”Morayo” Makes a Compelling Case For Wizkid’s Legacy

Wizkid occupies a special position within the Afrobeats universe. His star power is singular in magnitude, his mythology, blindingly arresting: the wide-eyed kid who, before our very eyes, clawed his way from the nadir of Ojuelegba to global renown. And so, every Wizkid album release since his seminal debut has functioned as a cultural reckoning, an inflection point to debate and contend not just about the quality of the art but on his position within the genre. His roving armada of fans only amplifies this phenomenon. Following a release, it usually goes that a cratering constellation of views materializes, with his fans and loyalists scampering to wrest control of the narrative. For the casual observer, it’s all too easy to get suctioned into this marshland of competing narratives, this cacophony of diametric sentiments. For Wizkid, an unintended consequence of this effect is that the stakes always feel a smidge higher for him. As though every album were existential, his storied legacy hanging in the balance, wholly hinged on the success or failure of his latest offering. 

In 2014, at the cusp of Ayo’s release, the atmosphere pulsed with anticipation and excitement but also a cautious apprehension. Wizkid’s debut album Superstar had vaulted into a rarified canon, earning the status of classic barely a few years after its release. Records like Holla At Your Boy and Don’t Dull had slinked into the heart of the zeitgeist at home and in the diaspora. He had become the avatar for a new generation of pop stars. Even-keeled and prolific as he was, how could anyone surpass or match such a mercurial debut? And yet when Ayo arrived, he assuaged all doubts. 

In 2017, on the precipice of Sounds From The Other Side’s release, he was once again at a crossroads, familiar terrain by this time. Having experienced a measure of international success on account of a succession of high-profile collaborations, the criteria for the success of his imminent album seemed to be international renown. The album’s failure to resonate with audiences at home or abroad left him in the lurch. By the time he was poised for his next release, three years after, the stakes had never been so dire. Made in Lagos was, however, the gleaming jewel that formed from that mound of pressure. 

More Love, Less Ego, was his least existential record; it arrived coasting on the wave of its predecessor’s singular success. This blissful phase would however be short-lived. In the wake of the album’s increasingly tottering commercial prospects, revelry curdled into disaffection and praise into disquiet. Davido’s scathing retort to Wizkid during their skirmish in the lead-up to the album—“Dem no Dey hear your gbedu again”—is totemic of the prevailing sentiment regarding his More Love, Less Ego era. He heralds his latest effort Morayo, from familiar waters; with his back to the wall and his legacy once again hanging in the balance. 

On Morayo, Wizkid is acutely aware of his predicament: constantly wavering between celebrated hero and near-obsolete veteran. On A Million Blessings, a gorgeously poignant record steeped in shimmering synths and lilting melodies, he sings “No opposition fit to disguise; man I got nine lives; they wanna see me fall, that’s a bad vibe.” Beneath the gloss of unruffled cool that envelopes the album, he grapples with the question of his legacy, oftentimes with a chip on his shoulder, aiming stately missives at his antagonists. On Troubled Mind, he is a king luxuriating in a bard’s paean as K1-De-Ultimate eulogizes him over lilting Fuji drums. Pray, the album’s closer, finds him placid and self-assured as he paints a portrait of equanimity in the face of life’s vicissitudes. He recounts stories from his humble early days, offers affecting paeans to God, and revels in self-adulation. “They steady wondering why we can never lose, mama call me Ayo Balogun, they can never find another you,” he sings. 

The first thing that comes to mind upon engaging with the album is its muse, Wizkid’s mother, who the album is named after. Her cropped face sprawls across the album cover; ruddy, placid, and drawn into a wide smile. Since her passing in August 2023, he has explored the gaping void created by her death through multiple songs. On IDK, he’s palpably crestfallen, resigned to the headwinds of fate. Bordering on nihilism, he ponders on his own mortality, and in a single breath muses on finding solace in the embrace of God and the haze of intoxicants. “Eledumare na you dey ginger me nicely…Puff pass for the pain.” On MMS, he’s similarly pensive, similarly anxious over the evanescence of mortality. “Kila mu waye? Ko si nnkan t’a ma mu lo,” Asake sings on the chorus. But this time he’s more at ease with the reality of her loss. While on IDK  he grieves without directly grappling with his mother’s death, on MMS, he broaches her passing with a deft hand, weaving aphorism-laden flourishes for effect. 

