The continued resonance of locality in Afro-Pop means that while the genre has grown to become a behemoth of global pop culture, the strongest moments are those rooted in the soil of home.
By Abioye Damilare Samson
Music is geography. It is an archive of places we’ve been or imagined ourselves in and a sonic mirror of culture, space, and identity. This ability to translate the soul of a place into music has remained the hallmark of Afro-Pop’s evolution over the years.
Beyond its iconic drums, hypnotic rhythms, and festival-ready beats, Afro-Pop’s global ascent owes as much to its grooves as to the narratives shaped by the places these artistes call home.
In the early 2000s, Mad Melon and Mountain Black—the enigmatic duo behind Danfo Drivers—brought Ajegunle to life through their music, vividly painting a picture of a place many had never been. At the time, access to gadgets and endless internet scrolls to uncover their backstory was a luxury few could afford.
But their music did the job. Even till now, I have never actually set foot in Ajegunle, but their voices carried the grit of the streets, their rhythms mirrored the bustle of danfo buses, and their lyrics painted a portrait of a ghetto so detailed that Ajegunle felt like a place I’d visited, walked its streets, and shared in its struggles and joys.
Through their spirited delivery and raw narratives, they transported listeners to the very core of their reality, giving texture to the experiences of a cityscape teeming with life yet marked by grit.
For many people who don’t know much about the locale, Ajegunle is a suburb slum in Lagos State—once the pop culture Mecca of Nigeria in the 2000s—and also served as an incubator for creative music talents like Daddy Showkey, Baba Fryo, African China, and others, who popularised Galala music—a pseudo-Reggae-Dancehall sound characterised by electrifying dance routines.
This relationship between sound and place is not unique to Afro-Pop. It also mirrors the trajectory of Reggae, the genre that similarly transformed its local narratives into global anthems.
When Bob Marley sings, “Said, I remember when we used to sit / In the government yard in Trenchtown, yeah / And then Georgie would make the fire lights, I say / A log wood burnin’ through the night, yeah / Then we would cook cornmeal porridge” on his enduring 1974 Reggae classic “No Woman, No Cry”, the lyrics transport listeners to Trenchtown, a town located in the western section of Downtown Kingston whose realities of poverty and resilience birthed Reggae’s unmistakable sound.
And just as Marley immortalised Trenchtown in Reggae music, Afro-Pop artistes have done the same for neighbourhoods.
Those who have been tracking Wizkid’s journey since the release of his 2011 debut album, Superstar, over a decade ago would recognise the undeniable significance of Ojuelegba to the icon.
And what’s truly remarkable is that the song that would go on to introduce Afrobeats to the global pop consciousness in this decade is, at its core, an ode to the very city that shaped him. Wizkid might have had it in mind to only pay homage to the city that bred him when he sang “Ojuelegba” in 2014, but who could have predicted that people outside Nigeria would connect so deeply to the groove that it would feel like they’d grown up there?
Reflecting on the track’s success, he once said in an interview, “I knew it was a good song, but I didn’t expect it to blow up the way that it did”. Yet somehow, the soul of the song—its hustle, grit, and unyielding energy—found resonance far beyond the streets of Lagos.
Some may point to Drake and Skepta’s eventual co-sign on the remix as the turning point that solidified the track’s global reach, but the magic of the original lies in its authenticity. Wizkid’s emotive and calm delivery paired with Legendury Beatz’s minimalist yet entrancing production captured the essence of a neighborhood where dreams are forged and tested.
For those who’ve never walked its bustling roads, Ojuelegba is a suburb in Surulere local government area of Lagos State which offers a window into the heart of Lagos. For those who know it well, it feels like a shared diary entry, chronicling both the grind and the dreams that keep its residents moving forward.
Much like Wizkid, Burna Boy stands as one of the genre’s biggest stars, whose music is a constant reflection of his roots. In the dancehall-inspired track “PH City” from his 2018 album, Outside, the line, “I grew up in a place called PH City / And if you see me / Me dawgs dem with me”, effortlessly cements his cohesive bond with his hometown and the people who’ve been by his side through it all.
There’s something uniquely profound about an artiste who, despite reaching the pinnacle of superstardom, still clings fiercely to his origins, even after winning a Grammy for ‘Best Global Music Album’ with his 2020 album, Twice As Tall, and packing out arenas across continents.
