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ru. did not plan to make music. In 2024, the young songbird, born Ru Robert, recorded I Think I Love You in Abuja, an intimate song drawn from a real experience, and shared it without a strategy or a rollout.
The song found people anyway. A remake featuring Magixx followed, and between the two versions, the tracks crossed one million combined streams. She credits Abuja’s slower, more reflective pace for the sound she makes, which is smooth, soft and unhurried, a deliberate contrast to the energy of Lagos.
Her latest debut EP, SILK, takes its name from the qualities she sees in the material: fragile yet strong, soft yet resilient. The five-track project moves through five different emotional spaces. In this chat with Deeds, we talked about her accidental start in music, what it took to be vulnerable on record, and why softness and strength can exist together.
Sophia From Deeds: For anyone reading this and discovering you for the first time, how would you introduce yourself and your music?
First of all, I'm just a girl, but I'm a girl who deeply loves my craft, who is learning, who is discovering herself and just doing that in front of everybody. I like to tell people that listening to my music or experiencing my songwriting is almost like taking a page out of my diary. I take authenticity very seriously. I like to make every single time I write from a genuine experience. Sometimes not that I have had directly, but, you know, we live vicariously through other people, through stories we've seen, through the things that inspire us. But for every time I write or I make music, it's always about a feeling I'm feeling, truly. So honesty, authenticity, love, fun, life, faith. You know, basically everything that makes me is everything that's in my music. It's very intimate, I would say.
You're from Abuja - not Lagos, which is where most of the Nigerian music conversation happens. How has that shaped who you are as an artist?
I would say that compared to Lagos, Abuja is. It's much slower. It's chill. Not slow to the point where nothing is happening, but almost like it's right in the middle. It's a very steady pace that you can count on, right? As opposed to the hustle and bustle and quick movements in Lagos. Abuja is the kind of town that allows you to breathe, you know, really take things in, smell the roses, you know, romanticize your life. I feel like because of that pace, I'm able to apply the same, what should I say? Technique when I'm making music. It's almost like you can breathe when you're listening to me. It's not the most fast paced and I believe that I still will be able to do that in the future. Maybe I will be. But I would say those are the elements from Abuja that have entered my music unconsciously. That intentionality, breath, you know, just smooth, still, chill vibes.
In Lagos, they don't have a chill. In fact, when I greet people in Lagos, they don't even answer me. I'm like, what do people mean? Is it that bad? Everybody's angry. Nobody has your time. There's no time to spare a smile. There's no time to romanticize anything. A walk to work or a drive to work is literally that. There's no, oh God can interrupt me or something beautiful can happen along the way.
You said your entry into music was almost accidental - 'i think i love you' started from a real-life experience. What made you decide to share something that personal publicly?
It is. I like to be honest about the fact that it wasn't a dream I had growing up or anything. It was literally a hobby I stumbled into in 2024 and I decided to give it a chance. I've always been the type of person that, you know, goes with the wind. And if something sparks my interest, I'm going to give it my attention because I do believe that I'm being led a lot of times. And so I just, I leaned into that and that's how I got here.
Like I said, I feel like I do my best work when I'm telling the truth. Right. So because music started out, or writing specifically started out as an outlet, as a way to express myself, that has always been the case. So when I'm expressing myself and I'm able to put it into melodies, you know, give it a nice beat or something, it hasn't changed the fact that I was doing just that, expressing myself. It's honest in that sense. It's why I would tell you're literally taking a page out of my diary, because I've literally put my heart out on the page. I've given everything to you, everything that happened or didn't happen.
Sometimes it's not necessarily that it happened to me specifically, but maybe it happened to someone in my life and I was there and I documented it and how I felt indirectly or how I feel like the person who was the main character felt. It's a lot of storytelling, sometimes it's not directly me, but, yeah, I'm always honest about those things. Well, as much as I can be given the circumstances. Yeah, I think I love you was definitely a personal experience I shared.
SILK is described as a tribute to women navigating different stages of life and relationships. When you were making it, who specifically were you thinking about - yourself, women around you, or something broader?
Yes. Navigating, growing through those things. Mostly it's about becoming. It was me because I was writing and sharing some of the questions I've been asking in this era of my life, you know, who is a woman? From I think I love you to now. The past few years for me have been a time of self discovery. You know, what is my purpose? How am I supposed to act? Who am I really? What's the purpose of a woman? Am I an afterthought? What am I doing here, really? You know, these are the questions I'm asking. How do I deal with love? How do I interact with someone who loves me? How am I supposed to be with my friends? These are the questions that have boggled my mind.
Because then when you're growing into a young woman, you're kind of trying to build identity. Especially in an industry like this, where it's like who you are is so important because everything you do flows from there. So that has basically been the philosophy of this era, these questions. And that's where the music came from. The questions themselves and the answers. I feel like I'm getting so far.
The EP blends Afropop, soul and alternative R&B without committing fully to any one of them. Is that a conscious creative decision or just how the music comes out?
It's literally just how the music comes out. I go with the wind, like I told you. So sometimes you hear an instrumental, you hear a sound, and it kind of tells you where it wants to go, what it wants to achieve. And I like to think of myself as a collaborator or a partner with the sound. None of us are trying to outdo each other. Everybody is trying to shine. We just follow each other's leads in our respective strengths, basically. So I like to complement the music as it complements my writing as well and my voice. So I basically just go with where I feel like it's leading me. It's never a conscious decision.
Most times when I start, like, I don't even know what I'm writing about. A lot of times I go to the studio feeling like, oh, I'm sad. I'm in love today, and I want to write about this. Most times when I hear beats, it reminds me of a story. It takes me somewhere. Some of these instrumentals are so immersive and is why I love the producers I work with. They literally build walls with the sound that are able to draw you in and paint pictures so vivid you can write about them and people can literally experience them with you know?
'Woman' debuted at number 25 on Nigerian radio and was produced by Mr Eff and mixed by Johnny Drille. How did that collaboration come together?
Mr. F actually came to Abuja. We had a mini camp when I was just starting our music. It was my first recording session ever, and he came here. We made a couple of songs. It was beautiful. Johnny Drille, there's many things to say about him. After my helper in Jesus, then we have him. He's one of those people who is so genuine about music itself. There's just a lot to say. I pitched to him. He loved the music and we made it happen. Beyond that, he's given me so many opportunities, you know, I've performed at two JRLs, I think, and he's just someone who has been so supportive, you know, supportive. You know, just encouraging me and telling me how good I am and how there's space for me, and I'm so grateful for him. I know you didn't ask me that, but. Yes, that's just who he is. How did it happen? A friend knew a friend, I guess. I honestly can't tell you because I'm not sure how I did it myself.
SILK as a title is specific. What does it mean to you in the context of the project?
To be honest, I chose that because I thought it was the perfect paradox. I told you I'm discovering myself. I've realized a lot of times that from people's perspective, you know, if you look soft, you know, as a baby, you know, you're maybe you're sensitive, you're soft spoken, they don't expect much from you in terms of strength or how you show up. But Silk shows you that you can be both at the same time. It's soft to the touch. It's very shiny, sparkly. So you would think, oh, fragile. But spider silk actually rivals still in strength. It's literally that strong. So you can be soft, sparkly without, you know, sacrificing strength. And you can be strong without sacrificing, you know, your softness.
It's almost like you can exist in these two worlds at the same time and still make the most of both, because they are still you. You are still you when you're soft. You're still you when you're strong, you know, and who you are is beautiful, period. I shouldn't have to hide the fact that I like pink or want fluffy stuff or glittery stuff, because I'm trying to show you that I'm strong or I'm mature, you know, I don't subscribe to those things. Silk was basically the perfect name because that is the story I'm telling with the music.
I am who I am. I'm loving fearlessly, I'm discovering the facets of myself. I'm a creative, strong woman, Silk basically encompasses everything I'm trying to say. It's why it was the perfect title.
Where does the music go from here? What does the version of ru. after SILK sounds like?
Honestly, ru. right now I am just very grateful. ru. is accepting who she is. Sometimes you take these steps even while you're scared. It's not that I wasn't scared to show my soft side or be vulnerable. I was, but I did it scared anyway. I'm very proud of myself because a step in the right direction, like, I'm getting even stronger. I'm growing so much more. I'm so excited for everything that's to come. The music I've been making, it's almost like I've turned this page and, you know, it just keeps going because there's just so much more. This is a chapter and I also can't wait to see how it unfolds in the future.
Cover Credit: bluenotnice
Dave's A The Boy Who Played the Harp tour began on February 2, this year, in Munich, Germany, and will end on October 17 at the Wole Soyinka Centre for Culture and Creative Arts in Surulere, Lagos, sparking widespread excitement among his Nigerian fanbase.
