a fashion film, and it’s going really well. We’re shooting in Lagos Island, specifically in Marina. The artistic direction is both authentic and creative, and we’re emphasising the textures and atmosphere of old Lagos while blending it with modern urban fashion. We’ve been working on this project for weeks, and everything has come together beautifully. The synergy between the stylist, glam team, director, and DOP has been incredible—it’s like magic in the making. It truly takes a village. I’m excited about this project and will send you the link once it's finished. We’ve infused so much of our culture into it.

What is the glam team?

The team includes the stylist, who is responsible for costume and wardrobe design, as well as hair and makeup—the people who handle how the model looks on camera. I lead the glam team because I’m the production designer (PD). As the PD, I’m in charge of everything captured in front of the camera, from the color and environment to other visual elements. I work closely with the director and the cinematographer to bring it all together.

What is art direction then?

There’s technical direction, which involves the visionary side of the project—someone who comes up with broad ideas and sets the visual goals. In the case of a music video, the technical director might work with the art director to develop the concept. The technical director focuses on how to execute the vision—choosing the right lenses, framing the character with specific angles, and planning camera movements to establish the artist or enhance a dance performance during certain moments of the song. The art director, on the other hand, takes the technical director’s ideas and shapes the space to match the vision. For example, if the technical director wants fifty dancers in the scene, the art director designs the space around that. The art director also considers how to represent the artist—whether they’re a lover boy, a bad boy, a rebel, or a saint. They develop the creative look and feel, working closely with the director to ensure it aligns with the overall vision. Essentially, the art director is the director’s eye, and they also choose the colors and overall aesthetic for the scene. There’s a lot of creative thinking involved in music videos, and as I mentioned earlier, it really takes a village. Many viewers don’t always notice these elements when watching a video—they just think it's nice—but when you break down the process, you realize how much goes into making it, including all the people involved.

How do you handle it when the technical director and art director are on different pages creatively? What if they just say “no” to your idea?

That’s happened before, but at the end of the day, the technical director is still my boss. It’s not always about getting my way. Directors have their own styles. For example, when you watch T.J. Omori’s videos, you can clearly see his unique style, and the same goes for director K. Art directors have their own styles too. The way I approach a project creatively may differ from how someone else would, and I’ve reached a point in my career where I know the kind of directors I want to work with. I usually do a lot of research to understand their style before proposing ideas. Some directors prefer gritty elements, while others prefer a cleaner aesthetic. Understanding what the director likes helps me align with their vision. It’s always a collaborative process. When you work with people who are good collaborators, they recognise your value and know you’re on the project because of your experience and perspective. I can bring an idea to the table, and through collaboration, it gets refined. It’s layers of different ideas coming together, which is why we can create something unique in the end. There are so many videos out there, but what sets yours apart is the unique perspective that comes from collaboration. Even if I don’t personally love an idea, there’s a way I can execute it that will still satisfy me. After all, I’m not always right

Where do you get inspiration? I want a touch of blue or a touch of yellow.

My inspiration comes from things I’ve seen and conversations I’ve had over time. Sometimes when I watch movies, which I love doing, I look beyond the story and focus on the environment. For example, if we’re introducing a character, I’ll think about what in that scene drives the emotion to the viewers without any dialogue. How does the environment help convey the character’s depression, just by looking at them in their surroundings? That’s the work of a production designer—creating the space, choosing the colors, and setting the mood. Is the character small in a large space? Are dark or grey tones used? Does the space look lifeless to reflect how the character feels, visually, without needing dialogue? It makes me think deeply about storytelling.

I also draw a lot from other people’s work. I love looking at photographers’ work and visiting galleries and museums. I’m really into history and understanding where things come from, so I watch documentaries on all kinds of things. I also go to Abeokuta to see people working on tie-dye. Putting myself in different environments really opens up my mind. When I’m working on a project, I get to tap into all these sources, and that’s what drives my creativity.

I love colors, and I love painting, even though I’m not an artist. When I’m stressed, I paint a lot. I know how to mix colors, and because I’ve experimented with paint on paper and canvas, it’s easy to transfer that to the camera. If I want a set with a green background and yellow and blue characters, I know it will work because I’ve seen it look good on canvas. I also read a lot of fiction, especially descriptive ones, because it helps me imagine. When an author describes a scene that gives you chills, that’s the kind of emotion I want to create in my work.

What was the last exhibition you went:

The last exhibition I went to was called ENIYAN at Eko Hotel. It was a collection, but I can’t remember the artist’s name. The theme was about identity crisis—people struggling with who they are and expressing that through art. ENIYAN represented someone who doesn’t know themselves, moving through different spaces, trying to fit in. It made me think that if you can tell stories through multiple images, I too can tell stories with a three-minute video, stories that go deeper than what meets the eye.

The last painting I did was a butterfly that could also be seen as a face, depending on how you look at it.

What was the inspiration behind your painting, and what did the finished product signify to you when you stepped back and looked at it?

One thing I do, without even thinking about it, is that most of the things I paint have multiple meanings. It’s all about perspective. Whenever I paint, I try to make it represent different things. That’s what art should be—it’s about interpretation. You might look at a painting and see chaos, while I might see calm. Neither of us is wrong.

How did you get into art direction?

I was working in an advertising agency as a strategist, but I had a passion for helping smaller businesses. On the side, I was consulting for my friend’s businesses, helping them grow online through things like brand identity, social media, and marketing campaigns. After about three or four years in the ad industry, I started feeling frustrated because I couldn’t measure my impact. In a big agency, there are so many people working on a single brief, and it’s hard to pinpoint how much of an impact I personally made. I might share a few ideas and help execute a brief, but I didn’t know if my work directly led to certain results. What made me feel fulfilled, though, was knowing I was helping people and seeing tangible progress. I could track my own impact, especially when helping smaller businesses—it was easier to manage, see where we needed to improve, and adjust strategies for the next quarter. This helped me grow as a strategist in ways I didn’t experience in the fast-paced agency environment, where companies don’t always invest in training staff. I felt like I was just pulling from what I already knew, so I decided to leave the agency.

When I left, I didn’t have another job lined up. My fallback was the consulting work I was doing, but I wasn’t making money from it because it was more of a passion project. During this time, a friend of mine who was a photographer transitioning into motion pictures reached out to me for help with brainstorming ideas for his projects. One day, he told me about a music video he was working on and asked if I could help come up with concepts. I thought it was interesting, even though I hadn’t done anything like it before, but I knew I could handle it. I approached the music video like a marketing campaign—who is the artist, what’s their music about, what’s their album about, do they have a brand persona, what’s their identity? I developed the music video story as if I was developing a marketing campaign. The feedback from the client was great—they were impressed and told me I should keep doing it. Before that, I never thought about art direction, I was just helping as a friend.

On the day of the shoot, my friend invited me to see how everything was going. When I got on set, I realised the execution wasn’t matching the plan. I got involved, trying to fix things here and there. It was his first video, so we were both learning on the job. After that experience, I wanted to do it again, and we started working together as a team. We took courses together to learn more about the role and did a lot of research to understand the different aspects of production. Then COVID hit, and with the lockdowns, nothing was happening. I took that opportunity to learn more. Whenever I watched a movie or video, I’d wait until the end credits to see who the production designer or art director was. I’d look them up on IMDb or check out their websites and reach out to them via email. I’d ask for a 30-minute chat, seeking advice and new learning resources. I was really inquisitive and enjoyed it because it felt like this was what God was building me to become. All my experiences—from getting a degree in journalism, which helped me develop deep research skills, to working in a creative agency—came together, and everything started to make sense.

If you were the head of the company you resigned from, what would you have done differently to retain top talent and ensure they could see and feel the impact of their work?

Honestly, I don’t believe everyone is destined to work for someone else. I think you can be a stepping stone in someone else’s growth and success. I still have a strong relationship with the agency. Sometimes, when I’m not working from my own space, I’ll go there. I even have team meetings there sometimes. Even after I resigned, I continued consulting for them on certain campaigns. The CEO understood the kind of person I am. He knew that I would learn more independently. I love helping people and being in a creative space. I’m more inquisitive than suited for a 9-to-5 job. That routine just wasn’t who I was. Everyone in the office knew I wasn’t a morning person. I’d go to work but end up going straight to sleep, and they understood that once I woke up around 12 PM, I’d get the work done. My routine just didn’t align with the 9-to-5 structure. But I did appreciate working in that fast-paced environment. My first week, I was thrown into the deep end and had to learn how to swim, which helped me build resilience that still applies to what I do today. It’s still a great company.

Maybe the only thing they could have done better was to create more growth opportunities—like training or chances for professional development. It’s easy to get lost in the cycle of consistently delivering without asking whether someone wants to stay at their current level or grow. Personally, I felt like I was just running on what I knew off the top of my head, plus a bit of what I was learning online. I still dealt with imposter syndrome, second-guessing my ideas because I wasn’t always sure. I studied journalism, not marketing. I think there should have been more immersion into the world of marketing rather than being left to figure it out on my own. I think there should have been more immersion into the world of marketing, rather than just leaving me to figure it all out on my own. My direct manager was really helpful, teaching me everything he thought I needed to know, but I felt his perspective was a bit limited to what he thought was important, rather than giving me the broader knowledge I needed to really grow.

How do you deal with imposter syndrome now that you have gone solo?

I think I’ve still got it. Yesterday, for example, I was nervous. We’d finished setting up the set, and as the art director, I’m the one leading the set design team. I looked at everything and told them, “Guys, I’m nervous.” They looked at me like I was crazy—“This looks amazing, what do you mean you’re nervous?” I told them, "It looks amazing to us because we designed it, but do you think people will like it?" When others came into the space and started saying how amazing it was, I felt a huge sense of relief.

As an artist or creative, when I’m given a large budget and in charge of the entire look of the video, the pressure is immense. If I mess up, the whole project could fall apart. But I like that pressure. I’m a risk-taker; I quit my job without a backup plan. My mother instilled in me the confidence to take risks. She always says, “Believe in yourself. Whatever you think is right is right. Do it to the best of your ability so at least you can say you didn’t leave any stone unturned.”

Over time, as I’ve taken more risks and seen people appreciate them, I’ve thought to myself, “I don’t think I’m that bad. I think I’m pretty smart. I think I’m doing something right.” Looking back at my work, I can clearly see the difference between when I was playing it safe and when I was taking risks—the difference is obvious.

I can often motivate myself out of imposter syndrome by reminding myself of this: even if something I did didn’t feel great to me, but everyone loved it, then that’s something to recognise. For example, a video with 60 million views and another with 100 million views, both receiving comments like, “This is beautiful.” If people are reacting like that, why should I be scared? Why should I hold back?

When I check the comments or see people discussing the look and feel of a video or the storyline, it makes me feel good. It’s proof that I’m doing something right. Will I ever outgrow imposter syndrome? I don’t think so. As a creative, I think it’s a way to challenge myself. I’m also my own critic, but in a healthy way—not in a way that stops me from appreciating my own work. I always do my best and strive to continue doing my best. But sometimes I have to be hard on myself, asking, “How could I have done this better?” That’s how I improve, for the next project. Because I’m leading a team of 50+ people, I have to help them grow as well. If I let us stay at the same level, there’s no growth. If I don’t push myself, I can’t push my team.

In another interview, you mentioned that when you first started, some of the people you contracted to get things done, especially older men, were reluctant to follow your direction, and you struggled with asserting authority. How have you approached this differently over time? What’s changed since then?

I think a lot of it comes down to experience. When I first started, I was very new to the industry and working with a lot of men who had already been doing it for years. I was actually one of the first female art directors in the Nigerian music industry—there had been one in film, but not in music videos. It was a very male-dominated space. At the beginning, I would often collaborate with another art director on projects rather than handling everything myself. This allowed us to learn from each other—figuring out where to get resources, who to call for certain things, and so on. I just wanted to learn how to navigate the process.

I was soft-spoken and didn’t know how to assert myself. I didn’t think it was necessary to raise my voice to get things done. I wasn’t used to that—back in my corporate job, everyone knew their responsibilities and didn’t need constant reminders. I entered this new world thinking there would be structure, but I soon realised that wasn’t the case. I was working with people who didn’t fully understand the creative vision. For them, they wanted to do things their way and avoid any extra pressure. I’d hear things like, “Who are you, this small girl who just started? What do you know? I’ve been doing this for 20 years. Don’t tell me what to do.” It was frustrating because I wanted to try new things, but over time, clients started trusting me with higher budgets. I became the one responsible for paying these people, which shifted my position. I went from being the “newbie” to becoming their “boss.”

