Afro-Pop Cannot Lamba Its Way Into The Future

The uncles and aunties were right. All those years ago, when older family members, friends, and acquaintances complained about narrowed substance in contemporary Nigerian pop music, and we, Gen-Z and late millennial listeners, refuted their claims, they were right, and we were wrong. Our music is undeniably stuck in the sunken place. And there is oversaturation of lamba—that most employed Afro-pop (read: Afrobeats) descriptor. But wait a second.  Do not sing dirges quite yet without understanding what is at stake in this deepened love affair with a declining pop vocabulary. 

At their most simplistic, conversations around declining songwriting chops are reductive, limiting ‘substance’ to politically conscious lyrics. We are almost three decades deep into Afro-pop, not to recognise the genre’s primarily upbeat nature. Sociopolitically aware songwriting is a feature, but at its core, this genre born in Nigeria and Ghana is fun-seeking. So no, that’s not the main point here. This writer’s grouse, along with other commentators, old and young, is that the genre’s writing has narrowed into a homogenous tasteless substrate of less poetic ‘fun.’ And even in associated genres and sub-genres—Hip-hop, especially—the rote formulas have taken root. To put it simply: Afro-pop’s ‘vocabulary’ has thinned. Even simpler: there’s too much  lamba. 

In culture writer Tomide Marv’s article “This is the Official Afrobeats Glossary Textbook,” he defines lamba as “flowery words” and “an exaggeration and big lies on appropriate occasions, too.” Lamba are essentially indigenous figures of speech used to elevate appreciation of music, often to the detriment of depth. Lamba is cross-cultural, extending beyond its Yoruba origins to other indigenous languages. Sometimes, lamba isn’t even in any recognizable language. They could  be onomatopoeic exclamations or colloquies that sound like indigenous languages but are etymological orphans. Rema’s “Achukuleke, baby give me kpalansa, before I scatter your kaka” line on Lady is an example here, as is Wizkid’s use of “Tololo” and repurposing of D’banj’s  “Tongolo” on Jogodo. 

Older artists like Eedris Abdulkareem and X Project have even worse examples. Similes (“See your yansh oh, be like mattress” on Davido’s No Competition), metaphors (“If them wan turn Goliath, I be David for life” on Davido’s OVER DEM), street proverbs (Shallipopi’s “Network slow no mean say Wi-Fi disconnect” line on ASAP), hyperbole (Every variation of “Your body fit kill person”), personification (“Igbo is telling on me” on Omah Lay’s ARTIFICIAL HAPPINESS), and so many more, fall into this bracket. Not all figures of speech are lamba. Sometimes,  lamba almost defies linguistic appraisal. The major defining feature of lamba is the accompanying incredulity. You listen to a verse, and minutes after the final notes, when your mind is still reeling from what you have just experienced? That’s lamba. Someone compares their love interest’s bum to a Wall of Jericho destroyer? Definitely lamba. 

When lamba and its less refined cousin, ‘vibes,’ form the core of a genre’s songwriting techniques, you have  weaker songs, overall. But so this isn’t just a subjective ‘oldhead’ rant, this writer carried out an experiment using Spotify’s Top Songs Nigeria Weekly Chart. Lyrics of the country’s 50 top charting songs were analysed on a songwriting basis, accounting for the following criteria: 

1.   Not more than 2 songs as lead act per artist 
2.   Only songs released in 2026
3.  Songs with only Nigerians.

Using this, a sample size of 22 hits was formed, which was then analysed further. Many things stood out almost immediately. 

General preoccupation with derrière is at an amusing high. Fela Anikulapo-Kuti’s Army Arrangement  sincerely has nothing on today’s Afro-pop records in objectification of women’s bodies. On Kidd Carder and Mavo’s aptly titled Big Bum Bum, the latter sings about being “limited to your biscuit.” Magixx compares his lover’s waist to Shatta Bandle on Juice & Liquor. Victony pleads with the FRE$H mama to take it easy on him, since her bum could potentially leave him hospitalized. Omah Lay dedicates an entire song to extolling the virtue of a mystery woman’s Waist, recalling that the Biblical Samson died because of ikebe. Even now, these ikebes are responsible for many of his wrong decisions. 