Across 43 shows in Europe, North America, Australia and Africa, Dave has taken the tour through some of the biggest markets in his career before bringing it to Lagos -- the city his parents are connected to -- for its final stop. The venue itself carries its own significance, named after Nigeria’s Nobel laureate Wole Soyinka.
Nigerian music has spent the last decade travelling outward, with Burna Boy, Wizkid, Tems and Davido among the artists who have taken music from Lagos to audiences around the world. At the same time, another part of that cultural exchange has been happening in the opposite direction.
So many young artistes grew up in Nigerian homes on British streets, carrying both influences into their music without necessarily having to separate the two. Dave, real name David Orobosa Omoregie, is part of that generation.
For this release, Dave seems to be quite proud of his Nigerian heritage. Wizkid appeared on We’re All Alone in This Together in 2021, not as a genre exercise but as part of a creative world that had already made room for that connection. Raindance, the only single from The Boy Who Played the Harp, features Tems and was filmed in Lagos. It became Dave’s first Billboard Hot 100 entry, with the video shot across Lagos streets in footage that could almost pass for a wedding before it reveals itself as a music video. Dave did not have to go looking for Nigeria. It was already present in the work, in his life and artistry.
The Boy Who Played the Harp is his third album and his most ambitious project yet. Its title references the biblical tale in 1 Samuel 16, when King Saul summons David, the young shepherd, to play the harp and soothe him when an evil spirit troubles him. Dave draws a deliberate connection between his biblical namesake and his own life, most clearly on the closing track: “My ancestors, my ancestors told me that my life is a prophecy. And it's not just me, it's a whole generation of people gradually making change.”
The album opens with a church organ and ends with a verse about generational inheritance. In between, Dave writes about religion, guilt, masculinity, sexual assault, fame and what a man owes to the generation that comes after him. Marvellous confronts his own shortcomings, while Fairchild, featuring Nicole Blakk, recounts experiences of sexual assault and abuse rooted in male ignorance and places Dave within that wider conversation about male responsibility. My 27th Birthday asks what he has done to deserve what he has been given. Across the album, the questions are personal, but they keep returning to the people and histories that came before him and the generation that will follow.
Chapter 16 features Kano, bringing together two generations of British rap. Kano brings a connection to an earlier generation of British rap, while Tems on Raindance brings together two artists from the same diaspora whose music developed in very different places. James Blake and Jim Legxacy are woven into the album from the production itself, while Fraser T. Smith, who produced Psychodrama, returns here. The choices feel considered because the album itself asks to be listened to as a complete work, at a time when much of the music industry is built around singles, playlists and the constant demand for something new. The Boy Who Played the Harp debuted at number one in the UK with 73,799 album-equivalent units in its first week, giving Dave his third consecutive number one album.
The venue for October 16 and 17 adds another layer to the Lagos shows. Dave will close a 43-date world tour in a venue carrying the name of one of Nigeria’s most important literary figures, bringing the run back to the country his family comes from. There is a natural connection between the setting and the questions that run through The Boy Who Played the Harp, an album concerned with inheritance, faith, identity and what one generation leaves for another, even if Dave has not presented the venue choice as a direct extension of those themes.
Lagos sent something to London decades ago: families, culture and ways of living that continued to evolve within the diaspora. For artists like Dave, that Nigerian identity exists alongside the British environment that shaped them, rather than separately from it. His Lagos shows bring those two parts of his story into the same place.
[NB: Tickets for October 16 and 17 are available through Jetron Ticket, ranging from ₦30,000 to ₦500,000. The rear balcony sold out in June, and the tour that began in Munich will conclude in Lagos on October 17.]
Credit: Santan Dave
The Brothers Breaking New Grounds With Electronic Music-fusion
It was a cloudy Saturday afternoon in Lagos, and I was on my way to FāëM’s studio in Ikeja. Luckily, it didn’t rain. When I got there, I was welcomed by Demii, one half of the fraternal producer duo FāëM. I met his twin sister Oreoluwa in their living space, which also doubles as the space they use for their live shows, before heading into the studio. Fapelo, their older brother and the other half of FāëM, joined us shortly after.
FāëM (pronounced “fame”) consists of two biological brothers, Fapelo and Demii, who people often assume are twins due to their striking resemblance. Their music odyssey began with Fapelo, who had grown uninterested in studying architecture. He started writing a fictional web series in University, without knowing where the hobby might take him. “I was just writing and sharing on WhatsApp, and it was blowing up. I was just writing the series on impulse, while being fully committed to school. I started sharing them, one person saw it and shared it with another, and then it became something bigger. It got big enough that a bunch of people who came to meet me one day, I still remember it, were like, ‘ Bro, you need to take this up. Forget architecture, forget any other thing.’
“Oh, at that time, I had already started DJing. But it was more of a side thing. A lot of people knew me for music. They didn't even know me for writing.”
FāëM found their feet treading towards the electronic dance music scene they now dominate back in 2015. One afternoon, they got back from school and started watching the popular music channel, Trace TV. That brief leisure time felt like a moment of escape as they got lost in the thrilling BPM-spiked soundscapes of global EDM heads like David Guetta, Avicii, and so on. Soon, what started as discovering new music eventually became something Fapelo wanted to share with the people around him.
“I started DJing because I wanted to share my music with people, not really because I wanted to start a career out of it. My siblings and friends started listening to electronic music. I won’t say it was as a result of us, but more like because it was good music. Then I started hosting events, and my brother joined because we lived together in the same hostel and shared the same music taste. So that’s how it started,” he said.
Disc jockeying became a career for Fapelo, in 2017, and, for Demii, the following year. Despite House Music -- and EDM, in general -- being a minority scene in Nigeria, the brothers kept playing their special gigs, finding more people who believed in their community in no time. At the same time, they had a constraint. People attending their shows were fast getting weaned off the EDM sound; it just wasn’t sticking.
Their rescue? Afro fusion. They spun around Afrobeats songs, remixing them with EDM production.
Sitting inside their cozy, artsy, home studio, they played one of their special remixes, Agogo. I know EDM is already electronic, but nothing best describes that sound piece than electric. It felt the same way to their audience too. It felt even better to them, when they both realized that they had landed a blueprint for a fusion that actually works the crowd.
“The first time playing Agogo at Group Therapy felt electric because that was the first time we saw our listeners understand what we were doing. A feeling we couldn’t forget. We obviously felt it from the crowd. We are forever grateful for that.”
Their magnum opus, so far, is their debut album, WAWDH - What Are We Doing Here, released in February this year. The 16-tracker album is inspired by everyday human emotions, with a special focus on individualism.
Demi describes the period that inspired the album as an epiphany. “Late 2024, going into 2025, we had this crazy epiphany that we were kind of lost and doing the wrong things. So we had to cut down a lot of our habits and a lot of the things we were doing. We had to retract, basically.
“And it came with us, taking some time off. We realized we had to close ourselves off for a bit and try to find some reason in that solitude. And through that solitude, the same question kept recurring: what are we doing here? What are we actually doing here?”
The album packs guest appearances from Tsuni, Lunamic and GhostwriterMel, as the soundpiece places greater emphasis on soulful, uplifting and introspective tonal planes. “I would want you to listen to the project and maybe something would catch you off guard,” Fapelo quips. “It’s not necessarily what you would expect from an Afroelectronic producer. Out of all the music we made for the project, there are maybe four songs that you can properly play in a rave.
“The songs are more introspective. I would say they’re more for listening in the morning, listening in traffic. It’s just more like you, you know, yourself. It’s like a self-theme, because you’re asking, ‘What are we doing here?’ But really, it’s ‘What am I doing here?’ because it was a personal experience.”
Interestingly, Fapelo and Oreoluwa who's more of a third member of the group as vocalists on 'WAWDH?!' while their manager appears in the intro.
“My sister and myself are on a lot of the songs. A bunch of our friends actually helped us. We also met some of them in the course of making the project. So a lot of the music, even the album itself, is happening right now. The main music videos, the album itself, the live show. Everything is happening right now.”
For the duo, one thing this record taught them is the importance of letting go and not fixating on things beyond their control, they admit.
For them, they are vocal about making music that they, or anyone, could listen to at any age. Quality is something they care deeply about, and this was demonstrated in their recent project with K1 De Ultimate. Most of the songs on that project had been completed two years before its release, while a few were finished earlier this year.
Cover Credit: Stylish Sinner
ru. did not plan to make music. In 2024, the young songbird, born Ru Robert, recorded I Think I Love You in Abuja, an intimate song drawn from a real experience, and shared it without a strategy or a rollout.
