“Everything real can be threatened, nothing unreal exists, and day by day, it becomes increasingly difficult to find the peace of God in this genre-panopoly called Afrobeats.”
You wake up excited to get online, only to be overwhelmed with another hot take from one of Afrobeat’s frontmen. A small Western publication runs a pop-up interview with your favorite Afrobeats artist at a fashion week red carpet, which ends up stirring controversy. Meanwhile, a smart aleck publicist who is awake at the same time decides to fake a beef between your favorite artist and another. You get caught up in all of it, and when the album or product announcement arrives later on, you realise you’ve been tricked. By then, all you can do is to sigh, hit ‘play,’ and wait for the cycle to commence again. All hail the gimmick!
Art historian and culture commentator IfeOluwa Nihinlola succinctly contextualised this pattern in his essay Asake’s Vibe as Gimmick. In Asake’s case, the gimmick—a contraption utilised for efficiency which comes off simultaneously lazy and straining—is his choice of ‘repetitions of his fusion into a shortcut.’ While that isn’t the exact hack referenced above, it captures how the former YBNL singer has optimised his music for the algorithm, most visibly on the joint EP with Wizkid, REAL Vol. 1.
Outside of music, both artists have exhibited branding and promotional antics worth noting. Asake’s are mild dalliances with different hair and clothing styles ahead of his forthcoming LP, MONEY. Wizkid has a mean streak of beefs leading up to his last two projects (one with Seun Kuti in January this year, ahead of the REAL EP, and another with Davido and Don Jazzy in April 2024, before Morayo). In all these cases, social media rancour is the accompanying thread.
Other artists accused of using gimmicks include: Rema (for his cigarette use since HEIS), Boy Spyce (for pedestrian songwriting, fashion choices accompanying roll-outs, and recently, his Mavins activation), Ayo Maff (for cliched rollouts and repetitive ‘streets’ songwriting), Ayra Starr (believe it or not, for the crime of slaying in short dresses), Cruel Santino (for ignoring momentum after releasing snippets) and Omah Lay (for a lot).
Omah Lay’s case centres around promotion for his sophomore album, Clarity of Mind, which has been surrounded by controversy for two years. He’s had public melt down on Twitter, changed management, turned to the spiritual in esoteric Instagram and Snapchat posts, accused a still unknown contemporary for stealing his album idea, labeled Afrobeats ‘not in safe hands,’ and at the album’s listening party on March 11th, wrongfully proclaimed Afrobeats to be ‘mainly Lagos, mainly Yoruba’ and ‘pioneered by Fela Kuti,’ much to the chagrin of antsy social media users.
As many Afrobeats commentators have rightly pointed out, these claims are ahistorical. Afrobeats’ coinage by DJ Abrantee has more to do with the need for an umbrella term than Fela’s sonic imprint. It’s been to our disadvantage in the long run, as the problematic American Music Awards Best Afrobeats category, Grammy Best Global Music Album and Best African Music Performance and the Billboard US Afrobeats Songs Charts show. The claim that Afrobeats is mainly Yoruba is hilarious. Take street pop, for instance. It has evolved from Ajegunle Reggae and Dancehall to Pangolo, Shaku Shaku, and Cruise. Every single one of those links in the chain, including Konto and Mara farther down the line, owe it to artists from all over Nigeria. For all its flaws, the Afrobeats ecosystem has documented enough history for a claim like this to still hold weight.
It’s hard to disregard Lagos’ role as ground zero. Stakeholders have commented on how this affects both how people listen and what they think. The major problem came when Omah Lay name-dropped himself and Burna Boy as the only Port Harcourt artists people know. A half-truth that plays on proximity and frames the dilemma of other popular acts like Duncan Mighty, Timaya, Ajebo Hustlers, or even Gospel songstress Mercy Chinwo, still needing the Lagos machinery to get noticed. Many fans have since expressed disappointment in his ‘attention-seeking gimmicks.’
An apologia for these antics begins with due consideration of the mainstream artist in 2026. With easier production and distribution, the music industry now produces more artists and hits than ever. Gone are the days when radio determined chart placements. Now, the concept of the ‘hit record’ itself is debatable since certain songs now dominate TikTok without making a dent elsewhere. Global mainstream status has shifted so much in the past decade that everything else has shifted too. It’s not so drastic that A-listers no longer exist, they now have more people to compete against, including AI artists.
Additionally, consider the longer life span characterising mainstream Nigerian pop. Some artists have been around for almost twenty years. Even those who have faded out still have enough influence to dominate conversations every few months, even if their sales have slowed down. This isn’t rose-tinted relativism. Rema re-defined the traditional ‘Big Three’ to accommodate himself, acknowledging the inevitability of the class of 2011-2013. By contrast, neither they nor the original big three of Afro-pop’s formative years had to compete with artists that stuck around this long.
If every Folake, Ugo, and Tega can identify a rollout in motion, the older guys no longer phase out as quickly, streams don’t bring in enough money (a million Nigerian Spotify streams equals $300 compared to $10,000 for Sweden per Sony Music executive, Muyiwa Awoniyi) and hits can’t be measured like before, it simply follows that more acts do what they can to stand out or stand in, as the case may be—no luxury of novelty in creative direction to hide behind. If relevance is greater currency than authenticity — although both often overlap – then inevitably more artists will employ whatever gimmick they can to hold on to the limelight. Crowd vocals. Amapiano. Deluxe projects. Just name it.
Of course, this creates a problem of homogeneity. An example is Rema, Victony, and Omah Lay blowing up with mid-tempo Afro-Pop, leading to the nasal-singing clone wars. Everyone knowing the hack means no one knows the hack. It’s one reason Omah Lay and contemporaries like Burna Boy have rightly, albeit poorly, complained about the overall quality on display in the mainstream. The irony here is that more artists would then employ unique features to distinguish themselves. Truth be told, that itself isn’t so bad. Fans deserve spice. As more folks continue to be priced out of regular concerts, with the few available options being underwhelming, drama and shiny distractions on the internet are the closest things to fan experiences.
From a less cynical standpoint, gimmicks are an outlet for expression. It’s absurd to listen to some of these artists’ lyrics and then act surprised when they act the way they do. Music doesn’t emerge in a vacuum, after all. The criticism an artist like Ayo Maff receives for singing about ‘the streets’ makes no sense when you listen to his interviews and learn about his upbringing. It would instead be fairer to suggest a different approach to the subject matter, like others before him had done. Similarly, criticising Omah Lay for always harping on spirituality should be done in the context of the music. His debut album, Boy Alone, features heavy water themes and examines interiority from the first note to the last. His forthcoming album’s lead singles, Waist, Don’t Love Me, and Holy Ghost, are hedonistic calls for help. They are superficial but spiritual, nonetheless. It is not too much to ask that we chide artists for their shortcomings, but also accept that not all their actions are for the promo. Sometimes, we need to take down the pedestal.
Some artists depend on gimmicks, but in the absence of due consideration, everything becomes a gimmick. Bullying and para-social attachments disguised as criticism take root. Artists shut themselves out in return, resorting to carefully curated interactions. Fans continue to grumble about inauthenticity. In the end no one wins.
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