This meant I had to learn how to set boundaries. I had to figure out different leadership styles and what worked best for me. What I learned was that when you’re the one paying, people are more inclined to follow your instructions. The first time I did that, there was a lot of back and forth, but they eventually realised I was serious. Now, I make sure to have contracts with vendors. I’m still the visionary of the project—I bring people on board to help achieve my vision. I need them to respect my role as the leader and the art director. I hire them because they’re experts, but that doesn’t mean they get to override me. My contracts state that they receive an upfront payment and the balance once the job is done. If they breach the contract, they don’t get paid. Over time, I’ve found that this approach works better—they know that when I say something has to be a certain way, it has to be done exactly as instructed.

I’ve also gotten better at filtering through people. Some individuals just aren’t a good fit, and you know right away that you can’t work with them. But I’ve also built a reliable team—some people I’ve worked with for 4 or 5 years now. I’ve managed to establish some structure in my business as well. I’m no longer the only art director in my company. I’ve trained other art directors, and they now lead their own sub-teams. They observe my leadership style, and that approach has spread through the company. This structure is working well.

That said, I still face challenges. For example, I worked recently with a marketing agency where I had interned during university. They hired me as the art director for an ad, but one of my former team leads, who still worked there, had a hard time accepting me in this new role. She was dismissive of my recommendations because she remembered me as her intern. What was rewarding, though, was that the director ensured I had the final say on certain decisions. It was difficult for her to accept that I was in charge now, but it was a valuable learning experience. It’s not just men I’ve had to deal with; I’ve faced challenges with women too. I was surprised, because I thought, “You’re supposed to be happy we’re working together.” I had been excited to collaborate with a team I’d worked with in the past, but I guess I was naïve. 🌶️

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In the second part of our conversation with David Adeyemi, we dive deeper into the strategies and challenges of PR and branding in the music industry. David explains how factors like budget, market research, and planning play a crucial role in creating successful campaigns. He shares creative ways to maximize limited resources, the importance of sustaining long-term goals, and how to balance virality with meaningful engagement.

We also explore the dynamics between A&Rs, marketing teams, and managers in building an artist’s brand, and David offers practical advice for emerging artists on using merch and live performances to grow their audience. Whether it’s setting timelines for roll-outs or finding one’s place in the competitive music market, David’s insights offer a clear and actionable roadmap for artists aiming to build lasting careers.

How quickly should a record label respond when an artist makes a statement, and what factors should determine the ideal response time?

It depends on the situation. There are times when an immediate response is necessary, but it’s important that the response is based on facts, not emotions. In other cases, it’s better to take time before responding, ensuring that when you do, you’re presenting clear figures and facts. Sometimes, it’s even worth waiting to see how much detail the other person is willing to share. Ultimately, the response time should be dictated by the specifics of the situation at hand

In your book, you mentioned that budget should drive strategy, emphasising that having a grand strategy with a small budget doesn’t make sense. Can you elaborate on what you mean by that?

A lot of people aren’t realistic in their thinking. For instance, they’ll want to run a six-month campaign with a budget of just 100,000 NGN. While I appreciate that they’ve at least communicated their budget and timeline upfront—because that saves time—it’s frustrating when someone asks for a comprehensive twelve-month strategy and then reveals they only have a fraction of the necessary budget.

What really drives me nuts is when they ask me to strip down the strategy after I’ve already put in the work, removing essential parts because their budget is far lower than they initially implied. If they’d shared their budget from the start, we could have designed a strategy that aligns with their resources.

Strategies don’t work in isolation; one element is often tied to another. When you start cutting pieces out, the entire s unravel. That’s why the budget should drive the strategy—not the other way around.

Can you share an example of someone who has managed to achieve impressive results with very limited resources? For instance, using 5 NGN to accomplish something that might normally require 200NGN

When I worked with one of our top-tier artists, we had already exhausted our marketing budget, but I still needed to organize a media round before and after their event. In this situation, I had to leverage relationships. This artist was a big name, so I could approach media outlets and say, 'I’m bringing this artist to your station—if you don’t want them, I’m not sure who else you’d prefer.' It became about leveraging the artist’s stature and the connections we had built.

We had spent the budget on all the right things—billboards, sponsored ads, banner ads, and more—but inflation hit hard, and we had to get creative. We offered deals and partnerships, giving out tickets and tables to various partners to secure additional visibility.

Some might argue that co-signs from bigger artists are another way to achieve more with less. While it can generate virality, it doesn’t necessarily create depth. For instance, if Wizkid co-signs you, you might become the most streamed artist that week, but by the following Friday, when another artist drops a hit, you’re no longer in the spotlight. And you can’t expect Wizkid to co-sign you every week. Virality is great for spreading your reach, but it doesn’t build a sustained impact.

Many musicians seem to focus heavily on the pre-release, release, and the first two weeks after a song drops, but then the momentum fades. I’ve noticed that a lot of artists are so focused on hitting the top-10 charts that they don’t seem to care about what happens after. What are your thoughts on this?

Like I said, if you throw something up, it will eventually come crashing down. But if you build something up, even if it crashes, you’ll have a foundation to rebuild from. Unfortunately, in Nigeria, we can’t rely on the charts anymore to gauge music success. The focus has shifted from respecting listeners to favoring gimmicks over actual work. It’s like saying, 'We’re here for a good time, not a long time.' Artists should be making money from streams, not paying to climb the charts where the songs likely won’t even be listened to.

The songs we call evergreen today are truly evergreen. I don’t see many evergreen songs these days. Are there viral hits? Yes. Are there songs that might last for five years? Yes. But beyond that, they fade away.

Another issue is the cost of marketing versus the available marketing channels. I always say the Nigerian music industry is like a one-room apartment. Whether you’re promoting a song or organising an event, you’re dealing with the same group of people. With international labels inflating the market, it’s become even tougher. If Label X is offering 10k to promote their music, who are you with 1k to compete? If you can’t match the 10k, it becomes nearly impossible to get the same results.

This stifles talented artists who have the potential to become global stars. The industry has become a red ocean, filled with sharks, and it’s not built to support emerging artists. For example, New Music Friday has become such a big deal in Nigeria that everyone wants to release their songs on Friday, flooding the market. And let’s be honest—if over 30% of 1,000 songs have less than 10 streams in a year, why are we still focusing so heavily on streams?

Not every artist needs to be a megastar like Rema or Ayra Starr. Artists like Johnny Drille, The Cavemen, SDC, or Brymo consistently sell out shows in various parts of the country. Why are so many artists chasing Rema’s numbers when they don’t have the music, marketing budget, reach, connections, or even the brand identity to support that ambition? This is where branding becomes crucial.

Artists need to ask themselves, 'Who am I?' Like-minded people gravitate toward each other. When people connect with you and form a cluster, you’ve built a community, whether the numbers are massive or not. So why focus on getting 1,000 streams when your strength lies in live music? Imagine Johnny Drille chasing Rema’s 1 billion streams instead of focusing on what works for him.

For younger artists, especially those still in universities, start building your community now. Perform at your departmental or faculty events. What might seem like fun and games is actually the beginning of your career. If you’re paying for stream farming just to inflate your numbers from 10 streams to 1 million, you’re only deceiving yourself. When the money for stream farming runs out, you’re back to square one. Instead of paying stream farmers, why not invest in actual farming—cocoa, for instance? At least that way, you’ll have something real to show for your efforts.

Questions from the Audience:

How can an artist successfully sell music merchandise in Nigeria, considering the unique challenges and opportunities in the market?

In Nigeria, we have a two-way problem with both buying and selling merch. Take Zlatan Ibile, for example. He’s predominantly a street artist, connecting deeply with people from the streets. But his merch and clothing line have items like a single shirt priced at $300. Now, if I can’t afford $300 for a shirt, and I’m not even his core street audience, how much more challenging is it for the people he primarily connects with?

Another issue is that Nigerians often expect free things, especially from celebrities. Many see artists as people who have already 'made it' and believe they should be giving back, not charging. For example, Adekunle Gold gives his fans wristbands. Because of FOMO (fear of missing out) and plus many people want to be part of his community, they don't mind buying it. But merch, especially when priced high, often struggles here because affordability is a major barrier.

We’ve seen brands partner with Nigerian artists, only for the sales to fall short—again, largely because of pricing. Outside Nigeria, like in the UK, people are willing to spend hundreds of pounds on merch from their favorite artists because the connection they feel goes beyond the music. It’s deeper than gimmicks.

So, like I said, it’s a two-way issue. Artists need to price their merch affordably for their audience, and audiences need to shift their mindset and recognise the value in supporting their favorite artists. At the core, it’s predominantly a pricing problem. People want to connect with their favorite artists beyond the music, but the price has to match their reality.

How can artists effectively use merchandise as a way to promote and sell their music?

First, focus on the clusters of people you appeal to—that’s your community. No matter the size of your audience, make sure there’s a clear call to action tied to your merch. Start with pricing that you think they can afford, and use the merch as a tool to drive streams for your music. For example, you can include a QR code on the merch that links directly to your music, making it easy for people to access.

Always seek feedback. It’s not just about asking people to stream your music—because, honestly, I’d ignore that myself—but framing it in a way that trigger curiosity can make a difference. Make them want to engage, not just passively consume. That combination of affordability, accessibility, and creative engagement can help you effectively sell music through merch

What principles should guide the process of setting a timeline for a roll-out, including key considerations and factors to keep in mind?

To the best of my knowledge, there’s no principle, law, or guide that says you have to promote your music for six weeks after release. A lot of factors determine how long you should promote your music. You have infinite time before the release and infinite time after it to make your push.

You need to pay attention to market trends—look at what songs are doing well and what people are talking about. I mentioned the charts hesitantly because you can’t base your entire judgment on them. Don’t limit yourself to the top ten. Instead, check Twitter to see what people are buzzing about, and look at the songs people are using for Instagram and TikTok content.

Also, you can’t plan a release or roll-out without doing proper research, and this is where a lot of people miss the mark. We tend to see research as something academic, like a final-year project, but it’s not. Research means going beyond Google—dig into people’s comment sections, explore trending topics, and pay attention to what’s happening on social media.

Your release strategy also depends on the type of song you’re putting out. As an artist, the song you’re releasing isn’t the only one in your hard drive, so it’s a disservice to yourself to drop a sound that people have already moved past. Let’s be honest, the percentage of people who listen to what’s considered 'good music' is smaller than the group that doesn’t—if you know, you know.

There are many factors to consider. For example, the earning gap in Nigeria is wider than the River Nile. Someone once tweeted that if you can’t afford 900 NGN for Spotify, you’re poor, and they got dragged for it. Many people might not pay 900 NGN for Spotify but are happily using Audiomack or Boomplay. That’s why research is so important.

Make sure you set specific timelines for the things you want to do. Are you doing Instagram Lives, influencer marketing, radio campaigns, or Twitter Spaces? What platform will you use to post your press release? If you plan everything properly—down to how it will flow—then when it’s time to execute, it becomes plug and play.

To go back to the question, if you feel you can sustain the album or project for 13 weeks, then go for 13 weeks. There’s no rule that it has to be 10 days, one month, or any fixed timeline.

How does one go about it?

From my experience working with emerging, semi-emerging, and established artists, a lot of them know what the result of PR should be, but they want it ASAP. The thing is, PR is about creating, maintaining, and sustaining. When we talk about 'sustaining,' think of it like music—when they tell you to sustain a note, it means holding it for as long as possible. It’s the longevity that matters.

You can’t start a PR campaign without having a brand first. The first step is finding yourself because that’s the foundation for building a brand. And branding isn’t just about visuals—it’s more about tone. For example, if someone mentions a guy that tweets in all caps, most of us immediately know who they’re talking about. That’s tone, and it’s a big part of branding.

Branding also ties into positioning. As an emerging artist, how you position yourself affects how people perceive you. If you’re organizing a show or a meet-and-greet, there’s a way you present yourself that makes people see you in a specific way.

The bottom line is simple: find yourself, then brand yourself. Like minds will always connect, and when they do, you’ll naturally build a cluster—a community that gets you and supports you

In the music business, who is responsible for creating an artist's brand—the marketing team or the A&R?

I’d say it’s more of an A&R role. As an A&R, your job isn’t limited to just the music—it also extends to how the artist is perceived and presented. I’m not saying it’s exclusively an A&R’s job, but based on the two options you gave, it leans more towards the A&R. It’s the A&R’s responsibility to understand what type of music connects with the artist’s fans and how best to present the artist to their potential audience. Fans connect through either the music or the artist’s personality.

If branding feels like it’s beyond the A&R’s pay grade, you can always bring in a third-party brand consultant to help figure out the best approach. Branding overlaps with a lot of areas—there’s almost no one in PR who doesn’t touch branding, and the same goes for marketing. Different roles, yes, but they’re all connected.