The song found people anyway. A remake featuring Magixx followed, and between the two versions, the tracks crossed one million combined streams. She credits Abuja’s slower, more reflective pace for the sound she makes, which is smooth, soft and unhurried, a deliberate contrast to the energy of Lagos.
Her latest debut EP, SILK, takes its name from the qualities she sees in the material: fragile yet strong, soft yet resilient. The five-track project moves through five different emotional spaces. In this chat with Deeds, we talked about her accidental start in music, what it took to be vulnerable on record, and why softness and strength can exist together.
Sophia From Deeds: For anyone reading this and discovering you for the first time, how would you introduce yourself and your music?
First of all, I'm just a girl, but I'm a girl who deeply loves my craft, who is learning, who is discovering herself and just doing that in front of everybody. I like to tell people that listening to my music or experiencing my songwriting is almost like taking a page out of my diary. I take authenticity very seriously. I like to make every single time I write from a genuine experience. Sometimes not that I have had directly, but, you know, we live vicariously through other people, through stories we've seen, through the things that inspire us. But for every time I write or I make music, it's always about a feeling I'm feeling, truly. So honesty, authenticity, love, fun, life, faith. You know, basically everything that makes me is everything that's in my music. It's very intimate, I would say.
You're from Abuja - not Lagos, which is where most of the Nigerian music conversation happens. How has that shaped who you are as an artist?
I would say that compared to Lagos, Abuja is. It's much slower. It's chill. Not slow to the point where nothing is happening, but almost like it's right in the middle. It's a very steady pace that you can count on, right? As opposed to the hustle and bustle and quick movements in Lagos. Abuja is the kind of town that allows you to breathe, you know, really take things in, smell the roses, you know, romanticize your life. I feel like because of that pace, I'm able to apply the same, what should I say? Technique when I'm making music. It's almost like you can breathe when you're listening to me. It's not the most fast paced and I believe that I still will be able to do that in the future. Maybe I will be. But I would say those are the elements from Abuja that have entered my music unconsciously. That intentionality, breath, you know, just smooth, still, chill vibes.
In Lagos, they don't have a chill. In fact, when I greet people in Lagos, they don't even answer me. I'm like, what do people mean? Is it that bad? Everybody's angry. Nobody has your time. There's no time to spare a smile. There's no time to romanticize anything. A walk to work or a drive to work is literally that. There's no, oh God can interrupt me or something beautiful can happen along the way.
You said your entry into music was almost accidental - 'i think i love you' started from a real-life experience. What made you decide to share something that personal publicly?
It is. I like to be honest about the fact that it wasn't a dream I had growing up or anything. It was literally a hobby I stumbled into in 2024 and I decided to give it a chance. I've always been the type of person that, you know, goes with the wind. And if something sparks my interest, I'm going to give it my attention because I do believe that I'm being led a lot of times. And so I just, I leaned into that and that's how I got here.
Like I said, I feel like I do my best work when I'm telling the truth. Right. So because music started out, or writing specifically started out as an outlet, as a way to express myself, that has always been the case. So when I'm expressing myself and I'm able to put it into melodies, you know, give it a nice beat or something, it hasn't changed the fact that I was doing just that, expressing myself. It's honest in that sense. It's why I would tell you're literally taking a page out of my diary, because I've literally put my heart out on the page. I've given everything to you, everything that happened or didn't happen.
Sometimes it's not necessarily that it happened to me specifically, but maybe it happened to someone in my life and I was there and I documented it and how I felt indirectly or how I feel like the person who was the main character felt. It's a lot of storytelling, sometimes it's not directly me, but, yeah, I'm always honest about those things. Well, as much as I can be given the circumstances. Yeah, I think I love you was definitely a personal experience I shared.
SILK is described as a tribute to women navigating different stages of life and relationships. When you were making it, who specifically were you thinking about - yourself, women around you, or something broader?
Yes. Navigating, growing through those things. Mostly it's about becoming. It was me because I was writing and sharing some of the questions I've been asking in this era of my life, you know, who is a woman? From I think I love you to now. The past few years for me have been a time of self discovery. You know, what is my purpose? How am I supposed to act? Who am I really? What's the purpose of a woman? Am I an afterthought? What am I doing here, really? You know, these are the questions I'm asking. How do I deal with love? How do I interact with someone who loves me? How am I supposed to be with my friends? These are the questions that have boggled my mind.
Because then when you're growing into a young woman, you're kind of trying to build identity. Especially in an industry like this, where it's like who you are is so important because everything you do flows from there. So that has basically been the philosophy of this era, these questions. And that's where the music came from. The questions themselves and the answers. I feel like I'm getting so far.
The EP blends Afropop, soul and alternative R&B without committing fully to any one of them. Is that a conscious creative decision or just how the music comes out?
It's literally just how the music comes out. I go with the wind, like I told you. So sometimes you hear an instrumental, you hear a sound, and it kind of tells you where it wants to go, what it wants to achieve. And I like to think of myself as a collaborator or a partner with the sound. None of us are trying to outdo each other. Everybody is trying to shine. We just follow each other's leads in our respective strengths, basically. So I like to complement the music as it complements my writing as well and my voice. So I basically just go with where I feel like it's leading me. It's never a conscious decision.
Most times when I start, like, I don't even know what I'm writing about. A lot of times I go to the studio feeling like, oh, I'm sad. I'm in love today, and I want to write about this. Most times when I hear beats, it reminds me of a story. It takes me somewhere. Some of these instrumentals are so immersive and is why I love the producers I work with. They literally build walls with the sound that are able to draw you in and paint pictures so vivid you can write about them and people can literally experience them with you know?
'Woman' debuted at number 25 on Nigerian radio and was produced by Mr Eff and mixed by Johnny Drille. How did that collaboration come together?
Mr. F actually came to Abuja. We had a mini camp when I was just starting our music. It was my first recording session ever, and he came here. We made a couple of songs. It was beautiful. Johnny Drille, there's many things to say about him. After my helper in Jesus, then we have him. He's one of those people who is so genuine about music itself. There's just a lot to say. I pitched to him. He loved the music and we made it happen. Beyond that, he's given me so many opportunities, you know, I've performed at two JRLs, I think, and he's just someone who has been so supportive, you know, supportive. You know, just encouraging me and telling me how good I am and how there's space for me, and I'm so grateful for him. I know you didn't ask me that, but. Yes, that's just who he is. How did it happen? A friend knew a friend, I guess. I honestly can't tell you because I'm not sure how I did it myself.
SILK as a title is specific. What does it mean to you in the context of the project?
To be honest, I chose that because I thought it was the perfect paradox. I told you I'm discovering myself. I've realized a lot of times that from people's perspective, you know, if you look soft, you know, as a baby, you know, you're maybe you're sensitive, you're soft spoken, they don't expect much from you in terms of strength or how you show up. But Silk shows you that you can be both at the same time. It's soft to the touch. It's very shiny, sparkly. So you would think, oh, fragile. But spider silk actually rivals still in strength. It's literally that strong. So you can be soft, sparkly without, you know, sacrificing strength. And you can be strong without sacrificing, you know, your softness.
It's almost like you can exist in these two worlds at the same time and still make the most of both, because they are still you. You are still you when you're soft. You're still you when you're strong, you know, and who you are is beautiful, period. I shouldn't have to hide the fact that I like pink or want fluffy stuff or glittery stuff, because I'm trying to show you that I'm strong or I'm mature, you know, I don't subscribe to those things. Silk was basically the perfect name because that is the story I'm telling with the music.
I am who I am. I'm loving fearlessly, I'm discovering the facets of myself. I'm a creative, strong woman, Silk basically encompasses everything I'm trying to say. It's why it was the perfect title.
Where does the music go from here? What does the version of ru. after SILK sounds like?
Honestly, ru. right now I am just very grateful. ru. is accepting who she is. Sometimes you take these steps even while you're scared. It's not that I wasn't scared to show my soft side or be vulnerable. I was, but I did it scared anyway. I'm very proud of myself because a step in the right direction, like, I'm getting even stronger. I'm growing so much more. I'm so excited for everything that's to come. The music I've been making, it's almost like I've turned this page and, you know, it just keeps going because there's just so much more. This is a chapter and I also can't wait to see how it unfolds in the future.
Cover Credit: bluenotnice
Dave's A The Boy Who Played the Harp tour began on February 2, this year, in Munich, Germany, and will end on October 17 at the Wole Soyinka Centre for Culture and Creative Arts in Surulere, Lagos, sparking widespread excitement among his Nigerian fanbase.
Across 43 shows in Europe, North America, Australia and Africa, Dave has taken the tour through some of the biggest markets in his career before bringing it to Lagos -- the city his parents are connected to -- for its final stop. The venue itself carries its own significance, named after Nigeria’s Nobel laureate Wole Soyinka.
