Measured, preternaturally talented, temperamentally conservative, Ahmed Ololade; Asake, may be the most prolific Nigerian artist since his ascent to stardom in 2022. Asake sees himself, before anything else, as a performer; an entertainer; a purveyor of “vibes.” His music is lighthearted and playful, the compositions of an ebullient soul whose medium of expression is music. And so, in his music, he’s chiefly concerned with bringing joy to a world that can at times feel fraught with pain, and winding complexities. His stalwart optimism is not from a place of willful ignorance. He’s familiar with the shape of pain, and strife, being from a modest background and clawing his way to success. In his music, he occasionally veers into pensive waters, interrogating layers of pain, and reflecting on weighty topics. But he never lingers in melancholy for too long and is soon his usual jovial self, skating pop beats with surreal dexterity.
Outside the spectacle of stardom, Asake is reticent. He’s not fond of interviews, and when he grants them he rarely gets into granular details. Similarly, in his music, he rarely pokes beneath surface themes. But curiously, his project titles have been pointed assertions about aspects of his life. His eponymous debut EP Ololade Asake announced his name to the world. His debut album, Mr Money With the Vibe telegraphed his fondness for sunny themes: vibes. His sophomore album title, Work of Art, was at once a self-affirmation and an announcement of his ascendancy to the world. The latest in his oeuvre, Lungu Boy, functions as a statement of solidarity with his roots; an affecting homage to his streets.
The word “Lungu” is Hausa for corridor or alley, like the word “Koro” in Yoruba. However, over time, within pockets of Nigeria, it has transmuted to generally mean street or ghetto. One such place, where this world has taken on new meaning is Asake’s childhood city;Lagos Island.
Lagos Island is a microcosm of the world. In the sprawling expanse of the city, the air crackles with a confounding dissonance: a symphony of wealth and want. Like two opposite worlds forcefully jammed together. One side of the island—with areas like Ikoyi and Victoria Island—hosts some of the most sedate, affluent neighborhoods in Nigeria; as well as the corporate headquarters of many of Nigeria’s leading companies. On the other side, the city’s squalor is in full view. The expanse is strewn with dense, rundown settlements. Many of the houses are in a poor state: rusted roofs; paint peeling off the walls; without modern plumbing.
Isale Eko, where Asake grew up, is on this side of the island. The roads here are winding and narrow. Traffic in the area moves slowly, slowed down in part by the teeming crowd on the pavements, and the torrent of road-crossers, mostly commuting to work. On hot days, fumes—from the exhausts of beaten-up yellow buses—mix with the humid air from the Atlantic and condense on the bouncing froth of human bodies. In the corners and alleys, thugs, commonly called “omo’ta,” lurk. In the chaos, the affluence of Lagos is within touching distance. The high-rise buildings of Victoria Island and Ikoyi tower in the distance: a non-sequitur. Like in most inner cities juxtaposed against affluence, this contradiction sows the seeds of big dreams in the minds of the children. Cut off from privilege, wealth, access, and in many cases a formal education, they typically turn towards music, football, or fraud, to achieve their dreams.
Asake was formed in this crucible. And the soul of his Lungu is strewn across the 15 tracks of Lungu Boy. Asake is a master at cross-pollinating several musical styles and straddling fusions. His songs, often freewheeling and restless, tend to marry Gospel, Fuji, Amapiano, and Afropop elements. But on Lungu Boy, he does away with Amapiano, and tamps down other elements, to allow Fuji, the soundtrack of his hood, take center stage. Active, which samples Jazzman Oloffin and Ayuba’s Raise Da Roof, features a Hip Hop inflected production, but Asake’s delivery is pointedly Fuji-influenced. The sample, which loops over the hooks, also supplies the song with the distinctive, groovy air of Fuji.