That’s why it makes sense for the same agency to handle branding, consult on PR, and run marketing. When you’re the one building the artist’s brand, knowing the PR strategies means you’re in a better position to use the right marketing channels to complement those strategies. So, while branding isn’t exclusive to the A&R, based on the two options you gave, it aligns more with their role.

What about the artist manager?

I’d say the artist manager acts like the central point of coordination. Think of the artist as Eko Hotel. They have a management team, and during management meetings, it’s not just the general manager in attendance. The heads of departments—restaurants, events, outdoors, and others—all come together to report their updates. The general manager then consolidates this information and reports to the board of directors and shareholders.

Similarly, in the music business, the A&R, marketing team, and other specialists all report to the artist manager. It’s the manager’s job to oversee everything, ensure the different teams are aligned, and ultimately act as the connection between the artist and the broader strategy.

Can we expect another book from you anytime soon?

At the moment, no. The idea for the book actually came about when I used to write articles on PR, branding, marketing, and similar topics. One night, as I was working on an article, it just hit me—I should turn these articles into a book. And that’s how it all came together. 🌶️

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That wraps up the second part of our conversation with David Adeyemi. If you found this chat insightful, please share it with others. And don’t forget to hit that subscribe button to stay updated. 🍿

David Adeyemi is a PR executive with extensive experience working across music, sports, and entertainment. He is the founder of Pizzazz Media and the author of Music Promotion: A Guide to Hacking the Damn Thing!

In the first part of our conversation, David shares his journey from journalism to PR, highlighting the lessons he’s learned along the way. We explore the basics of PR—what it means, how it differs from marketing, and the importance of building and sustaining an artist’s image. David also discusses the role of branding, the challenges of reputation management, and strategies for creating meaningful connections between artists and their audiences.

Can you tell us a bit about you?

I’m a PR, marketing, and branding executive, though I started my career as a journalist. I began journalism in 2015 and spent three years in the newsroom before realising it wasn’t my true passion. I decided to explore opportunities in PR and eventually got a job, but when COVID hit, I took a leap and started my own PR agency. It began as a small project with a group of six friends on WhatsApp. We wanted to handle PR for labels, businesses, and individuals.

Frustrated with the challenges of a 9-to-5 job, including long commutes, I resigned in May 2021 to focus on Music PR. My first step into the industry was attending a Music Business Conference. That event was a game-changer. I realised I already had a solid understanding of PR; what I needed was access to the right people in the music industry. So, I started networking with the speakers at the conference, including Godwin Tom, Eddy Lawani, Joey Akan, Lanre Lawal, and others.

From there, my career gained momentum. Over time, I’ve worked with a variety of artists, both local and international, in areas like PR, marketing, branding, and events. It’s been a long journey, filled with challenges, like constantly having to explain what PR truly entails to people who often misunderstood it. That frustration led me to write Music Promotion: A Guide to Hacking the Damn Thing. The lessons I’ve learned and the connections I’ve built have propelled my career to where it is today. That’s me in a nutshell.

You mentioned that the frustration of constantly explaining what PR is led you to write the book. Can you tell us, in your own words, what PR really means?

In its simplest terms—and the best way I can explain it without sounding ambiguous—PR is the actions and activities an individual or organization takes to create a good perception with their audience. If we go by the textbook definition, PR is the deliberate effort to create, maintain, and sustain a favourable image in the eyes of your audience.

Your audience here doesn’t just refer to people outside your organization, like customers or the general public. It includes your staff, competitors, government, and every other touchpoint where people engage with you or form a perception about you. In PR, we typically call them 'publics,' but I prefer the term 'audience' because it’s less ambiguous

In your book, you wrote that PR is about creating, maintaining, and sustaining a favourable image. Sometimes, ‘maintaining’ and ‘sustaining’ feel similar to me, even though I know they’re different. Could you explain the distinction between the two?

In creating, it’s about shaping a perception of yourself or your brand in the minds of your audience. For every audience or stakeholder you interact with, there’s a chance you won’t meet them face-to-face. That’s where media comes in—both traditional and digital. Platforms like television, radio, Instagram, Facebook, and others help you create this perception for your audience.

When it comes to maintaining, it’s not just about leaving the perception as it is—you have to actively work on it. The plan you made six months ago might no longer apply. Maintaining involves replacing outdated strategies, fixing gaps, or removing elements that no longer work. It’s like maintaining a house: if a fence collapses, you repair it; if something in the bathroom is broken, you fix it. In the same way, you address and update the perception you’ve built to keep it strong.

Sustaining goes a step further. For example, recently there have been negative news stories about TB Joshua and his family. People close to him came forward to counter those claims. Whether you’re alive or not, PR is an ongoing process. Sustaining is about ensuring the perception you’ve built endures over time, even in the face of challenges.

Maintaining is like pruning—removing what doesn’t work and adding what does. Sustaining, on the other hand, requires a deliberate effort to protect and uphold the perception long-term. PR can’t happen by accident; it has to be intentional.

As per TB Joshua’s case, do you think they are doing a good job?

No comment

When you think about PR, terms like marketing, advertising, and promotions often come to mind. What’s the key difference between PR and marketing?

PR, marketing, advertising, and journalism all share a common foundation: communication. Whether you’re advertising, broadcasting, or writing as a journalist, the goal is to communicate effectively. Since we’re focusing on PR, I’ll compare it to advertising because they’re closely related.

Advertising is always paid for—it’s the act of promoting something by purchasing space or time to deliver a message. This includes Instagram ads, billboards, Facebook ads, and more. Advertising can take various forms, such as digital ads, Out-of-Home (OOH) ads like flyers, bus ads, or posters. The main goal of advertising is to create awareness and drive sales, though it’s not limited to that.

Public Relations, on the other hand, is about building goodwill and fostering a favourable perception of a person, brand, or organization. Unlike advertising, PR isn’t about paying for exposure. Instead, it’s about earning trust and credibility so that, even in times of crisis, people defend you—not because they’re paid to, but because they believe in your reputation. The goal is to create a perception that inspires loyalty and trust, sometimes to the point where people view you in a highly positive light.

Marketing is about positioning your product or service in the audience’s mind. The goal is to make your product the first thing people think of when they need something in your category. For instance, in a supermarket, items are categorised by sections—farm tools, confectioneries, produce, etc. If someone walks into the store looking for a soft drink and immediately thinks of Fanta, that’s the result of effective marketing. Cola brands, for example, work hard to dominate consumer mindshare so that their product is top-of-mind.

In the music industry, marketing works similarly. When an artist is about to release music, their team might consider where the music fits—is it Afrobeats, rock, or reggae? This categorisation helps in distribution and display, much like how products are placed in specific sections in a market. When products are displayed in an appealing way, customers are drawn to them.

Each of these fields—PR, advertising, and marketing—has its distinct function, but they all work together to shape how people perceive and interact with a product, service, or brand.

Would you say reputation management is a subset of PR, or is it a distinct discipline on its own

Yes, reputation management is a subset of PR, and crisis communication is an important part of it. For example, I once worked with someone who had been wrongly convicted, which severely damaged their reputation. Their name was essentially blacklisted by many companies. We had to completely overhaul their public image to rebuild trust and restore their standing.

Why is it important for an artist to set both short-term and long-term goals for managing their image?

Short-term goals are relative, but I define them within a range of 1 to 12 months. These often align with specific campaigns, which can last one, three, or six months. Long-term goals, on the other hand, typically span 18 months to several years, or even longer.

Achieving a favourable image requires a strategy tailored to these timelines. For example, if someone in Lagos wants to get to London, they need to choose their mode of transport—ship, road, or air—based on how quickly they want to arrive. If their goal is to get there in two days, a ship isn’t suitable. But if they’re planning a longer journey over two years, they have more options.

Similarly, short-term campaigns are designed to achieve immediate goals, while long-term campaigns are focused on sustaining and building on those goals over time. It’s all about matching the strategy to the desired outcome.

If someone wants to create and maintain a positive public perception, how can they identify a good PR professional? What qualities or questions should they consider when choosing one?

In the PR industry, selecting the right professional is crucial because you’re essentially entrusting them with your reputation. A strong reputation can be your greatest asset, but if anything goes wrong, the publicist is often the one held accountable.

Referrals are always a great starting point. Recommendations from trusted sources can give you confidence in their abilities. Beyond referrals, a good publicist should also know how to market themselves. They should be able to showcase their accomplishments—what they’ve done, who they’ve worked with, and the results they’ve achieved.

Ideally, they should have built a strong personal brand to the point where their name is synonymous with PR success. When people think of a publicist or wonder who’s behind a celebrity’s excellent public image, their name should come to mind. That level of visibility and credibility is a good sign of their competence.

Let’s talk about high-profile cases like Drake’s reputation after his rap diss with Kendrick Lamar or Diddy facing numerous allegations. As a publicist, what strategies would you use to help restore or manage their reputations in such scenarios?

At Pizzaz Media, the agency I own, we actually published an article discussing the PR aspects of the Drake vs. Kendrick Lamar beef—you can check.

As for Diddy, the situation is far more complex. With the overwhelming amount of evidence against him, there’s very little that can be done from a PR perspective. He could own up to his actions and issue an apology, but that’s unlikely to suffice in the face of the allegations.

That said, there will always be fans and stans who follow someone unconditionally, no matter how bad the situation gets. Playing devil’s advocate, you could say it’s Diddy, his fans, and his loyalists against the world. In such cases, a publicist’s role is extremely limited because the narrative is so entrenched.

Fandom often plays a significant role in an artist's success, and some artists have incredibly loyal and, at times, rabid fanbases. What strategies can an artist or their team use to build such a deeply committed community of fans?

Once you’re in the public eye, no matter the level of your popularity, there will always be people who resonate with something about you. It could be something as simple as the red shirt you’re wearing or the way you style your cap. The human mind works in interesting ways like that.

For Nigerian artists, fans with similar interests naturally come together to form communities. While these communities often form organically, as an artist, you and your team can play a role in initiating them or helping them grow. Once established, you can also guide the community, nudging it towards certain goals or outcomes to create a deeper connection and loyalty.

When you read the news or come across something online, do you find yourself questioning its authenticity or analysing it from a PR perspective? Are there moments when you're impressed by strategic placements or suspect they’re designed to trigger specific emotions?

Being in the mental space I am in, with a background in psychology and experience in marketing and branding, is both a blessing and a curse. When I see an ad or a campaign, I often think, 'You can do better than this.' For example, if I watch a 7-Up ad with the sound of the bottle opening and the chills, I don’t buy into it because I know the tactics behind it. It’s what I deal with every day in my work, so while it’s fascinating, it also makes me a bit skeptical.

For me, when I watch a YouTube ad for a product and it doesn’t let me skip, I usually make a point not to buy it. Speaking of great strategy, what’s an example of a PR execution for an artist that you think was particularly well done?

In Nigeria, one example that stands out is Adekunle Gold opening up about his sickle cell status. That announcement won him many fans. During COVID, for instance, some celebrities couldn’t even admit they were infected, but Adekunle shared his truth, saying, 'I am a sickle cell patient, but that hasn’t stopped me from achieving my dreams.' Beyond that, he donates money and spends time at sickle cell homes, showing solidarity with others living with the condition. It was a powerful move that resonated deeply.

Another great example is Joeboy. When he released his album, it coincided with a fuel scarcity crisis. He positioned buses near fuel queues and in student areas—places where his key demographic could connect with the message. It was a smart, timely execution that made an impact.

Another thing I’ve been curious about is one-hit wonders. What do you think leads to an artist becoming a one-hit wonder? They release a phenomenal song that takes off, but then you never hear from them again. Any remedy?

One can’t pinpoint a single reason for one-hit wonders because the reasons differ from one person to another. One thing I can say is, have you seen the cost of marketing in the Nigerian music industry? Another reason could be a lack of interest—some artists might think, 'I just don’t want to do music anymore. I’m tired. I have that one song, and that’s it.'

What’s the remedy for one-hit wonders? First, they have to wake up psychologically and decide how far they’re willing to go to make a comeback. I always advocate for building gradually because if you just throw something up, it will come down. But if you build, even if it crashes, you’ll have a foundation to continue from.

For one-hit wonders, it’s often that they were chasing hit songs, not music careers. Maybe they were focused on making the top 10 on Apple Music or other charts but not on creating a sustainable career. To make a comeback, the artist must first be psychologically prepared to do the work.

We’d start by pairing them with new-generation songwriters and producers. Then we focus on branding—if they had a brand, we rebrand it; if they didn’t, we build one. At this stage, there’s no music yet; the focus is on strategically putting them in the media so people see them as human beings, not just artists. Then, we move to collaborations with younger artists.