Nigerian music has spent the last decade travelling outward, with Burna Boy, Wizkid, Tems and Davido among the artists who have taken music from Lagos to audiences around the world. At the same time, another part of that cultural exchange has been happening in the opposite direction.
So many young artistes grew up in Nigerian homes on British streets, carrying both influences into their music without necessarily having to separate the two. Dave, real name David Orobosa Omoregie, is part of that generation.
For this release, Dave seems to be quite proud of his Nigerian heritage. Wizkid appeared on We’re All Alone in This Together in 2021, not as a genre exercise but as part of a creative world that had already made room for that connection. Raindance, the only single from The Boy Who Played the Harp, features Tems and was filmed in Lagos. It became Dave’s first Billboard Hot 100 entry, with the video shot across Lagos streets in footage that could almost pass for a wedding before it reveals itself as a music video. Dave did not have to go looking for Nigeria. It was already present in the work, in his life and artistry.
The Boy Who Played the Harp is his third album and his most ambitious project yet. Its title references the biblical tale in 1 Samuel 16, when King Saul summons David, the young shepherd, to play the harp and soothe him when an evil spirit troubles him. Dave draws a deliberate connection between his biblical namesake and his own life, most clearly on the closing track: “My ancestors, my ancestors told me that my life is a prophecy. And it's not just me, it's a whole generation of people gradually making change.”
The album opens with a church organ and ends with a verse about generational inheritance. In between, Dave writes about religion, guilt, masculinity, sexual assault, fame and what a man owes to the generation that comes after him. Marvellous confronts his own shortcomings, while Fairchild, featuring Nicole Blakk, recounts experiences of sexual assault and abuse rooted in male ignorance and places Dave within that wider conversation about male responsibility. My 27th Birthday asks what he has done to deserve what he has been given. Across the album, the questions are personal, but they keep returning to the people and histories that came before him and the generation that will follow.
Chapter 16 features Kano, bringing together two generations of British rap. Kano brings a connection to an earlier generation of British rap, while Tems on Raindance brings together two artists from the same diaspora whose music developed in very different places. James Blake and Jim Legxacy are woven into the album from the production itself, while Fraser T. Smith, who produced Psychodrama, returns here. The choices feel considered because the album itself asks to be listened to as a complete work, at a time when much of the music industry is built around singles, playlists and the constant demand for something new. The Boy Who Played the Harp debuted at number one in the UK with 73,799 album-equivalent units in its first week, giving Dave his third consecutive number one album.
The venue for October 16 and 17 adds another layer to the Lagos shows. Dave will close a 43-date world tour in a venue carrying the name of one of Nigeria’s most important literary figures, bringing the run back to the country his family comes from. There is a natural connection between the setting and the questions that run through The Boy Who Played the Harp, an album concerned with inheritance, faith, identity and what one generation leaves for another, even if Dave has not presented the venue choice as a direct extension of those themes.
Lagos sent something to London decades ago: families, culture and ways of living that continued to evolve within the diaspora. For artists like Dave, that Nigerian identity exists alongside the British environment that shaped them, rather than separately from it. His Lagos shows bring those two parts of his story into the same place.
[NB: Tickets for October 16 and 17 are available through Jetron Ticket, ranging from ₦30,000 to ₦500,000. The rear balcony sold out in June, and the tour that began in Munich will conclude in Lagos on October 17.]
Credit: Santan Dave
The Brothers Breaking New Grounds With Electronic Music-fusion
It was a cloudy Saturday afternoon in Lagos, and I was on my way to FāëM’s studio in Ikeja. Luckily, it didn’t rain. When I got there, I was welcomed by Demii, one half of the fraternal producer duo FāëM. I met his twin sister Oreoluwa in their living space, which also doubles as the space they use for their live shows, before heading into the studio. Fapelo, their older brother and the other half of FāëM, joined us shortly after.
FāëM (pronounced “fame”) consists of two biological brothers, Fapelo and Demii, who people often assume are twins due to their striking resemblance. Their music odyssey began with Fapelo, who had grown uninterested in studying architecture. He started writing a fictional web series in University, without knowing where the hobby might take him. “I was just writing and sharing on WhatsApp, and it was blowing up. I was just writing the series on impulse, while being fully committed to school. I started sharing them, one person saw it and shared it with another, and then it became something bigger. It got big enough that a bunch of people who came to meet me one day, I still remember it, were like, ‘ Bro, you need to take this up. Forget architecture, forget any other thing.’
“Oh, at that time, I had already started DJing. But it was more of a side thing. A lot of people knew me for music. They didn't even know me for writing.”
FāëM found their feet treading towards the electronic dance music scene they now dominate back in 2015. One afternoon, they got back from school and started watching the popular music channel, Trace TV. That brief leisure time felt like a moment of escape as they got lost in the thrilling BPM-spiked soundscapes of global EDM heads like David Guetta, Avicii, and so on. Soon, what started as discovering new music eventually became something Fapelo wanted to share with the people around him.
“I started DJing because I wanted to share my music with people, not really because I wanted to start a career out of it. My siblings and friends started listening to electronic music. I won’t say it was as a result of us, but more like because it was good music. Then I started hosting events, and my brother joined because we lived together in the same hostel and shared the same music taste. So that’s how it started,” he said.
Disc jockeying became a career for Fapelo, in 2017, and, for Demii, the following year. Despite House Music -- and EDM, in general -- being a minority scene in Nigeria, the brothers kept playing their special gigs, finding more people who believed in their community in no time. At the same time, they had a constraint. People attending their shows were fast getting weaned off the EDM sound; it just wasn’t sticking.
Their rescue? Afro fusion. They spun around Afrobeats songs, remixing them with EDM production.
Sitting inside their cozy, artsy, home studio, they played one of their special remixes, Agogo. I know EDM is already electronic, but nothing best describes that sound piece than electric. It felt the same way to their audience too. It felt even better to them, when they both realized that they had landed a blueprint for a fusion that actually works the crowd.
“The first time playing Agogo at Group Therapy felt electric because that was the first time we saw our listeners understand what we were doing. A feeling we couldn’t forget. We obviously felt it from the crowd. We are forever grateful for that.”
Their magnum opus, so far, is their debut album, WAWDH - What Are We Doing Here, released in February this year. The 16-tracker album is inspired by everyday human emotions, with a special focus on individualism.
Demi describes the period that inspired the album as an epiphany. “Late 2024, going into 2025, we had this crazy epiphany that we were kind of lost and doing the wrong things. So we had to cut down a lot of our habits and a lot of the things we were doing. We had to retract, basically.
“And it came with us, taking some time off. We realized we had to close ourselves off for a bit and try to find some reason in that solitude. And through that solitude, the same question kept recurring: what are we doing here? What are we actually doing here?”
The album packs guest appearances from Tsuni, Lunamic and GhostwriterMel, as the soundpiece places greater emphasis on soulful, uplifting and introspective tonal planes. “I would want you to listen to the project and maybe something would catch you off guard,” Fapelo quips. “It’s not necessarily what you would expect from an Afroelectronic producer. Out of all the music we made for the project, there are maybe four songs that you can properly play in a rave.
“The songs are more introspective. I would say they’re more for listening in the morning, listening in traffic. It’s just more like you, you know, yourself. It’s like a self-theme, because you’re asking, ‘What are we doing here?’ But really, it’s ‘What am I doing here?’ because it was a personal experience.”
Interestingly, Fapelo and Oreoluwa who's more of a third member of the group as vocalists on 'WAWDH?!' while their manager appears in the intro.
“My sister and myself are on a lot of the songs. A bunch of our friends actually helped us. We also met some of them in the course of making the project. So a lot of the music, even the album itself, is happening right now. The main music videos, the album itself, the live show. Everything is happening right now.”
For the duo, one thing this record taught them is the importance of letting go and not fixating on things beyond their control, they admit.
For them, they are vocal about making music that they, or anyone, could listen to at any age. Quality is something they care deeply about, and this was demonstrated in their recent project with K1 De Ultimate. Most of the songs on that project had been completed two years before its release, while a few were finished earlier this year.
Cover Credit: Stylish Sinner
Jomi Marcus-Bello started Wafflesncream in Leeds, in 2008, alongside his brother and a shared obsession with skateboarding. He brought it back to Lagos, built a community on an island with no skate parks and roads that make skating a daily negotiation. He converted a former colonial prison into a skate park, and fourteen years later became the first African skate community to design the Adidas Superstar ADV.
The shoe - grey upper from Lagos Island's industrial landscape, translucent pink outsole from the sky near the sea, breathable panels for the actual humidity it will be skated in- is now in the hands of the global market.
