Shallipopi stands with Don Capon outside his dressing room before his performance at Afronation. Don Capon engages him in your typical TikTok format “interview” — a 10-second interaction asking him to share his favorite pre- and post-performance meals with the viewers. In an accent which can only be described as peculiar, Shallipopi awkwardly informs him that he mostly eats “snacks and shit”, like “granola … with the milk and shit”. The clip spreads. Twitter/X roasts him, TikTokers milk the audio for weeks. Some say he’s “just being real.” Others ask: “Why do our artists act like they hate interviews?”
We can see from the short clip that Shallipopi is incredibly charismatic, with a lot of personality (he even invites Don to share some pepper soup with him), but his misguided attempt to connect with the Western audience through this jarring and frankly, unnecessarily “westernized” accent underplays his charisma. The clip, while humorous, reveals a recurring challenge within the Afrobeats industry: too many of its stars falter when faced with the camera off-stage.
Despite the genre’s increasing global footprint, several artists appear visibly uncomfortable in interviews and public-facing media appearances. What unfolds has less to do with shyness and leans more towards a culture-wide absence of media prep, an inability of our artists to feel at home in front of a microphone, off-stage. This lack of fluency in articulating personal narratives and industry insight undermines deeper fan engagement, potential brand partnerships, and, crucially, long-term cultural legacy.
The contradiction becomes even more glaring when considering the scale of their global reach. Nigerian artists headline international festivals and top global charts, yet often fall short during even the most basic media engagements. This silence, frequently misread as mystery or aloofness, often masks discomfort, lack of preparation, or an internalised resistance to vulnerability.
Asake offers a useful example. It is well documented through several press discussions that he describes himself as an introvert in his day-to-day interactions and “only shows high‑octane energy when he is on stage”. Despite releasing several music videos where his bold charisma is palpable, his dazzling star power often fails to shine through his media interviews and press runs. In 2023, following the release of his chart-topping album, Work Of Art, Asake sat down with Good Morning America to discuss his musical journey. The interviewer asks him about singing in Yoruba and how he feeds off the energy of his fans for his explosive performances — questions intended to provide insight into who Asake is and what his motivations are for creating the art he shares — but his responses repeatedly fell flat. He gives two-line answers, barely expanding on any of the points he manages to make. He tries to establish a link between music, spirituality and manifestation — “… It’s about connecting with who you are … wake up, live a good life. If you don’t feel blessed, you won’t be blessed.” — but because he doesn’t give any additional context to his answers, they come across as half-thoughts and his analogy doesn’t land the way it should.
The issue persists beyond the traditional interview format. In a TikTok-style “get ready with me” video for GQ, Asake takes fans behind the scenes as he gets dressed for Casablanca’s Paris Fashion Week show. This content format is intended to be more relaxed, more informal, and better suited for revealing a celebrity’s personality off the stage, but he barely says more than five sentences in the video. The profound awkwardness and unease with which he spoke was not missed by the internet’s watchful eyes, and humour gave way for concern as fans wondered if his visible discomfort was due to an inability to speak English fluently. Although this speculation might have some element of truth, there is no strict requirement for an international star to speak fluent English several international stars don’t. In such videos, they simply speak their preferred language, we get subtitles, and their personality still shines. The issue goes beyond language barriers.
Wizkid’s trajectory reinforces this view. In the early stages of his career, he radiated a bashful openness. His 2013 Ndani TV interview was marked by ease, expressiveness and the absence of the heavy curtain which he has pulled firmly in place over his personality today. But by 2023, he offered little beyond one-word answers. Even his tone had shifted, bordering on disinterest. This is a stark departure from earlier interviews like his 2017 Channel 4 News appearance, where he articulated his views on language and genre with clarity and warmth. His media evolution reflects a broader trend — a discomfort with engaging with the public, whilst remaining in the public eye, even when the spotlight burns brightest.
The case of Olamide on Flow with Korty adds further dimension. Known for his industry influence and longevity, he appeared as a guest on a show that usually prompts honest, vulnerable conversation. From Tems to Lojay to Blaqbones, each guest has left the show with the satisfaction of having connected with the audience on a personal level, beyond the work they do. Granted, Olamide engaged with the host and even shared stories of his experience with stage fright to put her at ease — a thoughtful gesture — but he maintained his cool exterior for the entirety of the episode. We have a 20 minute informal interview, but by the end of it, we know as little about Olamide as we did when we clicked “play”. He came with his team and relied on them to answer some of the host’s questions in an attempt to humanise himself, but this defeats the purpose of interviewing him; he doesn’t tell us his story himself, and he doesn’t discuss anything beyond his business savvy and work ethic. Fans picked up on this quickly, with several social media users suggesting that Afrobeats artists invest in media training. The moment, like so many others, was defined by what was left unsaid.