If you’re chasing hit songs, you might get another one, but you’ll always be chasing. Instead, the focus should be on building a career.

What are some ways you’ve seen artists use digital media—like social media, newsletters, and so on—in ways that could potentially hurt their careers?

I'd talk about those that have used it well. A great example is Adekunle Gold. His newsletters are deliberately crafted to connect on a personal and intimate level. You can see this in the language he uses—written in the first person, it feels personal, as though he’s speaking directly to you. He shares details about his life that go beyond what you’d typically see on Twitter or Instagram. For instance, he’s written about flying from Paris to Boston, his first time in Washington, and even moments like choosing a specific color of shoes or an outfit. These are personal experiences he reserves for his newsletter audience, making his fans feel like they’re part of an exclusive community.

There was even a time he announced a new single through his newsletter and gave away tickets to his show. It’s his way of saying, 'This is our space; let’s nurture it.' You rarely hear about his newsletter outside his core community, which I believe is intentional.

Another great example is Show Dem Camp (SDC). Over the years, we’ve seen them grow their Palmwine Festival from intimate living room sessions to selling out Muri Okunola Park annually. This success is largely due to the strength of their community. Their fans share inside jokes and references that outsiders wouldn’t understand, reinforcing a sense of belonging.

Other artists are beginning to adopt similar approaches, but few execute it as effectively as Adekunle Gold. He’s a detailed and deliberate creative, and everything he puts out reflects that level of intention.

Let’s shift our attention to the back end of the music industry and talk about record labels. When an artist accuses a label of predatory behavior, we often hear only the artist’s side of the story, while the label remains silent. Do you think record labels are failing to take PR seriously in these situations

In the entertainment industry, PR is often overlooked until there’s a crisis. Unfortunately, this reactive approach can make things worse. For example, if you send nudes to someone over WhatsApp, you should already be aware of the risk that they could leak one day. That possibility should prepare you to handle it when it happens. A great case study is Tiwa Savage—she got ahead of the narrative by addressing the issue before the leak, essentially saying, 'This is going to come out, so get ready.' Her proactive approach helped her take control of the situation.

For record labels or label executives, it’s often the same problem: they don’t see the need for PR until a crisis has escalated to a point where almost nothing they say will help. The person who speaks first often controls the narrative. Silence, in itself, is a form of communication, but it’s risky. Some people might see silence as an admission of guilt, while others might dismiss it as ‘just another artist-label dispute.’ Either way, leaving doubts in the audience’s mind is not ideal.

If the accusation is true, own up to it and apologize. If it’s false, state clearly that it’s a lie. What you absolutely shouldn’t do is lie to cover up another lie—it will only make the situation worse. Silence is not a good stance in these situations. You need to say something, either directly or through a spokesperson. Record labels should always have a crisis plan in place to address different scenarios, so they’re not caught unprepared. 🌶️

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This is just the first part of our chat with David Adeyemi. Don’t miss the final part —hit that subscribe button and stay tuned 🍿

In the second part of our conversation with Jonathan G Shaw, we discuss the ethical concerns surrounding AI in the music industry, especially in how it impacts the value of artistic creation. Jonathan points out that artists must recognise the worth of their work in the face of new technologies. He also touches on the responsibility of governments to ensure regulations are in place that protect artists’ rights, while also encouraging innovation. It’s a deeper look into the evolving relationship between technology and creativity. In case you missed the first part, you can read it here

Should AI companies add tags or watermarks to clearly indicate when content is AI-generated?

I could imagine that happening—that if you look closely at the fine print, you’d see AI was involved at the source. It’s interesting to think about the impact if AI-generated music didn’t carry any specific rights. It certainly doesn’t foster human creativity in the way we traditionally understand it in certain fields. As we discussed earlier, there must be a level beyond what we know as music creation today. If Beethoven, for example, had been able to skip certain processes, what might he have created instead?

I sometimes wonder if people like Beethoven were alive today, what would they be working on now? That aside, if AI content isn’t protected, there’s a potential issue. For example, if I prompted AI to write a sad song, kept the AI involvement hidden, and then monetised it, continuously earning royalties—wouldn’t you say that’s a problem?

For example, say you use ChatGPT to write a love song in the style of Ed Sheeran about someone losing their dog. It gives you a range of lyrics until you find what resonates. Then, you use another AI to create a sad melody in the style of Celine Dion and get AI to generate Usher’s voice to sing it. Do all these artists have a claim to that creation? Normally, content owners might—but in this case, I’ve crafted the whole piece. In a way, I’m like a movie director, using these tools to bring a vision to life.

Then I can turn around, present the song, and say, 'Look what I told AI to create for me. Isn’t it amazing?' If people accept it, then what? As you mentioned, I could even direct the music video exactly as I envision it. Here, I’m both the controller and the producer. So, where does my creativity begin and end? I suppose it’s limited only by my imagination. The more I can imagine, the more combinations I can achieve. That’s something incredible to think about

Isn’t that the whole point of technology? To close the gap between imagination and realization. Something that used to take six months can now be done in an afternoon. Isn’t it a good thing that this level of creativity is accessible to everyone?

You’d have people who become really skilled at prompting AI—that would be a skill in itself, being able to get better results than someone else. Doesn’t that ultimately lead to better music? I see this extending into the film industry too, where you could create actor avatars, design any set you want, and build entire virtual worlds. It’s similar to how building websites has changed; 20 years ago, you’d code from scratch, but now you can just pick elements and create a site without worrying about the developer’s role. People just want a functional website, and they appreciate that it’s easier to make. The same goes for image manipulation with AI; it’s about choosing the style and direction you want.

I think music could go the same way. You could create a fully produced track using AI, then add a live guitar at the end to make it your own.

In your book, you don’t call it the 'music industry'—you call it 'music industries.' Would you say it’s like viewing the music industry as one tree with many branches versus seeing music industries as a forest with many trees, each with its own branches?

Let’s stick with that analogy. The ground beneath us is the song itself, and each tree growing from it represents what can happen to that song and how it’s used. One of those trees is recordings, where you might excel in creating recordings—whether as a performer, a singer, or producer—forming the recording industry. Then there’s songwriting, which leads into music publishing, with people skilled in licensing and placing songs in films and other media. Then there’s live music, where you might be a great performer who shines on stage and entertains live audiences.

Where I’m at now, it’s not about seeing it as 'the music industry' but as different domains. A domain is about how you connect all aspects of the industry to what you do. People might say I’m diverse in my work, but it all comes from the same root. However, I’m not a live music person—I don’t run concerts or plan events. That’s not my domain. My domain is understanding the record business, teaching within it, creating and recording music, and everything that connects to that.

Could you clarify the distinction you’ve made between the concepts of value chain and supply chain within the music industries?

The consumer is part of the supply chain and the song they are consuming has value.

What contributes to a song’s value growing over the years? How might a song become even more valuable 50 years from now?

By looking back 50 years, we can see how songs gain value. Some people might say, "I’ve written a hit song," but it's only a hit when it’s actually a hit. This is the challenge with creative industries. The value of what we’re creating today isn’t always clear until it proves itself over time.

This contrasts with something like cell phones. Take Apple, for instance—you might say the iPhone 16 will hold value because the iPhone 15 and previous models were successful. With a product like that, you already know it sells, so you just keep refining it. The value lies in new features and incremental improvements. But creativity works differently; we don’t see its real value until it’s actually recognized.

The answer to creating something valuable over time lies in the effort you put into it. When you’re writing, playing, or programming a song, are you doing it to the best of your ability, building on what you've done before? In many ways, it’s skill-based—the quantity and quality of output matter. Success in creative fields often means creating things people connect with, which takes time and dedication.

There’s a saying in the industry: it took ten years to become an overnight success. Talent is essential, and while you might get lucky with a viral hit, that’s not necessarily a measure of long-term success. So, talent paired with hard work is what truly matters in the end.

Assuming that creating value means achieving commercial appeal, there’s often a tension between artistic integrity and commercial success. An artist might say, “I’m not concerned with public opinion; I want to make the best work for myself.” They create the piece, but it doesn’t gain traction—not because it lacks quality, but because it doesn’t align with what the market values. The artist believes it holds worth, but the market disagrees. How do you think artists can navigate this tension between personal expression and market demands?

This is the nature of creativity, I’d say. With how easy it is to make music these days, when an artist creates something and someone says, “no,” or “I don’t like this,” it can be crushing. Artists might feel like it’s the worst thing they’ve ever done. You see this happen all the time—artists giving up because they start to doubt their talent. On the other hand, business-minded people might say, “This is actually good; it’s only a matter of time before it finds the right audience, maybe it’s just ahead of its time.” One of the biggest mistakes an artist can make is giving up on something they believed in because of someone else’s opinion. Why? Because they let an outside opinion change them, making them think, “I shouldn’t have done Afrobeats; maybe I should have done rock.” Artists can get stuck in a cycle of “I shoulds” instead of just creating and saying, “I like it, and someone else will too.” Then, they push themselves further by thinking, “That was good, but I can do better.” Many famous artists have back catalogs they didn’t think were great, but fans still love. Even when they feel they’ve reached where they want to be, not everyone will like it. This is part of the artist’s journey and the nature of creativity. It’s something that public policy should recognize more, as artists are a vulnerable group in ways that fields like medicine or engineering are more shielded from criticism

In your book, you discuss facilitators, such as civil groups and governments. Do you believe they are best positioned to advocate for the artist's well-being?

Unfortunately, in my experience, some of them wish artists fit into a more conventional mold. The idea of artists organising themselves hasn't taken off successfully, and the main reason is money. The more financially stable artists are, the better they can take care of themselves and keep creating. If they're able to make a fair living, they can sustain their art and their lives. This means that when income is low, the industry should have some structure to support their development. Without an effort to grow revenue streams for artists, there’s a struggle. We haven't seen much growth or investment in this area, and much of it ties back to education. Artists need to be educated, despite the misconception that knowledge might stifle creativity. Some believe that deeper understanding limits creativity, but as professionals, artists benefit from having knowledge across both creative and business domains. I don’t know if you agree that artists should only focus on their art, or if they should broaden their scope.

There’s a common misconception about the ‘tortured artist’ — the melancholic, depressed, struggling creator who shuns money and resists selling their art. Being a visual artist myself, I always clarify that I don’t fit that stereotype. I believe artists should recognise that what they create holds real value. The idea of wanting to be like Van Gogh and only be recognized centuries later is, to me, misguided. Artists deserve to be paid what they're worth — ideally, what they believe they’re worth. If they can bridge that inherent worth with what others see and appreciate, then all the more power to them. Why do you think many African countries lack an AI strategy, policy framework, or expert body to address the impacts and opportunities of AI advancements?

The limited focus on AI development and policy in many African countries likely stems from a combination of factors. AI advancements are largely driven by Western countries, making it challenging for African nations to participate fully or keep pace in AI-driven fields. The imminent danger of it isn't high on the agenda. Poverty remains the biggest challenge, and that applies to the arts as well. As long as there are economic problems, the arts won’t really get the attention they deserve. I'll raise the issue of participation—are we able to engage in these domains and contribute to the conversation about the way forward? It’s often difficult to participate. Audience development is also key, and as long as there’s an economic drive for foreign content, this will continue to be an issue.

That said, South Africa has seen significant development. We have one of the biggest cultural economies, and it needs further support and fostering. We need to find our own unique expression to be able to compete—or maybe we don’t need to compete, maybe there’s another way, and others can compete with us. Returning to policy, I also find that there’s a lack of institutional memory. The same issues keep coming up, and nothing really changes. They call for new studies, but these studies just find the same problems over and over again

Questions & Comments from the Audience:

Chinasa: How would you approach using AI to create a marketing plan for promoting an album by an artist with no existing audience?

It involves asking a lot of different questions. You can begin with the main question and then dig deeper with follow-up queries. However, it's important to note that many of the answers you get will be quite generic, so you may end up creating a large portion of the plan on your own.

William: Let’s we attribute ownership of AI-generated content to the person who prompted the AI, should the owners of the content used to train the AI also be compensated?

In terms of copyright, there are two main concepts: ownership and public domain. Public domain refers to works that can be freely used by anyone, which might extend to a concept like "artificial domain" where AI-generated content isn't owned by anyone because the same request can be repeated to generate similar outputs. I predict that much of AI content may eventually fall into a public domain-like category. When search engines were first introduced, many couldn't foresee their full potential beyond just search, but now we have advertising platforms like Google Ads. We're at a similar point with AI—while the technology exists, its future uses are still unclear. As the conversation progresses, the focus will be on developing protections for the next generation of copyright in an AI-driven world. A helpful analogy is the guitar—no one questions the evolution of this instrument over time, but we continue to use it to create music today. In the same way, AI may eventually be treated as a tool for creation without ownership disputes over the outputs. 🌶️

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That wraps up the second part of our conversation with Jonathan Shaw. If you found this chat insightful, please share it with others. And don’t forget to hit that subscribe button to stay updated. 🍿

Jonathan G Shaw is a record producer, educator, and consultant in film, cultural management, and the creative industries. He’s also the author of South African Music Business, a comprehensive guide to the industry. With experience across both the creative and business sides, Jonathan examines innovations shaping the future of music — from digital distribution and licensing to tools transforming how music is made and monetised.