Success, by his own definition, is paying salaries and keeping the lights on. Catching up with Deeds ahead of the global release, we spoke about building without investors, what the Adidas collaboration actually meant, and why Freedom Park is the most honest thing Wafflesandcream has brought to life.
Sophia for Deeds: For anyone reading this and discovering you and waf. For the first time, how would you introduce yourself and what wafflesncream is?
I think we are just storytellers trying to speak about Lagos, Nigeria, and Africa as a whole. I think we're just trying to create beautiful products and tell incredible stories, in and around the average skateboarder's life and their ambitions and their tastes. If anybody's engaging well for the first time, they'll see that we've been. We're literally from grass to grace. We've had no investors, but a few assists here and there. We made it with people. Nobody ever makes it on their own. It’s been an up-and-down story. I think it's a story of the African youth and their ambitions and his inner jokes, his exploration, through the eyes of the skateboarder.
You started waf. in Leeds in 2008, then brought it back to Lagos. What made you come back and build a skate scene in a city with no skate parks, no pavements, and roads that make skating feel like a daily negotiation?
I was exposed to it by my mom. I think it was when I discovered it properly and started to enjoy the lifestyle and the friends I made. It was something that I wanted to continue. I didn't want to have to move back to Nigeria and then have it stopped. I felt like I wasn't the only one that had this kind of mindset. I was just trying to look for my tribe. I met a few people and we started designing and enjoying the new kind of, like, way of thinking around products and lifestyle.
In over fifty years of the adidas Superstar, no African skate community has ever designed one. When Adidas came to waf., what was your first reaction, and what was the first design decision you made?
Honestly, our first reaction was gratitude, we were flattered but we'd also been down this road before. We had worked on international projects with brands like Coke and Guinness in the past, so we already had a sense of what it meant to represent something of that scale. Those experiences gave us the confidence to walk into this the right way, not overthinking it, not trying to overdo it or force something that wasn't authentic. We treated it like any other collaboration, because that's what got us here in the first place.
When it came to the silhouette, choosing the Superstar felt obvious. When you're working with a brand like adidas, there's something powerful about starting with the original, their classic. And it just so happened that around that time, adidas was already leaning back into the Superstar story, so it felt like the right moment.
But the real question for us was: how does Lagos actually show up in a shoe?
A lot of people expected us to go the obvious route, yellow, Ankara prints or loud colors. But we wanted to capture what Lagos feels like, not just what it looks like on the surface. Lagos is humid. Our biggest competition isn't another sneaker brand, it's slippers. Palm slippers. Because comfort here often means kicking off your shoes. Our streets, our environment, they're not always generous to your feet. So we had to design with that reality in mind.
The toe cap already gives you that shell-like protection, but we made sure to think through breathability too, that's why we used mesh on the sides and through the inner concave, so the foot can breathe. We added an elastic support inside to hold the foot securely, not just for skating, but for movement in general, running, catching a ball, whatever life in Lagos demands.
The gray represents Lagos Island, where the skate park is, and Surulere too. Those spaces gave us so much when we were coming up, letting us skate under the stadium staircase, generous with the room they gave us to exist and create. So the gray carries different patinas, almost like cracked leather, telling that story.
You opened Lagos’s first skatepark at Freedom Park in 2024, on the grounds of an old colonial prison. That detail is not accidental. What does it mean to build something for young Lagosians in that specific space?
I mean, it's crazy with Lagos Island. It's crazy because that's where we first used to congregate to skate. Freedom Park security guards were not really kind to us. They would seize our boards. They would do all sorts because they saw us as a nuisance. This was happening around 2015 or 2017. But the beautiful thing was that Covid hit, and we had formed a sort of relationship. They asked us if we could work on a skate park. We were like, yes, of course we can. The crazy thing is that we started doing a little bit of history on the grounds where the skate park is actually built.
Let me start with this. Where our skate shop is the warden's office, where you get sentenced to that prison or convicted to, and that is where you're going to serve. Our skate shop is actually where people were getting checked in then. The skate park is where they get stripped down. It was the metal workshop where people would smelt metal. So when we're digging and back then, the metals were very heavy, we're digging to, you know, we had to sand fill. I don't want to get into the technicalities of the construction, but we did find jail gates. We found metal parts. We also found different things that showed the history of the space, which was kind of crazy. And it's in the Freedom Park Museum at the moment. We found out that there was a protest at that place as well, where they were.
The prisoners were not being taken care of properly. They revolted on that very land. So that land has a rebellious spirit to it. They broke down the wall. Then they had to bring in bricks from London to rebuild it. And then also it's beautiful. It's like a concave. It feels like you're in a jungle. We made sure that we did not interfere too much with the trees and plantation; we just simply inserted the skate park in there. I know Awolowo served in that prison, so he must have gone through our shop at some point. I know other prisoners were political prisoners who were there too. It was a prison for 100 years.It's crazy because we are in the warden's office, and where they went to get disciplined is now a place of leisure and commerce.
waf. has always sat at the intersection of skateboarding, fashion, music, art, and community rather than being just a skate brand. Was that always the vision, or did it evolve?
I think it's one in itself. Skateboarding because it's a culture. It's not just an activity. Just like belonging to any other culture, it’s not just about the language. It’s the way you dress, what you eat, the respect you show, how you conduct yourself, the festivals, the tone, how you raise a child, and your overall POV on life.
I think every culture deserves that same diversity and complexity. You can be a skateboarder, but you can also be a photographer or be into fashion. It’s more of an attitude and a language than just a physical thing.
The campaign for the Superstar ADV was shot entirely on Lagos Island, featuring waf. community members - not imported faces or global ambassadors. How important was that decision to you?
I mean, it's everything in it. We wanted to be truly authentic to ourselves. Like I said. I think when the Collaborator comes, I don't think it's when you start to try and over-imagine. I think that's when you just have to simplify things. It was an opportunity to show where we are from, who we are authentically. Adidas has been an amplifier and a good collaborator. I think what Lagos Island has done for us is legacy stuff. It's stuff that hopefully our children's children will be able to enjoy. I think it's only right to always reflect that. No Space in Lagos or Nigeria gave us a chance. Lagos Island did. It gave us a home; it gave us a facility; it gave us the training ground. It gave us friends; it gave us meaning; it gave us aesthetics. It gave us everything. We don't need to import faces if we want to tell our stories. I think if we're going to import faces, they will be people that have come from within it, if that makes sense. It’s not just Lagos Island people. Lagos Island in itself as a location. A lot of people who we started with have kind of branched out, and they still carry waf for Lagos Island in their hearts.
You have said that African youth shouldn’t rely on international brands to develop products for the African market, that they should do it themselves. Does this adidas collaboration complicate that position or confirm it?
It doesn't complicate it. I think I'll be stupid if the world is global. It was a global village. I'd be stupid if we said, oh, adidas, come and make shoes here. We simply don't have the technology or the discipline. We don't have the infrastructure or. The infrastructure is not a priority for this market. Adidas is a global brand. They've worked with countless people. But I think even if adidas has paid its dues, it has done local things to kind of prove themselves. They created athletes, then also the consideration for them allowing us to play with the silhouettes is also localizing the international shoe, even down to material choices, because leather is leather, regardless of where you are in the world. But how its approach is local. We did our best to kind of localize that thinking, if that makes sense. It's also equally as valid. I think you can also embody something that materials can be imported, but the idea can be localized.
Fourteen years of building without institutional backing or mainstream recognition, and now a global Adidas collaboration. What do you want the young skaters in Lagos who watched you build this from nothing to take from this moment?
First and foremost, we haven't arrived. I think let's not get it misconstrued. We still have our challenges and we're still working as hard as we can to get to where we want to go. So I don't want anybody to feel like this is a pedestal. This is like where you want to be. You might not even have this collaboration and still thrive. We're grateful, we're happy. It signifies growth and, you know, elevation or whatever that comes with this. But that is not the goal. It's the cherry on top. It's not the cake. Do you understand?
So I would employ every young person to build their cake, to build ideas. First and foremost, make sure that the people around you are supportive. Because you can't make it for yourself. You can have your own POV. You don't listen to people that don't get it. I think it's a very bad trap and sometimes your parents and close family and friends may not get it. Yes, find your tribe. I think you should also learn to support each other. It's not just a take, take. I think the beauty of waf is that we've given, giving, giving. And if this is what we take from it, then so be it. But we give and we continue to give and support. Support your friends, support your industry. When I say your industry, I mean like the tailors that you work with. Support the people. Like no one's watching. Yeah, so far they're part of your process, they're part of your community, celebrate them. When you're doing anything, bring your tailor, bring them to the launch, let them see what you're doing. There's a weird thing in Nigeria where everybody tries to gatekeep and we don't do as bad as other societies, but where people don't want to share processes and share findings. I have a theory. If two people are struggling with the same thing, you are competing. You're both idiots. If you're struggling, you should both be supporting each other, leveraging off. You know, whether you're buying T-shirts, getting blanks together or printing different things, whether you're bringing in the shipment with the same shipper so it can be cheaper for you, find collaborators. It doesn't have to be Adidas, WAF for it to be a collaboration. We collaborate every step of the way, down to staff, down to thinking. I think young people need to realize that they're not alone. You can't build alone, and instant gratification is cool because you want to feel good, you want that dopamine hit. But at the same time, you need to find out why you're doing it.