Patterns like these indicate a persistent challenge: when Afrobeats artists appear in interviews, the public takeaway often revolves around brevity, awkwardness, or memes, rather than meaningful dialogue. These missed opportunities contribute to a broader silence around the personalities shaping one of the world’s most influential genres.
At the heart of this silence lies a structural gap. Unlike other global music industries, the Afrobeats ecosystem rarely includes media coaching as a standard part of artist development. While management teams are skilled at creating virality around singles, they seldom invest in long-term narrative building. This leads to performers who dazzle on stage but falter in articulating who they are beyond their music.
Cultural context plays a role, too. Within Nigerian society, masculinity is often tied to composure and emotional restraint. Vulnerability is regarded with suspicion, and self-explanation may be interpreted as trying too hard, and as a result, many male artists adopt the position that their music alone should do the talking — a phenomenon that might explain the emergence of Wizkid’s shades on, no talking persona as he advanced in his career — but in an era defined by constant content, parasocial relationships and multi-platform storytelling, such a stance leaves too much space for misinterpretation. If artists only give one-liners and awkward half-statements in response to layered questions, they risk their words being misconstrued or their intentions getting lost in translation.
Still, some exceptions hint at the possibility of a shift. Burna Boy and Davido, for all their contradictions, have used media to their advantage — sometimes courting controversy, but most times creating strong bonds with fans through relatability. A newer class of stars, including Ayra Starr and Rema, demonstrates a growing awareness of the value in shaping one’s public image through interviews, behind-the-scenes footage, and spontaneous online engagement. They and their teams understand that new artists in such a fast-moving industry can’t afford to put up an illusion of mystery, they can’t afford to be timid, especially when afforded the opportunity of a global platform.
For the genre to reach its full narrative potential, these cases must become the norm rather than the exception. Otherwise, the absence of compelling interviews will continue to obscure the personalities behind the music, weakening their international positioning and longevity. A genre that thrives on charisma and good energy deserves to be accompanied by stories that are just as vivid and resonant. And Afrobeats stars are not in want of good stories by any means; the unique experience of being Nigerian is enough to grasp audiences of talk shows and YouTube channels many times over. All our stars need are the tools and training to give them the confidence to tell their stories boldly, freely.
Other global genres have already embraced this. K-pop artists undergo rigorous training in how to navigate interviews, often well before they debut. American rappers frequently double as media personalities, capable of commanding attention whether on a podcast or a press run. Artists like Rihanna or Tyler, the Creator have built public personas as robust as their music catalogues. Although a few Nigerian labels (Mavin, for instance) invest in bootcamp-like training for their artists long before they begin public-facing interactions, Afrobeats still lacks a comparable archive of standout interviews or memorable media moments.
The cost of this void is cultural. It erases opportunities for historic quotes, viral monologues, and behind-the-scenes insights that shape long-term legacies. More worryingly, silence in media appearances increasingly equates to cultural invisibility. Intrigue may work in the short term, but without articulation, mystery too easily slips into irrelevance in the long run.
To change course, structural investment in media literacy and training must become standard across labels and management teams. This is not about manufacturing personality but providing artists with tools to express their already existing personalities on their own terms. Interviews, when done right, are not interrogations but invitations to be known, remembered, and understood. It only enhances the effects of the work these artists already pour into their craft.
Spaces that encourage this kind of presence already exist. Platforms like Flow with Korty prove that vulnerability and comfort are not mutually exclusive. When artists feel safe, they open up. When they open up, audiences listen. Fans also play a part by moving away from ridicule and embracing sincerity, however clumsy it might initially appear. Encouraging openness and rewarding it with engagement could shift the culture altogether.
This is not merely a media issue; it is a narrative one. As Afrobeats continues to shape global sound, its voices must also shape global conversation. Legacy in music is not forged solely through sound. It lives in the things artists choose to say, and how they choose to say them. If the genre hopes to define the next decade, it must make space for its stars to speak clearly and to be heard.
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