In this two-part discussion, we explore the impact of AI on music creation, marketing, and distribution, the challenges it poses for musicians, and the ethical considerations that lie ahead. Jonathan’s insights on balancing innovation with respect for artistry make this conversation essential for anyone thinking about the future of music and technology.

You have such a fascinating and multi-hyphenated career, from consulting for both local and international governments to working across multiple industries. Is there something you don’t do?

My journey has really been about getting into the business, staying in it, and learning everything I could. A lot of what I do comes from the belief that knowledge is power. The more people know, the better they can navigate whatever industry they’re in. I’ve spent my time trying to figure out the right answers to tough questions. When there’s something I don’t understand, I take it to heart and work to make sense of it. My passion is music production. I love putting music together. I started as an artist back in the early 90s, and I’ve seen a lot of changes since then.

Before this session, we were talking about how the guitar has been sidelined in today’s music industry, and how the computer has become the new instrument. Knowing what your computer can do in terms of making music is just as important as learning a musical instrument. I’ve seen these changes happen over time. I also think the pandemic played a huge role in speeding things up — maybe by about five years.

As for how people’s tastes will change in the future, that’s what every record label is trying to predict. I don’t think the music of the future will necessarily be what we know now. I think things will shift in ways we can’t fully predict. The sounds will change and become something new. And to be ready for that, you’ve got to have a strong background and stay deeply immersed in music. Personally, I’d love to see more musical elements added back into music. We’ve gone through a phase where rhythm has been a major focus — especially in Africa, where it plays a huge role across different genres, not just hip-hop, which has also had a big influence on African music. So, the question is: will music become even more rhythm-driven in the future, or will it move in a more harmonic direction?

I think other countries are starting to join the global music conversation with their sonic contributions. Africa has something unique to offer—tribal rhythms, drums, dances, and more. The North of Africa has its own sound to contribute, Nigeria has made its mark with Afrobeats, and South Africa has Amapiano. Maybe the next big wave will come from Tanzania, but I suspect it will still be dance-heavy.

It’s interesting to think about where things are headed. For me, a music professional in the future will be someone who can adapt to those changes, especially when the musical trend or genre they’re involved in starts to phase out — because that’s bound to happen eventually.

How long do you think it takes for a genre to slowly lose momentum? Is it around five years, or more like ten?

I think it has a lot to do with popularity and how far a song reaches. Something that’s niche right now will eventually make its way into the mainstream—it’s all about how it spreads across the globe. When we talk about viral hits today, they’re in some way a form of micro-genre shift. If a viral hit spreads far and wide, it’s likely to influence what people want in the future. For instance, look at the South African song ‘Tshwala Bam’ that spurred a viral dance. Whether that was orchestrated by the record company behind the song or happened organically to a certain degree, it still made a big impact. I’ll just put it out there — I don’t believe in organic music marketing. It doesn’t exist anymore

I think it’s essential for record labels to embed viral elements into songs to increase the chances of them becoming global hits.

I don’t think viral trends are an organic way of promoting music. What I mean is, I don’t believe these things happen by pure accident. Sure, it happens, but if you’re setting out to create an ‘accidental’ viral hit — good luck. Even the people who experience it probably didn’t expect it to happen. Many aim for a viral hit, but I don’t think it’s always intentional. That’s what the major record labels have been frustrated about — they’re struggling to influence what those viral hits are.

As for how fast genres change, I’d say there’s a slight shift every two to three years. But in what context are we talking about this? Are we referring to the US Billboard 100 and the Western side of things?

I think, at the end of the day, the global music industry is driven by a handful of countries. Even in Africa, while the sound remains unique, there’s often a bit of modification to fit certain institutions or frameworks. Occasionally, these institutions make room for new players at the table, pushing some genres aside while allowing others in. That’s what I mean when I talk about a genre losing steam — not that it disappears completely. For example, punk isn’t dead; it’s still around. It’s just not the dominant sound anymore.

I think it’s great to see someone like Tyla in every conversation right now. When you look at whether her songs are tailored more for an American market that’s more attuned to that sound, that’s one thing — and that tends to happen more in that market. In Africa, we’re still catching up because our communication mediums are so varied. We’ve still got people listening to radio, and I don’t mean that in a negative way. It’s just that the landscape is different. In the US or UK, there’s this assumption that everyone’s on Spotify or Apple Music, which creates a more homogenous market where everything is easier to navigate.

My feeling, from being in Africa, is that we have so many layers — different cultures, types of media, and varying levels of internet access. There’s so much diversity that creating a major hit in Africa becomes more complex. Another factor is live music. When an artist goes on a 'world tour,' it often just means touring in the Western world.

They still call it a world tour nonetheless. But if they ever come to Africa, it’s usually just South Africa. They also tend to come here only when their fame has faded a bit. Then they give shoddy performances, as if Africa deserves less.

They call it a comeback concert or nostalgia tour, or something like that. But when you look at Africa, touring is much more difficult. There are currency issues, for instance, along with many other challenges. Or maybe not—it depends on how you look at it, because these challenges are often seen from a Western perspective. The biggest thing about Western music is that you need a large group of people with similar tastes to create massive hits. But that model doesn’t play out across Africa the same way.

In some markets, like the Afrikaans market in South Africa, it’s not huge, but it’s concentrated. They have a sustainable number of people who buy the music. Then there’s the issue of format — where streaming dominates in some parts of the world, in other parts of Africa, CDs or flash drives might still be the norm.

I’d really like to hear opinions from the audience about what their experiences are relating to what I am talking about. I find that my views are formed by talking to people, both inside and outside the industry.

Ronny Lawson: can you explain why you said there’s nothing like organic marketing?

Organic marketing is like going to an open mic night, performing in front of ten people, and five of them think you’re amazing. Those five go tell another five, and it keeps growing until everyone knows you. So the next time you perform, instead of ten people, you’re playing for 50. It compounds like that because people are genuinely interested in your talent. That’s the myth — that’s how people believe you become famous. It’s the 'bedroom hit' story: you record a song in your bedroom, release it online, and boom, it goes viral. Suddenly, you're famous.

If you’re working in this industry and waiting for that ‘organic’ break, it might take a while. To really make an impact and resonate beyond that takes more than just luck —it requires intervention. You need to do more, invest more. If you spend $1,000 to make a track, you should be spending at least twice as much on marketing. In other words, one-third on production, and two-thirds on marketing.

These days, a trend is to aim for a lot of YouTube views, so some people pay to get their videos highlighted. You pay to advertise the video. But how many streams do you need to reach that tipping point, where suddenly the single is known everywhere. That aside, if you’ve got 2 million rands, for example, you’ll need to put 1 million into production. That’s not hard to imagine if you’re working on an album, several music videos, and all the social media assets you’re pushing out. Now you start to understand why record labels spend that kind of money.

There’s definitely a case for using the resources of a record label. But let’s tie that back to AI. Right now, promoting just one song across different channels costs a ton, and the frustrating part is, it might not even be the song that connects with the public — so you end up betting on the wrong horse. Don’t you think AI can help shrink those costs? Soon, someone will be able to sit at their computer, prompt AI to create a realistic 3-minute music video without any weird glitches, like six fingers or extra hands. You could even have AI create a marketing strategy for both pre- and post-release that could stretch over an entire year. Most songs tend to lose momentum after a week, but with AI, you could plan for a whole year, continually increasing the value and resonance of the IP or song you’ve created. Couldn’t that be a case for AI at least those who are not signed under the big three.

There’s a big push for being indie these days. But another trend is that even the big labels aren’t investing that kind of money anymore. They’re looking for surface hits they can monetize. Speaking of horses, they want sure bets—they’re after artists who already have some traction. More and more, they’re just providing the tools for those artists to keep rising. They’re shifting toward artist services rather than traditional deals. What most people don’t realize is that a lot of the popular aggregators are actually owned by the major labels. A lot of people are not necessarily aware of that. So when you think you’re going indie, you’re actually paying a major label somewhere — and they’re still making money off you as an indie artist.

I think the majors also own shares in Spotify

Yes. They try to own chunks of the supply chain. Who are the major African-owned music aggregators?

None comes to mind

We haven’t yet captured the kind of revenue the music industry generates in other parts of the world. Can there be an African aggregator on the same scale as CD baby or Tunecore? Meanwhile, labels are shifting more toward offering artist services. If you’ve already recorded your music, a label might just step in to handle the marketing. As for AI, I don’t think it’s going to be ‘AI, make me a marketing plan.’ It’s more likely to be ‘AI, release me or put my music out there’

Are you referring to the entire process, from start to finish, like the whole chain?

It could be something like, ‘AI, send my music to radio stations,’ or ‘AI, please handle my social media,’ and much more. What impact will AI have once it fully reaches the marketing side? We’re already seeing the effects on the content side, especially in terms of music creation. People are like “well, am I going to be listening to genuine music’ if you can call it that?

But is there really such a thing as ‘genuine’ music? Technology has always been a part of the music industry —whether it's autotune, filters, plugins, or DAWs. Technologies like those have put bands and session musicians out of work. The real question is, if AI gets so good at creating music that it can pass as whatever we define as ‘genuine,’ how do we compete? Going back to what you said about ‘AI, release me,’ the challenge becomes: What’s my edge if we all have access to the same tools? If one person says ‘AI, release me’ and the next person does the same, where’s the advantage?

(laughs) I think it would be the amount of money that AI asks for. I’ll give you a story that I think is intriguing: in the 1900s, when radio was just becoming popular and they started playing recorded music instead of using live musicians, there was a huge protest. Musicians were upset that recorded music was being played on the radio, fearing it would take away their livelihoods. Today, we don’t even think twice about it— it’s totally normal to hear recorded music on the radio. But back then, it was seen as a threat.

In some ways, AI is like that now. People are reacting to something new and unfamiliar, tools we didn’t have before. I don’t think people will be lamenting the fact that there’s less AI-generated music in the future. Personally, I’m not afraid of it—if anything, I find the potential disruption exciting. Will AI create a new market that takes money away from musicians? Maybe. But if we reach a point where people can’t tell the difference between AI-generated music and human-made music, and we accept that, then there’s not much we can do.

It ties back to the rhythmic idea we talked about earlier: will people care if there are no real instruments in music anymore? In some ways, we’ve already passed that point— most music today is computer-generated, and we’re perfectly happy listening to it without even thinking about it. I think we’re heading toward a future where 'non-human' music is a trend—AI algorithms will keep churning out songs, and people will accept it.  

It also depends on taste. Earlier we spoke about genres and how long it takes to decline. In the future, pop music might primarily use AI-generated sounds, while acoustic music, like classical, could be seen as more 'human.' For my taste and listening preferences going forward, I would want humans to be involved in every step of the process. You could look at a keyboard, for instance, and say that from the moment people were able to make digital or synthetic sounds, music lost something. Being able to play a musical instrument is becoming less relevant every year.

Does AI bring up moral or ethical concerns? Of course. Is it moral to have a society where people not only play musical instruments but also truly appreciate that it's a human doing it? There’s less appreciation for music with imperfections. People don’t tolerate that anymore – look at autotune.

It could just be a phase where music becomes heavily computerised and then shifts back to being more organic — not in terms of marketing, but in actually playing instruments. Personally, I’d love to see more acoustic instruments featured in music going forward. But AI might trick us—it could add organic-sounding instruments, and we wouldn’t know. That’s always going to be a risk. Will we see ‘genuine’ music labels in the future, where they guarantee the music was indeed performed by humans? I’d like to think that some form of humanity will prevail in the future.

The darker side of this is imagining a world where computers can please us in every possible way. People might fully embrace that reality, and we could end up seeing humans playing instruments as something of the past, a relic. How does that idea make you feel?

Personally, I’d say there won’t be a need to learn traditional instruments. The next Beethoven won’t be playing the piano. In fact, it would lack creativity and innovation for Beethoven today to still be playing the piano. It would just feel off. I want kids today to sit down at their computers, figure out how to prompt, and become the Beethovens of this era

I agree with you somewhat. One question that comes to mind then is: what’s the future of music theory? If you can teach a computer to do it, does that mean you don’t need to know the theory behind it anymore? Where does that leave the future of composition and recording? It’ll be interesting to see where it’s heading.

