How Nigerian Music Lost Its Political Voice

At the peak of Fela Anikulapo Kuti‘s career in the 70s, he was as popular for his fearless activism as much as he was for his revolutionary Afrobeat sound. By then he had spent many nights in jail on a variety of charges, mostly trumped up by the military government to imprison and deter him. Fela was hardly shaken. In 1976, he released Zombie, a searing indictment of the Nigerian military, likening its soldiers to an army of the undead; blindly following orders. This proved too much to swallow for the Gen. Olusegun Obasanjo-led government. 

A few months after its release, soldiers stormed the Kalakuta Republic, Fela’s commune, and by the time they left, it was in flames. Fela and his associates had suffered serious injuries, and in a particularly egregious act of violence, soldiers threw his elderly mother from the second-storey window. She sustained injuries that would claim her life months later. It was the military government’s final blow, an operation that was to clasp the lips of its most influential detractor. Instead Fela turned the screw further, with blistering new releases (Unknown Soldier, Sorrow, Tears and Blood) that pointedly accused the Nigerian government of the crime that was committed at his residence. He was an embodiment of a time when artists spoke to power and tried to effect political change, a time that is now much beyond us in today’s era of music. 

Fire Fire depicted Nigeria as a country on fire, while Ghetto Soldier chronicled life growing up in Nigeria’s forgotten slums. In 2004, Eedris Abdulkareem’s Jaga Jaga painted a grim portrait of the country’s rot—highlighting serious poverty, insecurity, inflation, electricity challenges, fuel scarcity and the general haphazardness of the country. His points were accurate—they even persist today—but the then President Olusegun Obasanjo, now a civilian leader, was unimpressed. He publicly condemned Abdulkareem and ordered the song to be taken off the radio.

African China, too, would add his voice to the growing discontent against Obasanjo’s government and the poverty and unemployment that its citizenry was contending with. His 2006 release, Mr. President depicted life in Nigeria, its opening line—“Food no dey, brother, water no dey”—a stark encapsulation of the nation’s struggles. It was music in its most unfiltered reflective form: a one-way journey from the street to the studio. A few other songs in his discography burn with unanswered questions about our nation’s situation: Government Bad focused on youth unemployment, while Crisis alerted on the violence waged in his hometown of Ajegunle. The earliest roots of Street Pop, in the Ajegunle-popularised genres like Galala and Konto, held a mirror to the populace they entertained—not so much political agitation as it was simply social commentary. 

Even outside Street Pop, other Nigerian artists occasionally turned their gaze to the state of the nation, like 2baba in E Be Like Say (which he dedicated to “the shady politicians”), Sound Sultan’s Ole (Bushmeat), or Asa’s Fire On The Mountain.

Today, about half a decade since Fela suffered the brutality at his commune and twenty years since Abdulkareem incurred Obasanjo’s wrath for his assessment of the country, Nigerian music’s inculcation of social commentary has become nearly nonexistent. Street Pop held on to some vestiges of it over the years—from Olamide’s gritty depiction of the streets on his early albums to Bella Shmurda’s scripting of the poverty-fraud highway on High Tension to the impassioned stories of Afro-Adura starlets. None of these presented an intentional, or brave affront at the culpable governments. Still, at the very least, they represent some improvement over the bubble-wrapped, sugar-coated world Nigerian Pop currently exists in. It is a world that an increasing proportion of its audience can not relate to. 

There are many reasons why Nigerian artists do not often sing about the Nigerian condition any more. The most obvious one is self-preservation. You cannot speak too loudly against a government in power: it may put you out of the running for campaign performances, CNG endorsements or year-end state-sponsored concerts. For Nigerian artists with close relationships with political office holders—like then Rivers governor Wike’s promise of 10m naira to Burna Boy, which he denied receiving or Olamide regarding former Lagos governor Ambode as a “father figure” —it becomes even harder to take a stand. Music and business have been intertwined and it would take solid principles for artists to choose self-expression over the commercial value of their brand. Music is also more lucrative now than it was twenty years ago, so artists lose a frame of reference for what it means to be the person sliding into poverty in tandem with their country. 

The question must also be asked of the audience too, if it would appreciate societal commentary in music, because it can not be assumed. Nigerian Pop is the juggernaut it is, home and abroad, because of its ability to sell a dream: nights spent inebriated and/or intoxicated in the club, days spent with fast cars and expensive jewellery. For many, it is an escape from a reality they would rather not encounter in music. Still, the extenuating, still rapidly degrading status of Nigeria’s economy means that there may come a time, maybe even soon, when music cannot provide relief. Only last week, young Nigerians discovered that telco giants had raised data tariffs to compensate for Nigeria’s inflation; data becomes another essential that many Nigerians will have to do without. In times like these, it nearly borders on unjust when those with platforms to speak out act indifferent. 

A few artists still try to engage with Nigeria’s sociopolitical landscape. Falz’s Moral Instruction was a sermonic critique of the Nigerian system as we know it, and the rapper often steps out to back his words in real life, standing with youth during the EndSARS protest, and repeatedly calling for greater youth participation in election processes. Ruggedman, an advocate against police brutality, has released songs like Is Police Your Friend? and Situation in protest of it, and he championed the #EndSARS motion long before it gained momentum. Vector, too, has spoken against the infamous Nigerian Police multiple times, including in the songs SARS Is Around and Gunshots, again, both released before the massive EndSARS protests of 2020. Other artists supported #EndSARS in their ways: Runtown was one of the first people to show up at the protest venue, while Davido’s Fem inadvertently became its unofficial anthem. For a time it looked like Burna Boy would carry the torch for Nigerian and pan-African activism; his early releases (My Cry, Collateral Damage, Another Story) certainly promised so, but when the time came to put words into action in the two politically important events of this decade—2020’s EndSARS protests and the 2023 elections—he was reluctant to engage, only speaking out after public pressure mounted.

For others, not even the minimum amount of activism—like making tweets to encourage voter participation—is possible. Nigerian Pop stars now largely operate on an international scale; still, any artist who expects some support from the Nigerian audience should show some level of solidarity, especially since they possess the platforms to project issues outside the confines of our country. Too many artists are content remaining in their comfort zones, producing feel-good music that sells streams and puts them at zero risk. It remains an open question whether music artists bear some responsibility for social activism, but at the very least, music should acknowledge the world it exists in.