In our quest for global dominance, we have been reckless as a culture. Afrobeats has employed whatever means necessary to rise to the top, and, as with all actions, there are consequences—we must now face the repercussions of our choices.
By Korede Owoeye
Afrobeats to the world; that’s how we say it, and that’s how it’s meant to be. A journey of a genre, a movement, a sound, and a culture. Driven by its ambassadors, it’s a battle for the future—a conquest for new territories to dominate.
We’ve been largely successful so far, especially since this isn’t our first attempt at taking African music to the global stage. We’ve been here before, with the likes of King Sunny Ade, Majek Fashek, Ebenezer Obey, and Onyeka Onwenu. We’ve made mistakes and learned from them. Now, we might just be on the verge of making our biggest mistake yet.
In our quest for global dominance, we have been reckless as a culture. Afrobeats has employed whatever means necessary to rise to the top, and, as with all actions, there are consequences—we must now face the repercussions of our choices.
Back in the day, the hunger was purely for new markets, recognition, and validation. D’Banj would have Kanye West in his videos as far back as 2012 for this reason.
Wizkid was collaborating with Akon and Chris Brown as far back as 2014 for this reason. Ayo Jay scored a US hit in 2016 for the same purpose. At first, we were solely focused on performing at the biggest shows and events worldwide—until we realised the financial rewards that came with it.
Afrobeats superstars began to become the in-thing; it became cool to listen to Afrobeats. Success at home would slowly become insignificant, and everybody wanted the world. The national cake became stale, and everyone wanted a piece of the global pie.
We ignored structure. We overlooked the foundation and rushed to build on uncharted ground. We pandered to the West. If you weren’t signed to an international label, you were seen as wasting your time as an artist—so everyone signed deals. From Wizkid to the up-and-coming artist on your Instagram with a few thousand views and a ‘next to blow’ tag, everyone jumped on board.
This changed everything. Soon, the A&Rs shaping the sound were people who knew little to nothing about the core essence of our music.
The producers and engineers behind the sound became white men who didn’t understand the sound and elements that guided our childhood. The urgency of recording under pressure when NEPA took the light was lost.
The unique flavour Lagos imparts, like the inspiration that comes from being stuck in traffic for five hours on your way to the studio, slowly disappeared. We started hosting recording camps in Ghana, then France, then the UK, and eventually everywhere else. In our search for a new home, we lost touch with the one we already had.
The money funding Afrobeats no longer came from home, so the money would make decisions without factoring home. Our superstars became less visible to us—the rest of the world had them at their disposal, but we did not.
We begged them to come home, but there was no home to return to. There were no venues to perform in, no substantial revenue from streaming—just numbers and social media presence. The Nigerian market became nothing more than a PR tool, used to generate buzz for music made with the West in mind. Pathetic.
Sure, we got the attention of the world, but now we are losing it. Our music has lost something. Nobody knows exactly what it is, but this writer has an idea: we’ve lost home. There’s no Africa left in Afrobeats. We can deceive ourselves with the saxophones and trumpets on our album intros, and the crowd vocals on our hit songs, but there’s no home in our product.
Our sound has been extensively watered down by us, in a bid to appease the West, and we will pay the price. What we did to others will inevitably be done to us. At its core, Afrobeats is fusion—a genre that borrows from various sounds, blending them with our sapa struggles and our idea of luxury to create something deeply resonant with our spirit. Now, the world will borrow from us. It doesn’t help that we watered down what we are selling, because that just makes it easier to replicate.
When the nomination list for the Top Afrobeats Song at the 2024 Billboard Music Awards dropped and we had and we had only Tems representing Nigeria, I laughed. I laughed because I couldn’t bring myself to cry.
Tems’ 2023 record, “Me and You”, leans more towards R&B than Afrobeats. So even in a category we should dominate, we are not truly represented—we are merely present. A German DJ and producer, Adam Port, was also nominated in the same category. It’s happening.
They’ll tell you the Billboard Music Awards is about sales, streams, and radio play on the Billboard charts. They’ll tell you Ayra Starr and our other artistes, unfortunately, didn’t have a song that performed well in the US. Sure. What happens when they no longer feel the need to explain themselves to us? What happens when they finally crack the version of music we’ve chosen to call Afrobeats? What happens when the biggest Afrobeats artiste is a white kid from L.A.? What do we do then?
Do we follow in the footsteps of our predecessors, return to the drawing board, spend another 20 years rebuilding, and then charge at the world with a new movement? Or do we heed Rema’s advice at the Headies Awards and focus on building home—building it in such a way that home always matters?
There’s a reason why M.I Abaga can never be acknowledged as the best English rapper alive, even though he raps better than most people in the world, and can hold his own against anyone. And it’s for a simple reason. He’s African. Hip-Hop and Rap, as a genre, belong to the West.
They can’t gatekeep the sound, but they can gatekeep the authenticity of its products. You can rap all you want as a young kid in Lagos, but the best rappers in the world will always be seen as coming from over there. I hope my people take note of this.
We’re at a dicey point. We are in trouble. There is fire on the mountain. I’m on the run, and as I run I wonder why nobody else is running.
There is trouble in the land. This is the part where you visualize 1823, when the village is burning. The chiefs are silent, the elders are confused, and the king is missing. The children are running wild. The town crier arrives at the centre of the village, beating his gong and shouting a single statement: “Ara adugbo, help oh. We have taken Afrobeats to the world, and now they are taking it from us.”
Olukorede ‘Omolawyer’ Owoeye is a writer and A&R. Get in touch with him @Omolawyer