The specter of his mother, their bond and his grief hover across the album. Certain moments beckon the listener into a quiet, contemplative world where melancholy and optimism exist in an intimate equilibrium. On Troubled Mind, he bares his wounded soul. “The blood for my eye and the pain for my mind mi o le salaye. I got a troubled mind,” he sings. But almost instantly he stows his hurt and begins constructing an elaborate portrait of revelry and opulence. He sings about neutering his pain with alcohol, women and the comforts of money. “One shot for mama, yeah, I miss you. I go ball, all my days, aye ti mo wa.” He extrapolates this concept of tamping down pain with gratitude and revelry across the vast swath of the album. Karamo and Kese evoke the feeling of sauntering through the delightfully lurid atmosphere of a Lagos owambe. Listeners can feel the festive warmth, and an almost nostalgic recollection of an era when Afrobeats was buoyed primarily by distinctive percussive rhythms crafted to elicit uninhibited dancing. Bad Girl, Soji and Bend are cut from a similar cloth but optimized for a night of ferocious clubbing. 

Contrasting Made in Lagos and More Love, Less Ego, which are thematically and sonically hemmed in, Morayo spreads its wings wide. Listening to the album, one gets the sense that the album was fashioned as an emporium for the disparate styles that have come to define his artistry over the stretch of his career. Songs like Kese and Bend hearken back to his early days. Break Me Down would fit seamlessly into Sounds From The Other Side’s exotic atmosphere. Slow evokes the languidly woozy interstice More Love, Less Ego luxuriates in. Bad For You, Après Minuit and Piece of My Heart would feel at home in Made in Lagos’ RnB soundscape. And yet, for all its eclecticism, the album remains impeccably cohesive. Songs flow into each other with aplomb and grace. The transition between Bend and A Million Blessings finds this motif in full effect. Both songs couldn’t be stylistically and lyrically further from each other. The former, a thumping party starter and the latter, an exercise at introspection. But when the skittering drums on Bend wind down and the synths on A Million Blessings commence, the resulting effect is bliss. 

Helmed by P2J, the album’s production is lush and exquisite, evoking a sense of timelessness and opulence, prized motifs in Wizkid’s arsenal. But more than for its sonic elegance, Morayo shines for its curatorial brilliance.  The guest artists are all impactful and the sonic ambience is curated to mirror Wizkid’s strengths. Wizkid, deft as he is on this album, is past his prime. Some of his flows are tired and rough around the edges, he also isn’t as nimble in and out of cadences as he used to be. But he compensates for this through a mix of experience, sterling production and a complementary roster of guest acts. On the traditional Afropop songs on the album, he doesn’t do too much. Instead, P2J’s production, complete with gorgeous live instrumentation, does the heavy lifting. 

On the RnB-influenced tracks, he’s more comfortable and consequently more compelling. On Slow, one of the album’s high points, he floats atop the heady production alongside Anais Cardot, concocting a poignant treatise on the temporal omnipotence of love. On Après Minuits, the album’s crest, he recruits Tiakola for a viscerally affecting ballad that sees him deploy sweeping melodies that cascade across the shimmering production like gentle, elegant waves on a cool evening. On Break Me Down, Piece of My Heart and the Jazmine Sullivan-assisted Bad For You, he’s equally brilliant. But outside of the beguiling melodies and slinky flows he offers, he leaves a lot to be desired. He repurposes the same lyrics and themes across songs, singing languidly about love with  surface level language, never exploring heartfelt subjects. Without the gorgeous brushstrokes supplied by the contributing voices, it’s hard to see how the album wouldn’t sink into monotony. 

At the heart of Morayo is the question of legacy. Thirteen years into a career steeped in euphoric highs as well as moments in the doldrums, where is the 34 year old’s place in the present and future of Nigerian music history? To answer this question, Wizkid corals a motley collection of songs that teeters the fine line between nostalgia and timelessness, presenting yet another submission towards his already entrenched legacy.