So when these big wins come, you don't get lost in the sauce.
And we have been lost in the sauce before. We think we've arrived and it has been shot up in a. I know that it's a marathon. It's not a. It's not some sort of. There's no end goal. You're going to create and design till your dying day. I know a lot of designers and creators that are still creating to the year 80. This is not a job. This is a mental shift. I don't know how intense people are. But me, I say you'll be able to lose a finger for it or even die for it. These are ideas. This is a little bit of you're putting into the world and you don't have to always be the one to do it. You can find someone to support.
There's a weird romanticized version of you being the hero all the time. You can be someone's Robin. You don't have to be Batman all the time. You can be the sidekick, because, trust me, Batman cannot function without Robin or Alfred. You can be Alfred. You can be Uncle, Uncle Phil to Fresh Prince. You can be May to Spider Man. You understand everybody has a support system. Ninja Turtle, Splinter and April. You understand you need at least two or three or four people who are ready to go down with you. But are you going to be the person taking the risk or are you going to support the person taking it? I'm sorry, I'm getting passionate about it because it's like an opportunity to speak to a wider audience when it comes to humanizing this thing. Understand that nobody can save you. I can't make you rich because there's a thing in Nigeria where everybody wants to make it in life and be rich. But what does even success look like for you? Success to us may not even be money.
Money to us is not the ultimate success. Money is good and we want to make money, I understand: you are not alone, and you cannot build alone. sustainable so we can keep going. But for me, so far all our guys are getting paid a salary. The rent is being paid and we can create the next thing and make a little cherry on top. To me, that's successful. I don't believe in, I must wear a diamond chain. All of a sudden all of us are like balling. That's not success for us. Success is being able to do it again and again and again. And it's a privilege to understand that. Also creativity is a privilege and a calling to kind of do for people. To buy into your point of view.
What comes next for waf. - beyond the Superstar ADV?
I don't want to give it out because then it spoils the fun. But I'll say this. We've not really been in the studio for a very long time. We got lost chasing the wrong things and working with the wrong opportunities. So I think we're back in the studio now and we want to tell more stories. So expect more product offerings and stuff from us. I think it's going to be fun. I think, let's see what happens. We're still having fun. We have more stories to tell.
Cover Credit: Wafflesncream
Everyone knows the Hollywood flick, Venom. A lot more remember the lead character, Bane. Some others know the actor who played the role as Tom Hardy. And even fewer people know anything about his identity as the rapper Tommy No. 1.
Before Tom Hardy was fighting Batman or sharing a body with an alien symbiote (for those who have seen Venom), he was a young Londoner trying to break through as a rapper. In his teens, Hardy began writing and rapping, eventually teaming up with his friend Edward Tracy, who went by Eddie Too Tall. By 1999, the pair had made an 18-track mixtape called Falling on Your Arse, with Hardy rapping as Tommy No. 1 and Tracy producing. It was recorded in Tracy's bedroom, rough around the edges and never properly released at the time. Almost two decades later, Tracy found the recordings and posted them online in 2018.
Hardy had already moved towards acting by then, but the music never completely disappeared.
In a 2011 BBC interview, Hardy said he had started rapping at around 14 or 15 and had recorded plenty of music that had never been released. He even joked that it might eventually “come out in a film” or “come out in a character somewhere.” Looking back, that sounds less like a joke and more like a preview; because Hardy's relationship with hip-hop kept finding ways back into his career.
It also wasn't just nostalgia for his teenage years. Hardy stayed connected to Britain's music culture, including relationships with artists from the grime/hip-hop scene, and appearances connected to mixtape culture. Music remained something he could return to rather than something he had abandoned.
You can hear that influence in the way he acts. Hardy doesn't always deliver dialogue like ordinary dialogue; he plays with cadence, rhythm and pauses almost like a rapper working around a beat. Bane's deliberately measured delivery in The Dark Knight Rises gives his lines a strange musical quality. Eddie Brock and Venom constantly interrupt one another, switching tone and tempo as if two performers are battling for the same microphone. Then there is Alfie Solomons in Peaky Blinders, whose speeches can move from a low murmur to a rapid burst before landing on a punchline.
The characters are different but his fascination with delivery keeps showing up. That is perhaps what happened to Tommy No. 1. He didn't disappear; he got absorbed into the actor.
Even Venom gave Hardy another route back to hip-hop. Eminem's “Venom” became part of the first film's soundtrack, while Hardy's own musical interests continued to develop behind the scenes.
Years later, he would take another major step by collaborating with Czarface, eventually appearing as the masked rapper Frankie Pulitzer in Knull & Void.
Then came 2026, when the secret became almost impossible to keep.
Hardy released Czarface Meets Frankie Pulitzer, a full-length rap album with the hip-hop supergroup Czarface, featuring artists including Method Man and Busta Rhymes. And, in perhaps the most obvious collision between his two careers, Hardy even brings back Bane's voice on one of the tracks.
Suddenly, that old line about the music eventually appearing “in a character somewhere” feels prophetic.
The bedroom recordings with Edward Tracy. Tommy No. 1. His connection to grime and hip-hop. The spoken rhythm of Bane, Venom and Alfie Solomons. And now an actual rap album.
For years, Hardy seemed to have moved on from the rapper he once wanted to become. Maybe he didn't. Or he just found a bigger stage for him. But Tommy No. 1 didn't really disappear. He learned how to act — and remembered why he started.
Cover Credit: Wikipedia
The veteran Nollywood actor, Olu Jacobs, has passed away at 84, following a battle with dementia with Lewy Bodies (DLS). Olu Jacobs was a true champion of Nigerian cinema having graced blockbuster films like Ashanti (1979), One Fine Day (2015), Smoke And Mirrors (2008), The Royal Hibiscus Hotel (2017), and many more.
His legacy is woven into the fabric of Nollywood and he is rightly regarded as one of the father figures of the industry. Olu Jacobs is respected and admired by many. Among some of his last films before his downhill battle with the degenerative brain disease is The Royal Hibiscus Hotel, a story conceived by Mo Abudu among others and directed by Ishaya Bako. The Nigerian comedy film stars Olu Jacobs as Richard alongside his wife, Joke-Silva, who was cast as Augustina.
The couple has been married since 1989 after a chance meeting on stage where they both happened to be casted for a Wole Soyinka’s play called Jero’s Metamorphosis. Joke Silva said about their first moments together in an interview on Your View, a breakfast show by the Nigerian television station, TVC, "For him, it was love at first sight, but for me, it wasn’t." She talked about his reverence in the Nigerian film industry saying, "Everyone knew the great Olu Jacobs was coming (to work on Jero's Metamorphosis), except me."
The Great Olu Jacobs, also fondly known as The Lion of Lufodo, had an academic background in acting and film. He went to The Royal Academy Of Dramatic Arts, a drama school in London with notable alumni like Wunmi Mosaku of Sinners, David Warner of Titanic, Aimee Lou Wood of The White Lotus, Cynthia Erivo of Wicked and many other international film stars. He would go on to appear in movies with Hollywood stars in the 1970s and 1980s before choosing to return to Nollywood.
Jacobs is widely acknowledged for the impact his years-long career had on the industry and he has gotten multiple awards on multiple occasions. One of his notable awards was given to him by the then-Nigerian president, Goodluck Jonathan in 2011 where he was awarded the national honour of a Member of the Order of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, to recognise his service to the Nigerian entertainment industry.
Joke Silva and Olu Jacobs are one of the most beloved and celebrated couples in Nollywood. Silva shared with Dr Stephen Akintayo on his Leadership podcast about how much influence Jacobs had in the decision to keep her stage name as Joke Silva: "He said it was already a brand and he didn’t want it to affect me later." The couple who have been married for more than 35 years have two children; Olusoji Jacobs and Gbenga Jacobs.
They also founded a theatre and film company called Lufodo Group. A prestigious company who manages the historic Glover Memorial Hall named after a former colonial administrator and former Governor of Lagos, Sir John Hawley Glover. The hall hosted Sanwo-Olu in 2022 as he dished out interest-free loans to Nollywood filmmakers. Lufodo also partnered with Netflix to train Nigerian actors which was unsurprising for a company with two acclaimed actors at its centre.