AI may not only be able to create music, but also find an audience and tailor it to their exact interests and listening patterns because it understands them so well. That could throw the whole idea of marketing out the window. So, where do humans fit in alongside this technology? That’s a tough question to answer. But it’s really an exciting times for those interested in AI and developments in the space. One could argue that AI songs are interesting in and of themselves. If an AI creates a song that gets millions of views, I’d be curious to see if it’s better than the artist it’s based on.  

The current argument is that AI-generated music is based on already existing music or copyrighted content. Shouldn’t the original composers or publishers own the AI-generated version too? Many companies are now being sued for using copyrighted content to train their models, as the major labels want their share.

If someone analyses all the top songs in a genre, breaks down the stylistic components, and makes new songs from that, would that really infringe on copyright law? As humans, we listen to tons of songs, pick out what we like, and use that to create something new. We do it naturally.  Some people argue that AI is doing the same thing. But shouldn’t the source still be acknowledged?

If you analyse all of the top songs in a particular genres and they all have stylistic components and make songs out of that and so on would that necessarily infringe on copyright law. As a human being you would go on to listen to a bunch of different songs, you pick out elements you like to construct something else. We all have that built inside us. People have argued that AI is doing just the same thing.  But should you not acknowledge the source?  And what about when someone clones an artist’s voice and makes a song with it? Shouldn’t the artist have a right to their voice and be compensated for that? I see more AI rights that would benefit artists in the future.

With companies now helping talents monetize their AI likeness, and considering how ABBA’s avatars in the ABBA Voyage tour have generated $150 million, along with KISS recently announcing they’ll become a virtual band, do you think we’ll see fully virtual bands in the future? If AI is generating and performing songs through avatars, who would receive the revenue in that scenario?

If, for example, the music was very similar to ABBA, whoever owns the rights to ABBA would probably make a claim, saying, 'Look, you can’t just create ABBA-like music.' This takes us back to the conversation about back catalogues. In other words, famous artists who have long passed could be resurrected using AI, having them create new songs or perform in avatar form. Suddenly, their entire back catalogue is revived. The question is, are we going to accept that kind of music? And would there need to be some sort of regulation or intervention? In some ways, if I were a record company owning that entire back catalogue, that’s exactly what I’d be interested in. It could be a huge opportunity to revive old music using AI. I think we’ll definitely see a new set of rights emerge as we move forward.

Do you think AI generated content should enjoy copyright protection?

I’d argue that if the source isn’t human, it shouldn’t be entitled to the same rights. But then, of course, that impacts the potential revenue AI-generated content could bring. There’s also the risk of people using AI subtly, not declaring it, and doing whatever they want. How do you prove something wasn’t created by AI, especially as the technology keeps getting better and harder to distinguish? 🌶️

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This is just the first part of our chat with Jonathan Shaw. Don’t miss the final part —hit that subscribe button and stay tuned 🍿

In case you missed it, in part one, Ayomide Tayo shared his deep insights into the history of Afrobeats and the current state of the Nigerian music industry. Now, in part two, we go even further.

Ayomide paints a bold picture of what the future could look like if we embrace every genre, build better structures, and create a clear vision for the next decade. From the dominance of Afrobeats to the untapped potential of other sounds, this conversation is packed with real talk on what it’ll take to push the industry forward. 

I was reading the 2023 IFPI report, and for the top 10 songs, Rema was number 2. But for albums, K-pop dominated. Do you think in the next five years we can replicate what the Koreans have been able to do in terms of global charting songs and albums?

That’s hard. In the next five years? I don’t want to be pessimistic, but we would need to get our act together. The Nigerian industry is not more than Eko Hotel and a few other venues. We need to come together—all of us, artists, producers, A&Rs, business people—and ask, what is the five-year or ten-year vision for the Nigerian music industry? Right now, we have individual players doing their own thing, and that’s why there are so many agendas. There are too many chefs in the kitchen. The government could say, 'Here’s the ten-year master plan.' It’s funny that a Nigerian artist can’t do a 15-state tour. It’s incredible. A Nigerian artist who blows up today will perform in America and the UK first before touching ten states in Nigeria. It used to be better when Nigerian Breweries would take ten artists around the country, and this was before our current security issues. Now, we don’t even have a touring industry anymore. Thank God Obi Asika is in a position where he has the president’s ear. I think he’s the best spokesman for Afrobeats, and hopefully, let’s see what happens. Right now, we are all improvising, and that has its limits. We need to actually know what we are doing. Don Jazzy looks like he’s got a structure for the industry, but he’s just one person. What was your other question?

Do you think there will be another 'Calm Down' or a global charting album? When they sum up the Nigerian music industry, it’s valued at $100 million, while the Koreans have music companies worth $6 billion. We don’t have anything like that. How soon can we collectively—whether it’s through Afrobeats, Alte, or any other genre—expand the revenues we generate? Can we aim for $1 billion in five years or even $10 billion for the whole industry?

We will forever have banging singles. Nigeria is just blessed with talent. I am not sure with albums. I think Made in Lagos was the album that was able to cross over internationally. Especially in the UK. A lot of people don’t know that the UK played a very important role in the explosion of Afrobeats. Made in Lagos was that album. I am looking at Asake and he might just be another one. He sings in Yoruba and is selling out internationally.

I think it’s the diaspora audience and he hasn’t crossed to a global audience like Rema. The diaspora audience is enough to guarantee your success.

Let’s look at Rema’s 'Calm Down'—a huge song around the world, but the album isn’t heralded as a classic or a great album. Let’s not even debate that. I’ve been to shows where they play 'Calm Down,' and people are like, 'Yes, that’s Calm Down.' But when they play Seyi Vibez, the whole place goes crazy. There are two distinct markets within Afrobeats right now: the foreign market, which is more profitable for the artist, and the home base market, which gives you cultural clout. That’s why you see some artists, when they blow internationally, coming back home to do a song with Seyi Vibez or Asake to maintain relevance in the home market. They don’t want to lose at both ends. They want to play it safe.

Sounds like someone we know but we won’t mention names

There are many examples of this.

My last question before I open the floor to the audience is: what are your thoughts on foreign labels controlling a significant part of the market? What are the merits and demerits of that, especially with the Mavins/UMG partnership?

I think it’s business. Business is business. These international players have seen the numbers behind it and thought, 'Oh, let’s swoop in and make money out of it.' I love the Mavin deal because it shows that Afrobeats is profitable. It’s bankable. Universal is Universal—it’s one of the big three. Personally, I would have loved it if we had more labels. One advantage of the international guys coming in is that a lot of things become standardised. Best international practices, from accounting to A&R, everything is done properly. But I just wish we had more players in the game. We need 10 more Mavins, 10 more Chocolate Citys, for different genres of music. What I don’t want is for international labels to tap into what we have here, and when they’re done, they say, 'Bye,' and we’re still where we are – no improvement.

Questions & Comments from the Audience:

Francis: People are complaining that everyone, regardless of where they come from in Africa, is being lumped under Afrobeats, no matter what genre they’re in. Davido also mentioned this in an interview. We need to let people know that Afrobeats is a genre, not a way of classifying all Africans who are making music. It does a disservice to those who are not doing Afrobeats

What I’d like to add to this discussion about Afrobeats is that the history of Afrobeats in Ghana is different from the history of Afrobeats in Nigeria. Ghana had its own strong sound with Hip-Life, which was a combination of Hip Hop and Highlife. Ghana had its distinct sound before being lumped together with Nigeria. Somewhere along the line, people just assumed that since we are in the same region, it was a good idea to group us together.

Adebisi: Thank you for your time. My question is, how can the government help create a structure to support the promotion of Afrobeats locally and globally? For example, in the UK and US, government programs provide loans to independent record labels to promote new music and support the industry. How can the government support Afrobeats in a similar way?

In America, there’s the RIAA. To the best of my knowledge, we don’t have anything like that in Nigeria. First things first, we need a body recognized by the government as responsible for everything music-related in Nigeria. Then we can start talking about funding and setting objectives. In ten years, what do we want the industry to look like? How do we maximize revenue? There’s still a lot of piracy going on. People think Alaba has disappeared, but that’s not the case—you can still illegally download songs and albums off the internet. You mentioned loans, and I think they are important too. Which record labels can we give soft loans to sign artists not just in Afrobeats, but in other genres as well? We also need performing arts schools. How many performing arts schools do we have in the six regions that can encourage and support live music in this country? Do record labels get tax rebates? Then there’s legislation. For example, foreign companies shouldn’t be able to open shop without partnering with a Nigerian company. The government—I'm not talking about any administration in particular—seems more focused on politics and not interested in the entertainment industry. Luckily, it this present government is showing some interest. Nigeria should be able to host a world-class Afrobeats event supported by the Ministry of Culture and Tourism and the music industry itself.

It’s a shame that Afronation couldn’t hold in Nigeria and still can’t. Lagos state did the groundbreaking for a 20,000-capacity venue. Finally, that’s what we’re talking about. If other states could do that too, it’d be great. Do you know what an event like Afronation would do for Lagos if it the state gets its act right? The local economy would skyrocket. If you come to Lagos Island during Dirty December, it’s mayhem. There are so many people—cabs are fully booked, hotels are packed, the city is vibrant. And that’s just 10,000 people. Now imagine having that on the mainland, in Enugu, Calabar, or Kano. You’re already boosting the economy. This is just common sense. Back then, Donald Duke had the Christmas Carnival in Calabar. He’d bring in some of the biggest musicians in the world, like Wyclef and Lucky Dube, to perform alongside Nigerian artists. During that whole December, Calabar was even more vibrant than Lagos. We need these kinds of initiatives. How do we invest not just in music, but in the arts as a whole?

Bamikole: Instead of waiting for the government, can’t more labels and other private entities invest in artist development and promotion?

Artist development is a very expensive endeavour. The funny thing is, talent is not bankable. It’s a different kind of business. If you sold iPhones, for instance, you could go to a bank, get a loan, sell the phones, and pay the bank back. But you can have the most perfect artist in the world, and when they come out, they might not blow up. Mavins is doing a wonderful job, and I know there are tons of artists under that label they are waiting to unleash. I bet you that Don Jazzy spends over 40 million naira to activate one artist. It’s a money problem—we don’t have that kind of money. It looks like we do, but we don’t. The money we are making is mostly going straight to the artist. Thank God some producers are now making money, and some others too, but the money isn’t trickling down. There’s no billionaire songwriter, no billionaire A&R, or live events promoter. The man who wrote ‘Thriller’ for Michael Jackson—if you see his mansion, he’s still making money today. The money we are making in the Nigerian music industry is very small compared to our potential, which is so huge. We’re making less than 10% of what we could. Our artists could actually make a lot more—forget all those chains they’re wearing. We think we have the money, but we don’t. Look at K-Pop—or even forget K-Pop for a moment—look at the Latin artists like Bad Bunny and others.

The money in that industry is unbelievable. We still haven’t capitalised on what we have. If you see any record label owner in Nigeria, please hug that person. Before they make 100 million naira, they’ve probably wasted 500 million naira. Look at Qing Madi: she hasn’t even been in the industry for up to a year, and she’s already blown up, but I’m sure the people who invested in her haven’t made back half of what they spent. We all need to sit down and ask ourselves how we can actually make money. The security issues in Nigeria—how can we solve that so artists can tour the country? Who is building venues? If the government can’t build venues, let’s ask corporations to do it, like in America with Mercedes and Coca-Cola. Build the venue, and we’ll give you tax rebates. There’s just no money. Do you know how much Olamide spent on several artists without making a penny back?

Amaebi: If you want to look at the money problem that Nigeria is facing, you have to look at the money problem the average Nigerian is facing. Nigerians live on less than $1 a day. When people have not eaten, no one is going to buy your ticket for 5K naira. It wouldn’t be fair to compare ourselves to other countries that have everything right. The whole reformation has to start with the country itself. It’s understandable why Burna Boy is hesitant to do a show in Nigeria. A single performance he did at the Champions League was enough to make him more money than he would probably make from a whole tour back home.

Sorry to cut you short, but Nigeria can’t even afford Afrobeats anymore. We can’t afford the performance fees of some of our own artists. The money just isn’t in the country anymore.


Francis: In response to Bamikole, the truth is that it’s not record labels that will do what you’re suggesting. They are businesses trying to make money in a country that doesn’t give companies the opportunity to thrive because of how the country is run as a whole. We need to do more advocacy. We need people who understand the business of music and where it’s currently lacking. For example, the education part of it. I personally know that there are many people running record labels who don’t understand the business side. Once you start to educate people and make them aware of the inefficiencies in the industry, they tend to become more organised and structured, even in spite of the government’s position regarding the industry.