On Skating, he reprises this motif. The beat is an eclectic mix: the warbling guitar riffs of Rock; the syncopated drums of Afropop; supple Gospel keys—But his delivery is decidedly Fuji-influenced. On Uhh Yeahh, his freewheeling vocals recall Sikiru Ayinde’s Fuji Garbage—A Fuji staple of the 80s which ascended into the Fuji canon. Like Fuji Garbage, Skating is compositionally boisterous but lyrically sparse, and lighthearted. The singer assumes a supporting role, allowing the beat to take the spotlight. The album’s closer, Fuji Vibe, fittingly sees this motif in full bloom. On the record, his mastery of the genre is evident, he builds momentum piece by piece, with the lyrics and the beat mirroring each other. Halfway into the song, it’s already an owambe.
True to form, Asake keeps the themes on the album light. Songs like Ligali, Wave, and Active confirm his prowess for conjuring breezy bops. But in the moments he turns inwards to introspect, he’s precise and focused. On MMS, he enlists Wizkid for a paean of praise to God. He’s palpably pensive as he recounts his come-up days. Wizkid is equally brilliant over the song’s soulful keys. For the first time since his mother’s passing in August last year, he feels out the contours of grief. Worldwide finds Asake acutely self-aware of his change in fortune: his hectoring success. He’s confident as he casually flits through his laurels. But he’s never boastful, it’s an announcement of his ascendancy. An announcement directed at himself as much as anyone else.
I Swear, an interesting cut, starts in a celebratory mood. Supported by festive drums, he luxuriates in self-adulation and declares his intent to lead a life of enjoyment. But in the second verse, he turns inwards, abruptly. It’s as if, overcome with joy, he hit a precipice, forcing him to reflect on his humble beginnings, and the surrealness of his jaunt to the top. “Normal person to di sombo. Toloyinbo n pe ni somebody. Won ro po ti tan buh mo l’Olohun.” He sings over somber chords. Suru, featuring Stormzy, is even more brilliant. He plays the part of a shrewd sage, recounting pithy proverbs from his mother, and offering praises to God, whilst simultaneously directing impassioned entreaties at him.
For all its bright moments, Lungu Boy is not without its flaws. In certain moments he sounds uninspired. Mentally, which is by no means a bad song, sounds flavorless. Against the backdrop of tottering drums, he conjures the typically wholesome mix of sweet and sour melodies he has deployed in previous works, but this time, the delivery falls flat. It’s essentially a worse version of 2:30, from Work of Art. On My Heart, P. Prime supplies a viscerally sweet Spanish-inflected instrumentation, but Asake’s delivery fails to match his intensity. Towards the middle of the song, he hits his stride. But the first half is a grueling romp. He sounds lethargic, almost disinterested; it’s unbelievable how poorly thought out the song is. Debbie Gibson’s sultry voice, from the sample, functions as a makeshift glue, holding together a composition that feels like it could come apart at any moment.
Some of his creative choices are also questionable, lacking the refinement of his earlier works. In the second verse of Mood, he breaks into a Spanish refrain. It’s both jarring and misplaced, lacking in purpose. It’s a little bit amusing, as neither he nor his primary audience are Spanish speakers. All it does is isolate listeners who follow the first half of the song. But at least it’s consistent with his ethos of going with the vibe. The album also lacks the thematic precision of his earlier works. In certain moments, like on Skating or My Heart, he appears low on things to say, or maybe just tired. Which is ironic, and wasteful; he has a well of experience from his days in his hood to mine from. His metaphors are also tired and over-flogged. Such as when he deploys the metaphor “Sweet like Maggi” twice on the album, tragically—on Ligali and My Heart.
Lungu Boy is not Asake’s finest work. It’s however, already, a touchstone of his career. On Lungu Boy, he steps out of the familiar couch of Amapiano, not always to great effect, but in the moments where he sticks the landing, he conjures cascading Fuji-helmed fusions that would give an owambe a run for its money. It’s also an affecting, personal album: on Lungu Boy, having conquered the world, he circles back home in homage to his roots; and ultimately to reaffirm his identity to himself and the world.