Joke Silva has been open about the struggles she encountered as a wife married to someone with dementia with Lewy Bodies. She first opened up about the actor's condition in 2021 in an interview with Jideonwo Chude, “He is dealing with issues, and it's been going on for a couple of years. It's a degenerative disease that affects the brain, and it's almost like a kind of Parkinson's, but that's just it's the brain that it affects, so you don't see the shaking and things like that, it just affects the person."
In another interview with actress Nancy Isime, she opened up about her feelings and how the illness affected her family. "There was a point of acceptance for me that everything happening is reality and it is like the person I married, 80 percent of the time is no longer there." In the same 2023 interview, Silva added, "So in this journey of dementia now, it is like I am looking after my father. The husband I knew is no more and there for me but this man that is here is someone I still love."
After his son announced the death of Jacobs some days ago, condolences came from every big name in Nollywood and beyond the film industry. The Actor's Guild Of Nigeria (AGN), Lagos State Chapter, issued a statement mourning the cultural icon of African cinema, Mercy Johnson described him as a legend, Mo Abudu of Ebonylife said of the actor: "Uncle Olu was more than an extraordinary actor. He was a presence, a voice and a master of his craft." More condolences came from Toyin Abraham, Kate Henshaw, Richard Mofe-Damijo (RMD), Funke Akindele, among others.
Political figures like Nigerian Presidential aspirant, Peter Obi, described Jacobs in a' statement posted on X as a symbol of excellence in different artistic fields. The president of Nigeria, Bola Ahmed Tinubu, joined other Nigerians to give him a tribute, referring to him as a "giant in the Nigerian creative industry."
The death of Olu Jacobs is one that was felt by everyone. The Lion of Lufodo as his first son, Olusoji Jacobs called him, has gone to rest. History would forever cherish the legacy of the man that captured people on screens and in real-life, from Nigeria to Britain.
Cover Credit via Olu Jacobs’ Instagram
Drill music began on Chicago’s South Side turf around 2010, shaped by the American rapper Chief Keef and a generation of artists who followed him into a sound marked by dark production, heavy bass and lyrics rooted in street life.
When it travelled to the UK, artists reshaped it around their own cities and experiences, creating a version that developed its own identity. Nigerian drill inherited both sounds, from the Chicago original to the UK interpretation, and for a while, many of the artists making it wore that influence openly. The sound came from somewhere else, even as the people making it were Nigerian.
Kiing Lu, born Lucas Emeodi, grew up around Nigerian indigenous music and hip-hop, two sounds that had very different histories from the drill taking shape overseas. He’s publicly argued that Nigerian artists could borrow from American and British rap without losing their own identity. “No matter how we try to sound like the Americans or the UK rappers, you cannot take away the fact that you are African,” he said. “If you cannot infuse your roots into your music, then you are losing touch with what makes one African.” His new single, “Get Up (Dance),” puts that idea into practice, bringing drill into conversation with a distinctly Nigerian musical tradition.
To understand what the single is doing, it helps to understand where Fuji comes from. The genre was formalised by Sikiru Ayinde Barrister in the late 1960s and early 1970s, developing from Were music performed by Yoruba Muslims during Ramadan. Its foundation is percussion, call and response, talking drums and participation, with the music built around a crowd as much as the person leading it. Fuji has absorbed other sounds over the years, including hip-hop in the 1990s, but those influences have been worked into a musical tradition that remains distinctly Nigerian.
Drill comes from a different musical tradition. It developed in Chicago around a sound built on heavy bass, sparse production and a darker lyrical tone before the UK gave it another identity. Bringing it together with Fuji therefore involves more than placing familiar Nigerian sounds over a drill beat. Fuji gives the music a different sense of rhythm and participation, while drill brings a harder, more restrained framework around it. “Get Up (Dance),” featuring Liya, Bkay EastGaad and Nextee, sits in that space, with the Fuji influence providing a clear link between the two sounds. The result is less about making drill sound Nigerian on the surface and more about seeing what happens when the two musical traditions are allowed to shape each other.
Kiing Lu’s interest in this question comes from years spent working inside the Nigerian music industry. After leaving Jos, he spent seven years in Ghana learning the business side of music without releasing music of his own. He returned to Nigeria and worked in Alaba distributing records before moving through label roles and eventually becoming Head of Promotions and A&R at Universal Music Nigeria. He also gave TG Omori one of his earliest opportunities when the director had no portfolio, before building Speedplug Promotions and Captive Music around artists including Tems, Tiwa Savage and OdumoduBlvck.
When he rebranded as Kiing Lu, he put more emphasis on A&R and executive production, taking on the role of a curator and connector. His stated philosophy, “impact first, money follows,” comes from a career spent largely behind the scenes, where the work has been about finding people, developing ideas and helping them reach an audience.
There is a long history of Nigerian music doing something similar with sounds from elsewhere. Highlife took elements of Western jazz and palm wine music and developed into something distinctly West African. Afrobeats drew from American R&B, Jamaican dancehall and several strands of Nigerian popular music before becoming a global sound of its own. Fuji also absorbed hip-hop in the 1990s, with musicians finding ways to work the new influence into an established local tradition.
Now, Nigerian drill is going through its own version of that process. The sound came from outside, but the artists making it have been finding ways to place it within Nigerian rhythms, language and street culture. “Get Up (Dance)” is one example of that ongoing process, bringing Fuji and drill together on a record that asks what Nigerian drill can sound like when its influences are allowed to meet on local terms.
Cover Credit: Kiing Lu
When Charles Onyeabor speaks about his late father, there is a certain tenderness in how he experienced such a generational legacy.
Between 1946 and 2017, his late father, William Onyeabor, the genius electro funk inventor who created era-defining records in his prime, carved a reputation that remains a consistent muse for the young musical warlock. Today, Charles’s life’s work is a testimony of a man preserving a golden memory while creating his own.
When his father was alive, the music was important, but it still lived close to home. It belonged first to the man he knew as a parent before the world framed him as one of African music’s most enigmatic visionaries.
After his death, that music began to return to Charles with a different weight.
“When he was alive, I knew his work was important, but I don’t think I fully grasped just how far-reaching his influence was,” Charles says. “After his passing, I started to see his music through a different lens, not just as his child, but as someone witnessing how the world connects with what he created.”
That shift sits at the heart of Charles Onyeabor’s ongoing artistic journey. In an earlier phase of his career, the conversation around him naturally circled his father’s legacy. It was almost unavoidable. William Onyeabor’s name carries an unusual charge in African music history, not only because of the brilliance of the records, but because of the mystery, restraint and spiritual seriousness that surrounded his life after music.
For Charles, the task was never as simple as continuing a family name. It was about understanding what that name had become in the world, while figuring out what part of it belonged to him.
Now, the question around Charles is no longer only whether he can preserve his father’s legacy. It is whether he can live with that inheritance while successfully allowing the world to appreciate his own voice.
For years, William Onyeabor’s music has been described through words like futuristic, spiritual, experimental and original. His records created a world of synthesizers, groove, gospel feeling and electronic imagination that later generations would come to receive as prophetic. Yet, to Charles, the man behind that sound was also a strict father, a disciplinarian, a diligent workaholic, a believer in Jesus Christ and someone who insisted on truth no matter its cost.
“He was extremely intentional, a real workaholic and a go-getter,” Charles says. “He was also a strong believer in Jesus Christ and a very straightforward man who never hesitated to speak the truth, even if it meant losing what he valued most.”
For an icon who barely let the world into his private life, Charles believes the world only experienced a slice of William. He remembers something more immediate; the father who shaped him and his brothers, Chika and Emeka, with discipline, faith and resolve; a man who believed that words had to be backed by action.
“One of the things he always said that stuck with me is, ‘Something must kill a man,’” Charles recalls. It ultimately became one of Charles’ first lessons in conviction.
For Charles, music has become one of the places where that lesson continues to unfold, although his return to it was not immediate.
Before his father’s passing, Charles was not pursuing music seriously. He loved singing at home and around friends, but for nearly 18 years, even that casual relationship with music disappeared. His father’s death unsettled him. It pulled him back towards sound, although without much clarity. At first, there was grief, responsibility and confusion. It was a trinity of experiences that weighed him down as he navigated being the duty-bearer for his father’s transcendence.
“After my father passed, I started thinking a lot about his legacy and how to keep it alive,” he says. “The challenge was, I didn’t really know how to go about it. I felt quite lost and unsure of my direction.”
The stillness of the COVID period softened that burden. With the world slowed down around him, Charles began to softly accept that purpose.
However, in his case, while the Onyeabor surname already suggests originality, experiment, timelessness and a standard that can feel impossible to satisfy, he still resists the idea of being trapped by it.