Linus: There’s a responsibility problem bouncing around because we can’t seem to pin it down. There’s the government, the record labels, and individuals. Maybe we can map out the stakeholders who can contribute in one way or another without dismissing the potential for a record label’s contribution. For example, Mavins has the money at the moment, and they can lead the charge in making certain changes they want to see in the industry. They have the resources, the connections, and Universal Music Group (UMG) backing them to see it through. Then there’s advocacy—what we are doing here is part of our contribution too. Gathering music professionals to talk about the industry is a step forward, and from there, we can build on that. If you are good at what you do in your label, how can we support you? How can we bring expertise and resources to help? My suggestion is that we all need to take responsibility somehow and not kick the can down the road, hoping that the government will do it. The odds that the government will step in are slim. They have consistently shown us that they don’t want to be responsible. Besides, the industry was doing fine without them. Now, we have someone in government who is sympathetic to the struggles of the industry. We are optimistic that he’ll do the right things to help it grow. Let’s build the industry we want to see. Ayomide, you’re the music journalist—let us know how we can support

Ayomide Tayo: My book is coming out, so I’ll let y’all know.


Linus: For those who want to write the history of Afrobeats, create documentaries, and similar projects, we are here. Like Ayomide said, we all need to sit down and come up with a 10-year plan for the industry. The Bible says, 'Where there’s no vision, the people perish.' We need a vision—not like Vision 2020 that never came to pass. What do we want for the industry? Let’s discuss it, negotiate it, and then present it to those who can move the needle, as a draft that we all put together. It can serve as a guideline, and if we can actualize it, that would be great.


Francis: We need people like Ayo, Joey, and others who have access to these major players to nudge them towards participating more. Just because Mavins has the money and clout doesn’t mean they are necessarily focused on structure or on making the music industry bigger or better. They often need to be reminded. An organisation of concerned professionals can put together a white paper, so that if this government can execute it, subsequent administrations will see that there’s already something in place for them to build on. I’m optimistic that if we can do that, 10 years from now, the industry will be in a much better place.

Bamikole: If Afrobeats is too expensive for us to consume as Nigerians, what is the future of Afrobeats to the world? If Asake can’t perform in Nigeria or if Ayra Starr can’t perform unless she gets a private jet.

The issue with the fees is basically because Nigeria is not as rich as it was five or six years ago. That’s just economics. Looking to the future, I see a lot of people diversifying the sound. Many people say they can’t afford to watch Asake and the rest, but if you go to a Cavemen concert, it’s packed. There was a Fuji concert in Ibadan, and it was packed too. It seems like there’s a Fuji Renaissance happening, and Alte is growing strong. People are starting to go into smaller niches rather than chasing big, expansive pop sounds. Truth be told, how many of our artists are really going for expansive pop sounds? Even the top guys are leaning more into R&B and other styles. Doing Afrobeats is quite hard because it requires a wide range. People are now saying, instead of going for the big artists we can’t afford, let’s just support the artists we can access. Show Dem Camp hosts the Palm wine Fest yearly, and five thousand people show up—and that’s rap mixed with R&B music. Nativeland hosts all the best Alte artists. That’s why I believe we need all genres of music to stand on their own and be economically viable. Let the artists make the money they want to make from their genre so we can clearly see who is doing Afrobeats at the end of the day.

Beautiful Nubia, for instance, still does shows, and people show up. Brymo, as troublesome as he is, still runs two shows yearly. Nigerian music is too expansive and diverse for us to keep saying it’s all Afrobeats. There are guys in Fuji who are making the genre cooler—I think it’s called Fuji Opera or something. They do concerts almost every quarter, and there’s even a Trench Festival just for trench artists. Everyone is picking out their genre of music, and I think that’s the future. That’s what Nigerian music was all about. When Fela was doing his Afrobeat, KSA was doing his juju, Shina Peters was doing his Fuji, and there was Majek Fashek, Raskimono, and Onyeka Onwenu. Now, everyone wants to be Afrobeats. We have to do our part to make sure that other artists in other genres can stand on their own.

Bamikole: I’d like to add that there’s a large community of rappers in Enugu. Ayomide, perhaps you could give them some kind of coverage. They are quite phenomenal.

Enugu has been the Igbo rap capital, from the days of Illbliss to Jeriq. Enugu is important in our music industry, just like Warri, Port Harcourt, and Ibadan. Not everything is about Lagos. Many other cities have made major contributions to our music scene.

Linus: Thank you, everybody, for coming. I would like to thank our special guest, the Tiger-in-Chief, Ayomide Tayo. Thank you for all the diamonds, gems, and everything else you’ve shared. We appreciate you a lot. We will continue to have these kinds of conversations with industry leaders in the future. We hope that this won’t just be talk but that we’ll hold ourselves accountable to doing something so that, eventually, we can all point to what we did to create an enabling environment for music makers. Ayomide, please let us know when your book is coming out so we can show our support. Once again, thank you all for coming, and God bless. 🌶️

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That wraps up the second part of our conversation with Ayomide Tayo. If you found this chat insightful, please share it with others. And don’t forget to hit that subscribe button to stay updated on more conversations like this. 🍿

For almost two decades, Ayomide Tayo has been telling the story of Nigerian pop culture, from writing for various publications like Hip Hop World Magazine and Pulse Nigeria to co-hosting the 234 Essential podcast.

He is also the founder of The Naija Way, a newsletter that covers everything from music to film, fashion, and sports in a way that's fresh and relatable. Ayomide understands the entertainment industry better than most and cares deeply about its direction.

In this two-part conversation, we explore the history of Afrobeats, the state of the Nigerian music industry, the gaps that still exist, and why we need a clear vision for the next decade.

We also discuss the importance of advocacy, proper documentation, and why every genre deserves its own space to thrive. Ayomide’s candid thoughts on how we can all do better make this more than a chat—it’s a call to action for anyone who cares about the future of Nigerian music.

It’s been a discussion that has come up over the last few weeks or months—Afrobeat, Afrobeats, Afro-this, Afro-that—and I usually prefer we define terms. What exactly is Afrobeats, and what differentiates it from other genres?

Afrobeats, I think, is something people often try to make more complex than it is. Afrobeats is just a 'fusion,' if I may use that word. I will get back to why I used 'fusion' to describe the genre. It’s a fusion of indigenous Nigerian music, like Highlife, Fuji, Apala, and other genres, which has been fused with contemporary music, especially from America, like R&B, Pop, and particularly Hip Hop. Hip hop, at least during the first era of Afrobeats, was the driving force and inspiration behind it. It’s as simple as that.

The Hip-Hop generation in Nigeria merged what we heard our parents play—Oliver De Coque, King Sunny Ade, Fela Kuti—with what we heard on the radio coming from America.

I grew up in an era when they had just privatised the media in Nigeria, and I think this was around 1992. So, a lot of players got into the broadcasting space, both in TV and radio. Back then, it wasn’t cool to play Nigerian music because it was considered 'old,' music that many people didn’t like. To fill up that airtime, artists like Nas, DMX, Boyz II Men, and more were played constantly.

Now, imagine being a young person who wants to sing. You go into the studio with the thought that you’ve listened to Dre and R. Kelly, but you also know the old style of music that your parents played. And with that in mind, you went in to create something new. It was initially called Afro Hip Hop. Then, around 2011, a DJ, shout out to DJ Abrantee, was the first person to be associated with the term 'Afrobeats.'

I’m not saying he’s the one who invented it, because nobody wants to claim they coined that word, but this is when the UK played a very strong part. The term actually came from the UK, and DJ Abrantee had a show where he played Afrobeats. Shortly after, The Guardian, a British media house, did a story about the rising music coming out of West Africa that was infiltrating London’s dancehalls and nightclubs. They coined it 'Afrobeats,' and when that happened, people back home in Nigeria were like, 'What is Afrobeats? What we know is Afrobeat, which was coined by Fela.'

For two or three years, that controversy built up and spiralled to where we are now. It wasn’t an organic term; it was something that, I wouldn’t say was forced on us, but rather something we eventually accepted because of the benefit. People started saying, 'Okay, they’re calling us this, and it’s helping us get further into North America, Western Europe, and beyond, so let’s keep that name' to a point now where everyone wants to jump ship.

And the reason I highlighted the word 'fusion' earlier is that I find it funny when Nigerian artists say, 'I don’t do Afrobeats, I do Afro Fusion.' But Afrofusion is essentially the definition of Afrobeats. If you know Nigerian music history and go back in time, you’ll see that we’ve had artists creating this fusion way before 1998.

It may not have been as popular or ignited a whole culture, but people were doing it. The earliest example was Junior and Pretty, a hip-hop rap duo that Obi Asika managed. When they first came out, they were rapping about AK-47s, guns, and gang banging. Obi Asika told them they needed to rap about things a Nigerian would relate to, so they released a song called 'Monika,' which was actually their first hit song. Most people know 'Bolanle,' but 'Monika' was their first hit, and it infused a lot of Nigerian music elements, including pidgin and local dialects. If you go back and find that record, you’ll see it’s one of the early seeds of Afrobeats. If you do your research, in the ‘80s, people were already experimenting with this. By the early ‘90s, people like Baba Dee and the rest were experimenting with it.

Well, that’s all about Afrobeats. I think we, as Nigerians, tend to overcomplicate things, and every artist wants their own genre, which isn’t a new thing. If you go back to the 1970s and 1980s, all the older artists were saying they were doing a particular kind of music. The thing about genres of music is that their validity has to stand the test of time. The reason why Fela’s Afrobeat is still relevant today is because it’s more than just an idea—it’s codified. A lot of artists say they’re ‘afro-whatever,’ but can you define it in musical terms? I think they just want a marketing angle for their music. This isn’t the entire history of Afrobeats, but just a brief overview.

Thank you very much, I appreciate that. Another thing on my mind is the idea that, yes, Fela invented Afrobeat. But when we speak of Afrobeats (with an 's'), there’s always this notion that everything is somehow attributed to Fela’s influence, as if there weren’t other people too, like Ebenezer Obey and the rest. And mind you, this is no disrespect to Fela. But why do you think other legacy artists are left out of the conversation?

So what you’re asking me is why they’re left out? That’s a very good question. First of all, let’s take the most obvious reason. Fela’s life, apart from popularising a particular genre of music, was culturally significant. At a time when Nigerians were very conservative, he stood out. Secondly, his blatant attacks on the government made him even more prominent. So, we have two reasons why Fela is still the most well-known today.

But there’s also something that Motalani and, I think, Osagie mentioned—they coined the term 'Mongoparkism.' Now, if you don’t know anything about Nigerian music as a foreigner, the lowest hanging fruit for you is Fela. 'Oh yeah, that’s Fela,' just like if you go to Jamaica and say, 'Yes, I know Jamaican music,' and only mention Bob Marley. That’s wrong. Nigerian music is well-layers and incredibly complex. Did you know that next year will mark 100 years of recorded music in Nigeria? Fela’s grandfather was the first musician to record an album—that’s 100 years of Nigerian music. Different genres of music have thrived, and even we, as Nigerians, are just beginning to pull back the curtain and rediscover all these things.

Punk was big in Nigeria, psychedelic rock was big in Nigeria, and reggae ruled for a decade. But because these things weren’t easily exportable and have been buried by the sands of time, everyone just says 'Fela.'

King Sunny Ade played a part in the Afrobeats story. The Eastern Highlifers that artists like Tekno and Flavour drew inspiration from are also very important, but people don’t remember because of a lack of knowledge. It’s just weird. I think Afrobeats suffers from a knowledge deficit, and we don’t have many people who are ready to fill that gap.

Luckily, two weeks ago, I attended the premiere of a documentary about funk music in Nigeria, and I was amazed because I didn’t know much about how in-depth it was. You have to understand that we, as a people, don’t know our own music culture and history.

A ten-year-old in America who grows up in Tennessee knows Elvis Presley, but a 25-year-old in Nigeria today may not know Oliver De Coque. That’s why every time the West writes about Afrobeats, it’s just Fela they refer to. But if we’re honest, we only take the cultural aspects of Fela’s legacy; we don’t engage with the philosophical teachings of his music. In Afrobeats as a culture, we’ve only taken one thing from Fela, and that’s the countercultural aspect. We don’t embrace the complexity of the music or the philosophies. Nobody today is going to attack the government outright in their music. The music isn’t as complex or as groovy as Fela’s, but we’ve adopted the countercultural aspects—like getting tattoos, grooving, hanging out with women, and smoking weed. We talk about marijuana culture, and Fela is the king of that, and it’s obvious that he’s an inspiration. But there are many others who have inspired Afrobeats or inspired this generation of musicians, and we need to start digging into it.