The most confusing of the lot is also the least popular: a song titled Romeo & Juliet by Abefe describes his lover’s dedication to his career when all of a sudden, her ‘bumpa-to-bumpa’ bum becomes the subject of interest. Later on, after confessing to being philanderous, he refers to her bum yet again, out of nowhere. This would be hilarious if it wasn’t so disorienting. Because really, from whence have we begun? And how have we arrived at such disjointed expressions of love? Everyone appreciates good, sometimes nasty, romp praise, but where bums become more appreciated than the bum owners, and love’s materialistic sheen is the only glow to songs, stasis is inevitable. Speaking of love, more than half of the songs were about, or featured lyrics alluding to, romance—again, not so surprising. Especially since most of these are about erotic romance and the power dynamics of wealth that make this possible. Borrowing from that apocryphal Oscar Wilde quote, “Everything in the world is about sex, except sex, which is about power.” The power of money is the people’s democracy. 

Namedropping is the game: designers like, Maison Margiela (Back Outside), Balenciaga (FRE$H, Mofe), Chanel (Chanel), Vetements (Chanel); pop culture wealth icons like Elumelu (Elumelu, Ripper’s Fate) and Adenuga (100 Meters); Liquor brands like Moët (Aura Salad) and Casamigos (Mofe); and all the related lifestyle lingo like ‘doings,’ ‘ballin,’ ‘motion,’ ‘diamonds,’ ‘investor,’ ‘rabba,’ ‘on funds,’ ‘guap,’ and ‘butti.’ This is a capitalist society, and our artists are sure to remind you. Even better, they prevent listeners from reinforcing the idea that love without money is possible. When the wealth references are stylish, as on Ayra Starr’s Tornado (“Inflation, I’m the price they want to bear”), meaning still comes down to oddly erotic connotations (“diamonds wet like scuba”). And other times, the artists seek to remind us of their substance use (Omah Lay owning up to weed addiction on I AM). 

In place of incoherent onomatopoeic lines, we have forced incoherent rhymes, such as Magixx’s “Gbongbola cigar/Aroma schnapps” couplet. And by Jove, the sheer amount of simile use—a couple are well done—could power the next With An S episode. When it’s good, it’s like Icarus in full flight (Magixx’s ”Sweet like food wey them serve for Ileya” line on the aforementioned Juice & Liquor). When it’s bad and generic, it’s like Icarus in free fall (SSSoundGawd rapping “Cash out like an investor” on the humorous Aura Salad” or 6uff rapping “Bombing like Osama” on Ripper’s Fate). Metaphors aren’t better fairing (Mavo’s forced “She dey take my coco if I want to samba” pun on Mofe bears negative witness to the stardust that is Joeboy and Wizard Chan’s “How much be the kg to your cylinder baby?”). 

Mavo’s place as a leader of the new school is reinforced not only by his prolific use of newer pop culture verbiage, but also by the fact that it has popped up elsewhere on Jogodo where Wizkid, his ‘dad’—Mavo’s actual words—calls himself ‘Escalawizzy.’ Famous Pluto’s rapid-fire dimes on the Benin City fraud-crypto-FX axis are a masterclass in authenticity (“Go hard or go home, I don forget way to my house” “Two thousand ways to die, three million ways to understand”). Lamba as aid, rather than a hindrance. Seyi Vibez’s chaotic concoction of Opera Mini and Mozilla [Firefox], Verizon, AT&T, and Zelle, Airbnb’s, and Coachella trips is yet another example of stellar pop culture verbiage on this list of 22 songs—better absorbed by listeners familiar with older cuts such as Hushpuppi. Still, there’s something disturbing about these songs that simultaneously document and celebrate illicit lifestyles. 

Analysing all of the above makes one better suited to see the full scope of concerns. On a subject matter basis, the mainstream has become a one-way lane with a few divergences. Individual songwriting elements are annoyingly similar. It doesn’t take ten listens to realise just how much heavy-lifting production does, and how many of these songs would be hits regardless of their lyrics. Melodies and arrangements, being pristine, cater to most needs and are strong enough to command attention from your outer ear to the parts of your brain enslaved to rhythm as Nigerians. Aspirational earworms of money this, and money that, baby and shima rocking whatever with oroma. 

