by Joey Akan Optimism is easy to write and hard to write well. Rotimikeys manages it by letting the arrangement do the persuading, so that hope arrives in the keys and the groove before it reaches the words. Here is how a church keyboardist and veteran producer became one of Nigeria’s most disciplined makers of […]
3 weeks ago
by
Joey Akan
Optimism is easy to write and hard to write well. Rotimikeys manages it by letting the arrangement do the persuading, so that hope arrives in the keys and the groove before it reaches the words. Here is how a church keyboardist and veteran producer became one of Nigeria’s most disciplined makers of uplift.
Rotimikeys has spent more than two decades being several different people in several different rooms. To advertising executives, he’s the guy behind successful jingles. To gospel artists, he’s the producer who wrote two of the genre’s biggest records of the last decade. To touring bands, he’s the music director keeping the arrangement tight. It took him most of that time to stop treating those as separate jobs. “This journey has taken me down many streets,” he says. “Now I am at that intersection where all those streets meet,” he explains. “As a singer, as a songwriter, as a creative director, as an instrumentalist, producer, advertising, all of that, everything has now culminated into just one big junction for me. And at this junction, you find both yourself and your ability to inspire, educate, and entertain on your own terms.”
Rotimikeys is a vehicle for two messages. The first is joy, hope, inspiration and optimism. His music is sunny, his glass is half full, and each song feels like a shot in the arm, the kind that jolts you into finding the will to go on. “Life Is Beautiful,” his most meta song, carries this through-line. In Pidgin and on repeat, he insists your story will change tomorrow and that no condition lasts forever, while orchestral keys find space in lush highlife production.
The second is worship. He is a minister of faith who exults and croons in expansive, atmospheric records. You can sink into the lulling, abundant hallelujahs of “My Song Forever,” or let loose on the dance floor as you pledge to carry God’s light on “Light.” Each record unfurls a different dynamic.
He does both well, and while his singing anchors everything, his greatest skill is arrangement. Trained on the church keyboard, then seasoned by years in the production trade, Rotimikeys builds his worship songs like a producer. “My Song Forever” is the clearest case. The call-and-response of hallelujahs and glory-glorys could easily have been a lazy loop. Still, he treats them as architecture, letting them swell and recede around the vocal so that the congregation’s role is built into the record. His voice is warm and unforced, and he rarely oversings to signal sincerity, which is rarer in the genre than it should be. His vocal ceiling is not what sells him. His judgment is, because he knows when a song needs the voice and when it needs the room.
Positivity is easy to write badly, and he is more disciplined than the genre’s reputation for easy uplift would suggest. Years of writing jingles taught him to land a hook quickly and make a message stick, and that economy powers “Life Is Beautiful,” where the encouragement is simple, repeated and carried by the groove. He avoids the greeting-card trap by making the music do the persuading. The sunniness lives in the harmony and the rhythm before it reaches the words, so the lyric arrives as confirmation instead of instruction. “Light” works the same way, giving the dance floor a worship function without making anyone feel preached at.
His songwriting is built on plainness, and the plainness is a skill. The Pidgin hook in “Life Is Beautiful” sounds like a friend telling you it will be fine, not a pulpit telling you it must be. His recent run of titles, including “Onise Iyanu” and “Ore Ofe Sha,” leans on Yoruba, which grounds the worship in a language many of his listeners pray in. Praise lands harder when it arrives in the mother tongue and the street register at once. His lyrics rarely chase metaphor or theological complexity. They are statements a congregation or a commuter can sing back after one listen, and the discipline is in what he leaves out.
Credibility is the part of his skill that is easiest to undersell. Writing and producing “Olowogbogboro” for Nathaniel Bassey in 2017 put him behind a major gospel record, and years of recognition for his production work mean he enters his own releases with a standing most debut-stage gospel singers lack. It shows in the confidence of his instrumentation, and it explains how he moves between altar and dance floor without strain, since “Light” and “My Song Forever” come from the same musical vocabulary.
The real limit on his skill is risk, not ability. He is excellent within a lane of reassurance, and his live-band sensibility makes that lane feel fuller than most. But a catalogue that resolves every emotional question into comfort can start to blur, and his best work will probably come when he lets tension stay in the arrangement a little longer before the release. He has described himself as not a gospel artist in the usual sense, which fits the music: a producer-musician who uses faith as his subject and craft as his method. One would argue that the producer is the stronger identity, and he is at his best when he lets the two overlap and trusts the arrangement to carry the weight.