Take, for instance, when “Whiskey” off his 2022 album, Love Damini, opens with the anguished voice of a woman lamenting Port Harcourt’s unlivable air, you can almost smell the soot. “Port Harcourt resident, they are not breathing fresh air/ My people make una dey see am/ Say Port Harcourt resident they no dey breathing fresh air”.
It’s a prelude as sharp as the environmental crisis it describes. Over haunting horns and mournful percussion, Burna paints a stark portrait of his hometown—a city where oil exploration has blackened skies.
The accompanying video, more documentary than music promo, weaves testimonies from Port Harcourt residents with shots of the devastation. Even the visuals for his recent Grammy-nominated track, “Higher”, offer a raw, emotional return to Port Harcourt, capturing intimate moments from Burna Boy’s visit to his childhood home and the local villages where he engages in hands-on community activities.
Through these moments, Burna Boy reinforces his identity as an artiste who, despite scaling global heights, remains anchored in the story of his hometown and the people who raised him.
In a similar vein, Olamide—widely regarded as the King of Street-Hop—has also etched a legacy through his raw, unflinching storytelling about his own neighborhood, Bariga. Bariga, as Olamide depicts it, is a melting pot of struggle and triumph, where the dreams of many are shaped by the grind of everyday life.
When Olamide wrote a sonic letter to motivate his son in 2016 on “Letter to Milli” from The Glory album, he said: “And sometimes I don’t even think about the fact/ That my daddy is a driver and my hood is Ladilak/ I just grind like I’m crazy like a maniac/ To make my daddy proud and get all the things my lady lacks”.
This verse embodies the essence of Ladilak, Bariga—living through the tension of hardship while keeping an eye on the future. It speaks to the struggle of balancing survival with ambition, the reality of Ladilak’s tough streets, and the burning desire to escape and rise above it.
Anyone who has listened to Olamide beyond his pop anthems knows that his music has never loses sight of its roots, and if anything, this commitment to locality—to telling the unvarnished stories of where he’s from—has not only endeared him to listeners across Nigeria but has also cemented his position as a chronicler of his generation.
2023 was a year defined by cultural moments that started conversations, but few could rival the spectacle of Rema’s sold-out show at the O2 Arena. It was the kind of performance that felt like a proof of how far Afrobeats had come and a reminder of its infinite potential. However, for all the cultural significance that the iconic performance represented, the show was not without its fair share of controversy.
His grand stage display was packed with potent symbolism that left some viewers questioning his motives. Netizens quickly labelled his performance as ‘satanic’ or tied it to Illuminati conspiracies, largely due to the striking visual elements he introduced.
Drenched in theatrics, Rema’s choice of stagecraft stirred debates about the deeper meaning behind the imagery he used, especially the red mask he wore. The intricate mask, a clear reference to the iconic Benin mask of Queen Idia, which symbolises resilience and strength, was misinterpreted by some as a call for darker forces.
Throughout his performance, Rema used his stage to weave a complex narrative that honoured his heritage. The choice to ride an artificial bat, an unusual visual for many, was also steeped in meaning. In Benin, bats fill the skies at dusk, symbolising the city’s natural life force.
For Rema, the bat was a representation of his connection to his home—both a literal and metaphorical guide through the night. Even when the performance was criticised, it was clear that Rema wasn’t simply using his heritage as a spectacle.
These cultural references were a reminder that no matter how far his fame took him, the pulse of Benin would never leave him. Despite global success, Rema has never strayed from the culture that shaped him, ensuring that his music remains tethered to the place that made him.
That unshakeable connection to Benin City found its most poignant expression in his ‘Homecoming Concert’ at the Samuel Ogbemudia Stadium this year.
The continued resonance of locality in Afro-Pop means that while the genre has grown to become a behemoth of global pop culture, the strongest moments are those rooted in the soil of home—stories, struggles, and celebrations distilled into timeless melodies.
And as new stars emerge, they will continue to tap into the narratives of the places that made them; just as Small Doctor brings the gritty life of Agege into sharp focus, Seyi Vibez captures the raw essence of Ikorodu, Ayo Maff’s Street Pop music speaks to the lives pressed at the edges of Bariga, while Wizard Chan and Omah Lay’s introspective sounds channel the resilient spirit of Marine Base in Port Harcourt.
Abioye Damilare is a music journalist and culture writer focused on the African entertainment Industry. Reading new publications and listening to music are two of his favourite pastimes when he is not writing. Connect with him on Twitter and IG: @Dreyschronicle