The music is catchy.  Awfully catchy. But the music is also awfully hollow. Hollow enough that listeners are half-assed to learn lyrics. Imagine that! Nigerians, notoriously known for annotating lyrics even in indigenous genres, care less about the lyrics on verses. And then Asake’s Forgiveness, Gratitude, and his verse on Blaqbonez’s Chanel come on, and partygoers are singing along word for word, and Twitterati can’t figure out how and why this is so. People of the Niger and Benue, it’s because, even at its most hollow, there’s still something worth feeling in Asake’s words. His floozy yet braggadocious lifestyle bars are in tune with real life ‘big boy’ aesthetes, even without visuals. And so, rather than aim for that authenticity—hollow as it is in terms of the preoccupation with wealth—aspiring singers instead copy production, melodies, crowd vocals, and the Fuji call and response. Empty shells birthing emptier shells birthing shadows. 

By definition, pop or popular music in every nation, from J-Pop in Japan to bubblegum pop in the US, is simple and lighthearted.  However, it is also a function of how people see each other. Which is why, K-pop, for instance, is so heavy on visual aesthetics, looks, obsessive stan culture, dramatic in-group narratives, and copying as much as possible from external cultures—namely African American urban culture. In contrast, J-Pop is inward-facing, serving mainly the Japanese, with less focus on influencing external audiences. So, Afro-pop’s current trajectory shouldn’t be a surprise. Artists are trying to connect with dwindling foreign markets while also reflecting the country’s state of mind regarding values. And so, romance is projected as it has largely become: transactional. Money is revered in hooks and choruses. And in attempting to meet demand as quickly as possible, music is churned out at break neck speed, for an audience moving at break neck speed. 

If you still doubt this, consider the status of indigenous genres—both from new and old practitioners. Fuji doesn’t suffer from this substance problem. It might no longer be the South-West’s leading pop genre, but its assimilation into Afro-pop has led to an uptick in overall quality. From Asake to Seyi Vibez down to core practitioners like Taiye Currency, criticism of shallow substance still places them ahead of Afro-pop peers, because the base genre enforces a higher level of consideration in songwriting. R&B isn’t suffering a dearth in songwriting, as are Afro-pop singers like Ayra Starr who fuse both. Highlife isn’t either; the criticism The Cavemen receive from indigenous Igbo speakers has more to do with their pronunciation than content. Folk. Soul. Palmwine. Apala. Alt rock. Underground hip-hop. Just name it. Adjacent genres Afro-pop borrows from do not have a relative songwriting problem of this magnitude. Even when it’s just praise-singing, there’s an appreciable extent of ingenuity that would have you dancing in recognition of the wonderful lyrics on display. Asake has received much stick for the decline in form on M$NEY, but it’s not a stretch to say that his approach to that singular subject matter is still much better than we received on the Big Three’s last LPs (Morayo, 5ive, and No Sign Of Weakness). 

Our industry has a Schrödinger’s responsibility paradox where fans are simultaneously to blame and not to blame for the lamba dependence. “Nigerian fans don’t pay enough for music, so it’s better to push to foreign markets.” Not only is that not paying off, but it also seems that, apart from the infrastructural issues, the rest of the world can tell that the songs are dupes of superior originals. “Nigerian fans don’t want serious music. They want to dance and have a good time, and that’s what we’re giving them.” But the same fans complain that something is missing in how the songs make them feel. So which is it, really? Critics shouldn’t have to approach every review with the mindset that addressing songwriting is a null point, leaving us with critiques that might as well be fan mail—coddling creatives caught up in caricature compositions for the sake of leniency. 

For now, we can carry on because production hasn’t suffered the same fate. When instrumentation quality drops, the lull may become more apparent, and A&Rs will run stricter programs. Or maybe it’s this writer and others with similar complaints remembering Nigerian pop music differently. We’ve jointly hallucinated a reality where Bracket’s Yori Yori, despite being built on an onomatopoeic chorus and sung mostly in pidgin, doesn’t approach romance in a manner far superior to today’s ZTTW and Chrome Hearts-wearing, log drums-loving, cadaveric singers. Maybe that’s all it is. Maybe we are stubbornly holding on to standards that never existed. Maybe the sociopolitical bent wasn’t much better, and we shouldn’t be aggrieved that there hasn’t been an awareness-oriented hit single in a while. So many maybes, so little truth.