You have mentioned the lack of complexity in the genre, and Burna Boy has also hinted at this in an interview where he said that 'Afrobeats lacks substance.' Do you think that claim is justified?

The funny thing about Burna Boy is that he came out during a period in Afrobeats that was the least lyrical and the least complex. Let’s look at the era he emerged from—the Wizkid and Davido era, right? Olamide, too. That period was just straight-up 'let’s release music; if we succeed, we succeed; if not, it’s fine.' I wouldn’t say Afrobeats lacks lyrical complexity. We have great records, albums, and artists who are very much conscious. Omah Lay just dropped what I consider a classic album, and there have been others who have done that.

The problem is I don’t buy the idea that Burna Boy could be the voice of Afrobeats. I know he’s the most popular right now, but I don’t consider him the voice of Afrobeats. And the issue is that people consider him that because he’s the most famous, and people take that as gospel. 2Face’s first albums were classics, and the depth in those albums is unrivalled. 9ice’s Gongo Aso albums had deep Yoruba proverbs in them, so we’ve had instances of complexity. But the question is, why would a pop artist want a pop genre to be conscious?

Nobody expects a pop artist from America to be conscious; pop music has nothing to do with conscious music. Let’s just forget about that idea. Our generation uses Afrobeats as an escape now because, think about it—someone might say, 'Look at all the problems in the country, but you know what? I just want to party and chill.' That’s why escapism is so big in our music. Look at Joeboy when he sang 'Alcohol,' and look at Burna Boy when he sang 'Ye.' At the end of the day, that’s what it’s all about, and art will always mirror life, no matter what. If we are not a conscious people, we can’t have conscious music on a whole scale—it’s not possible.

Wow! We feel seen but okay

Yeah, Burna Boy is trying, but I think as a genre, Afrobeats is doing fine with its conscious quota, and at the end of the day, it’s fine like that. I don’t expect, when I listen to Asake, to hear him singing about my problems—I don’t want to hear that. Or when I’m listening to DJ Obi, I don’t want to hear about how there’s no electricity; that’s a whole different ball game. If Burna feels burdened enough, which he has done to some extent, to talk about the problems in Nigeria, that’s fine. But I don’t think it makes any sense for him to castigate the genre in that way. I don’t think many Nigerian artists even know the genre they’re representing or the history of it. But fortunately, they are at the forefront.

Would you say that’s the problem with music journalism? Because often we hear that Nigerian musicians don’t know they have this rich history to back the music they’re doing. But cultural critics like you and others haven’t done the job of making that information digestible. You exist, I suppose, but then there’s this bubblegum journalism—no offence to y’all—that we read, and names won’t be mentioned. So, you can’t expect to plant stones and harvest bread

True that. Yes, we do have a problem with documentation, which is a Nigerian issue in general. I think if we leave music and talk about politics or history, it’s the same. You know, last year I read a book called Formation—it’s a story about Nigeria from the earliest point, from the Jihad to 1914, and the things I read there blew my mind. I didn’t know this about Nigeria. We have a documentation problem and a historical one too. Now, with that said, let’s zero back in on Afrobeats. There have been recent huge steps taken by people I would consider OGs, like Obi Asika. I was part of the team that worked on Journey of the Beat, which was a very well-rounded documentary available on Showmax.

Ayo Shonaiya did his own Afrobeats documentary on Netflix, and season 2 is coming out soon, and there have been other giant strides as well. I’m currently writing a book called From Ojuelegba to the O2: The Story of the Afrobeats Generation. It’s seven essays that will break down why the Afrobeats generation is where it is, how it came into existence, and what it has achieved so far. I don’t think it’s meant to be a historical book, but there’s a lot of historical context in it that will help you understand how Afrobeats came about. The story about Afrobeats emerging in 1998 is only half the truth. Unfortunately, Nigerian journalism is suffering from the same poverty that affects everything else in the country. When we were growing up, I don’t think we had this kind of luxury. Back then, journalism was soft-sell, focusing on who was sleeping with who and who was dating who.

Has it changed?

Yes, it has changed. I can mention 3 or 4 writers that actually do the work. The problem with Afrobeats currently is that we have artist managers saying, 'Oh, my artist isn’t available,' and some would blatantly tell you that their artist doesn’t do Nigerian press. Meanwhile, that same artist will be on Hot 97, Breakfast Club, Billboard, Vogue, and everywhere else. I really can’t hate on you if you want to talk to international media because their audience is massive, and they have a bigger platform. But how many times have you read an article about Burna, Wizkid, or Davido in any international publication that is 100% factual or truly captures the essence of Afrobeats?

Not really, no.

The funny thing about Nigerian artists is that when we do our end-of-year lists, ratings, or reviews, and we give their album a wonderful review, they never applaud us for trying. But the moment we report something negative that should be covered and we reach out to their management for a comment, the next thing they do is go on Instagram and rant. So we have different levels to this. Journalism, as it is right now—even globally—can’t pay for the kind of writing you want. That’s why you see a lot of websites, like Pitchfork, one of the biggest review websites in the world, being merged with GQ, which is a fashion magazine. It shouldn’t be like that. There’s no money in those structures, and that’s why, as writers, we have to find creative ways to tell stories.

If you go to my Instagram page, I’ve started doing a series on classic Nigerian records and what they mean historically to us. Honestly, the last one I did got over 100k views. If I had written that, I don’t think I would have gotten a 1000 views. So, the format has changed, and some of us are still holding on to the archaic format. Yes, you can write it down for people who like long reads, which I’m still going to do anyway, but short format works quite well. Nigerian music journalists need to know that it’s not only about writing. We need to get on the social media wagon and start putting our narrative out there. A lot of people are now spreading fake narratives about the genre on TikTok and Instagram. And people think it’s the gospel truth. This is happening because the real custodians are not speaking out.

What are some of these false narratives that you have read or seen so far?

I saw a video of a woman who said, 'When Afrobeats started in 2012,' and I was like, bro, come on, this is wrong. I saw another guy who said, 'Oh, Burna Boy was the first to make tattoos fashionable in Nigeria,' and I’m like, bro, that’s wrong again. I also listened to a podcast where a guy said Afrobeats started in Ghana, and I was like, bro, what? Other people on the podcast were trying to correct him, but he insisted that he knew what he was

talking about. If we don’t tell our own stories, people will end up believing whatever narrative is out there.

Another thing I have noticed is the denigration of our music institutions, even if they’re not on the same level as Billboard, Rolling Stone, the Grammys, and the rest. Is it that our musicians don’t know how to phrase things, or do they just take delight in annoying us?

They are not media trained. There are a lot of areas where our artists are not yet world class. The reason Burna Boy is where he is right now is because, when it comes to live performances, he’s world class—he doesn’t skimp on that. But when it comes to media training, a lot of Nigerian artists don’t care about Nigerian media; they just say whatever they want. I understand what Wizkid was trying to say—that he can do R&B and other styles of music. I get that losing ‘Essence’ at the Grammys must have hurt him a lot. Maybe he felt boxed in as just African music, grouped with the likes of Angelique Kidjo and the rest. But there’s a way to express that while still carrying the culture along.

What it feels like now is that they used and dumped the genre. When it was ‘Afrobeats to the world,’ they wanted to be identified with the genre. But now, it feels like they don’t want to be seen with it because it’s not cool or wavy enough. We must understand that Afrobeats as a name might be imperfect, but it has gotten us to where we are right now. If we have to change anything, let’s change the industry so that other genres can stand on their own without being lumped with Nigerian pop music. That way, artists like Patoranking can say, 'I’m doing dancehall,' and that’s fine, and a soul artist can say they’re doing soul, and that’s fine.

But you know, this is the thing that many Nigerians are using as their bread and butter. Do you know how many A&Rs and songwriters exist because of Afrobeats? And then you have someone who wakes up one day and says, 'Fuck Afrobeats.' Come on. At this point, they should know that they’re ambassadors—the big 3, big 5, or big 7. It might have been part of Wizkid’s roll-out plan, but culture is very unforgiving. I’ve seen artists at the top of the game, and one misstep, and they’re back in the queue again.

Why, in your opinion, do we classify music based on genres? I suppose this is part of the argument some artists make when they say, 'I don’t want to be in a genre,' or 'I don’t want to be boxed in.' What case could be made for genres?

From a music standpoint, genres make it easier to sell your music—it’s marketable. A lot of artists don’t see the business side of things. I can’t go to a label like Sony and say, ‘I have a new kid on the block, and he makes great music.’ Their A&R or whoever is there would then ask, ‘What kind of music does he make?’ so they know how to tailor his music to the right audience. We shouldn’t be caught up in the fantasy that music is just music. No, we are selling a commodity.

For example, are you doing rap? If you’re doing rap, are you doing gangster rap, conscious rap, trap, drill, or grime? We have to know at the end of the day. We still have to put tags on it at the end of the day. Nobody is saying that once you’re identified with a particular tag, you can’t make other kinds of music. For crying out loud, Beyoncé just dropped a country album. If Wizkid says this is a pure R&B album, he’s going to be R&B at the end of the day. If you make a R&B album, pure R&B, you are going to be classified as R&B, no matter what.

And we will judge you on R&B standards

But you can’t say you’re R&B when your producer is using a codified Afrobeats instrumental template. I know every artist wants to say they can make any kind of music, and yes, they can. Fela started as a jazz musician, and when jazz wasn’t selling, he moved into highlife. Highlife was very competitive, so he then shifted to funk. It’s all about what sells you at the end of the day – as long as people can listen to you. I think there are too many agendas.

We can say that a record label can be a vehicle for promoting other kinds of genres, but there are still commercial considerations, like you mentioned. A&R teams generally search for musicians that sound like those who are already selling. So, what are the incentives for a record label to discover a talent that sounds different from the dominant sounds in the industry right now? Can the record label afford to push this person or is the market ready for this person

Western labels might not be looking for who’s different. Right now, the labels are locked in—they are prioritising Afrobeats over hip hop. So when you go to an A&R and tell them the artist is Nigerian, the first question they’ll ask is if the artist does Afrobeats, or worse case, if they do Amapiano. We should see labels as banks; it’s all about dollars and cents. If you sign an artist that flops, when budget cuts happen, you’ll be the first person to get fired. So, everyone wants to play it safe.

As an artist, your main concern should be showing that you’re worthy enough for a label to invest $2M in you, regardless of the kind of music you make. The smartest thing Shallipopi did was not presenting himself as a rapper; instead, he said he was Afrobeats.

Odumodublvck might still call himself a rapper, but he’s moving more toward popping sounds because that’s what will open the gate for you. Once you get inside with all your relevance, that’s when you can say, ‘I’m a rapper, but I do Afrobeats too.’ So either you want an Afrobeats or an Amapiano artist. Nobody is looking for a Brymo so to speak. Nobody is even looking for the next great Nigerian rapper. Odumodublvck was lucky because of the label backing him. They’ve got the connections to make that happen. That’s why we shouldn’t wait for foreign labels or cosigns. Nigeria has a population of 200 million and should have a lot more labels willing to sign artists across all genres of music.

There are still Fuji artists out there yet to be mainstreamed, and Highlife artists waiting for their moment. Look at The Cavemen—they’re a wonderful example. They’ve done it, they were able to hack it. Flavour has done it too. We don’t all have to head in the same direction. That’s what I hate about Afrobeats—it has turned everyone on one linear path, like, 'Oh, we must do this or we won’t survive.' There are Nigerians who don’t want to listen to pop music; they still want to hear their cultural sound. That’s why Flavour is huge in the East.

Flavour in one weekend can perform at four weddings. He’d hop from wedding to wedding on a private jet. This is a guy that might not show up on your Afrobeats chart. There are still a lot of genres that we have not yet tapped. Yes, Afrobeats to the world is great, but what happens when the world says no more Afrobeats? Are we all going back home? To where? And no shade to Eko Hotel, but are we all going back there?

No more O2. Look at BTS, if America says they’re tired of K-pop, Korea will be fine because they have one of the biggest entertainment industries in the world. They’re selling their culture through movies and music. That’s because, in the ’90s or so, they made a decision to start pushing their acts forward.

America did it too. You probably watched an American movie or listened to an American artist even before you saw the impact of their military. It’s a shame that our leaders aren’t thinking about how, with all the soft power we have, we could gain even more influence. Let’s get our music industry right so that every genre can proudly say, 'This is who we are.' And if these genres are strong enough, I bet you, the term Afrobeats will disappear in two years. People will come out and say, 'I do Apala music,' and if the West doesn’t like it, a tour back home will fetch me 100 million anyway. 🌶️

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