“There’s pressure no doubt,” he says. “When you carry the Onyeabor name, people already have expectations before you even say a word or drop a note. That can feel heavy sometimes because you know what that name represents. But I don’t let that pressure box me in.”
That tension also feeds his recent single, “You Can’t Tell Me Nothing,” a record built from defiance and self-belief. The title may first register as swagger, but Charles frames it as something more intimate. “No matter what you say or do, I’m still making my money, I’m still valid. I’m still doing my music my way. You can’t break me,” he quipped.
In staying true to himself, Charles is also not rejecting his father’s world.
Obviously, William Onyeabor came from a different era, without digital stores, social media, Amapiano, or the current machinery pushing African pop across the world. So, blindly copying him would be betraying the core building block of the Onyeabor legacy: originality.
“When I’m doing music, I don’t think about how my father did his own music. I just let everything out naturally. His own time was different. The groove was different. There was no Amapiano back then. There were no digital stores or social media. So I can’t use his era to compare this era.”
Still, the Onyeabor DNA still manifests in Charles’ instinct for groove, his interest in live instrumentation, his ear for melody and his belief that music should feel human. He is constantly experimenting, still searching for the sound that feels most original to him. He does not see that uncertainty as weakness. For Charles, it is part of the process.
“If you know me well, you will know that I have it in me,” he says. “And it’s gradually unleashing.”
A major turning point came in Bologna in 2024, when Charles opened for Ruger during his Europe tour. The performance mattered, but what stayed with him most was the soundcheck. Ruger was not working with a DJ set. He had a full band, and everything about the arrangement felt alive, deliberate and controlled. It changed his perception of stage performance.
“It wasn’t a DJ set, it was a full band, everything tight, intentional, alive,” he says. “That moment made me fall in love with live performance on a deeper level.”
Since then, he has been focused on building his own band and developing a richer stage sound. It is one of the clearest ways his path begins to separate from the mythology around his father. William Onyeabor’s legacy was not built around the stage in any conventional way, but Charles is drawn to the immediacy of performance, to the feeling of meeting an audience in real time.
Opening for acts such as P-Square, Otile Brown, Abrantee, May7ven and Ruger has taught him that audiences are moved by presence and emotional truth.
He has also continued to remain active on stage, opening for Offset and Odumodublvck on their European tours. The thrill of performing his music live continues to be an energy that propels him.
“Performance is really about energy and honesty more than anything else,” he says. “It’s not about trying to impress people. It’s about making them feel something.”
Ultimately, Charles sees himself within the wider global rise of African music. And, for him, artists like his father are proof that African music had long been ahead of its reception. The world may now be listening more closely, but the imagination was already there.
“African music getting global attention now is powerful, but it’s not new. Artists like my father were already creating sounds that the world is only just catching up to.”
In the end, Charles Onyeabor is writing his own story one chapter at a time. His surname is more than just nostalgia. It has become a movement. While his music is still unfolding, there is no finished reinvention here, no attempt to present the son as a fully formed answer to the father’s legend. Instead, he’s telling a story of a talented chap working through grief, pressure, memory and daredevil ambition, trying to discover what the Onyeabor name can mean in his own voice.
“I want Charles Onyeabor to represent growth, evolution, and fearlessness,” he says. “Someone who took the foundation and pushed it into new spaces, to the next level, creatively and culturally.”
At the heart of that dream is still legacy. Like his late father, Charles wants to leave something that will last for his children, the same way his father left something that still speaks to him.
“Something that speaks long after I’m gone. For my kids, just like my father did for us.”
Cover Credit: Charles Onyeabor
When Charles Onyeabor speaks about his late father, there is a certain tenderness in how he experienced such a generational legacy.
Between 1946 and 2017, his late father, William Onyeabor, the genius electro funk inventor who created era-defining records in his prime, carved a reputation that remains a consistent muse for the young musical warlock. Today, Charles’s life’s work is a testimony of a man preserving a golden memory while creating his own.
When his father was alive, the music was important, but it still lived close to home. It belonged first to the man he knew as a parent before the world framed him as one of African music’s most enigmatic visionaries.
After his death, that music began to return to Charles with a different weight.
“When he was alive, I knew his work was important, but I don’t think I fully grasped just how far-reaching his influence was,” Charles says. “After his passing, I started to see his music through a different lens, not just as his child, but as someone witnessing how the world connects with what he created.”
That shift sits at the heart of Charles Onyeabor’s ongoing artistic journey. In an earlier phase of his career, the conversation around him naturally circled his father’s legacy. It was almost unavoidable. William Onyeabor’s name carries an unusual charge in African music history, not only because of the brilliance of the records, but because of the mystery, restraint and spiritual seriousness that surrounded his life after music.
For Charles, the task was never as simple as continuing a family name. It was about understanding what that name had become in the world, while figuring out what part of it belonged to him.
Now, the question around Charles is no longer only whether he can preserve his father’s legacy. It is whether he can live with that inheritance while successfully allowing the world to appreciate his own voice.
For years, William Onyeabor’s music has been described through words like futuristic, spiritual, experimental and original. His records created a world of synthesizers, groove, gospel feeling and electronic imagination that later generations would come to receive as prophetic. Yet, to Charles, the man behind that sound was also a strict father, a disciplinarian, a diligent workaholic, a believer in Jesus Christ and someone who insisted on truth no matter its cost.
“He was extremely intentional, a real workaholic and a go-getter,” Charles says. “He was also a strong believer in Jesus Christ and a very straightforward man who never hesitated to speak the truth, even if it meant losing what he valued most.”
For an icon who barely let the world into his private life, Charles believes the world only experienced a slice of William. He remembers something more immediate; the father who shaped him and his brothers, Chika and Emeka, with discipline, faith and resolve; a man who believed that words had to be backed by action.
“One of the things he always said that stuck with me is, ‘Something must kill a man,’” Charles recalls. It ultimately became one of Charles’ first lessons in conviction.
For Charles, music has become one of the places where that lesson continues to unfold, although his return to it was not immediate.
Before his father’s passing, Charles was not pursuing music seriously. He loved singing at home and around friends, but for nearly 18 years, even that casual relationship with music disappeared. His father’s death unsettled him. It pulled him back towards sound, although without much clarity. At first, there was grief, responsibility and confusion. It was a trinity of experiences that weighed him down as he navigated being the duty-bearer for his father’s transcendence.
“After my father passed, I started thinking a lot about his legacy and how to keep it alive,” he says. “The challenge was, I didn’t really know how to go about it. I felt quite lost and unsure of my direction.”
The stillness of the COVID period softened that burden. With the world slowed down around him, Charles began to softly accept that purpose.
However, in his case, while the Onyeabor surname already suggests originality, experiment, timelessness and a standard that can feel impossible to satisfy, he still resists the idea of being trapped by it.
“There’s pressure no doubt,” he says. “When you carry the Onyeabor name, people already have expectations before you even say a word or drop a note. That can feel heavy sometimes because you know what that name represents. But I don’t let that pressure box me in.”
That tension also feeds his recent single, “You Can’t Tell Me Nothing,” a record built from defiance and self-belief. The title may first register as swagger, but Charles frames it as something more intimate. “No matter what you say or do, I’m still making my money, I’m still valid. I’m still doing my music my way. You can’t break me,” he quipped.
In staying true to himself, Charles is also not rejecting his father’s world.
Obviously, William Onyeabor came from a different era, without digital stores, social media, Amapiano, or the current machinery pushing African pop across the world. So, blindly copying him would be betraying the core building block of the Onyeabor legacy: originality.
“When I’m doing music, I don’t think about how my father did his own music. I just let everything out naturally. His own time was different. The groove was different. There was no Amapiano back then. There were no digital stores or social media. So I can’t use his era to compare this era.”
Still, the Onyeabor DNA still manifests in Charles’ instinct for groove, his interest in live instrumentation, his ear for melody and his belief that music should feel human. He is constantly experimenting, still searching for the sound that feels most original to him. He does not see that uncertainty as weakness. For Charles, it is part of the process.
“If you know me well, you will know that I have it in me,” he says. “And it’s gradually unleashing.”
A major turning point came in Bologna in 2024, when Charles opened for Ruger during his Europe tour. The performance mattered, but what stayed with him most was the soundcheck. Ruger was not working with a DJ set. He had a full band, and everything about the arrangement felt alive, deliberate and controlled. It changed his perception of stage performance.
“It wasn’t a DJ set, it was a full band, everything tight, intentional, alive,” he says. “That moment made me fall in love with live performance on a deeper level.”
Since then, he has been focused on building his own band and developing a richer stage sound. It is one of the clearest ways his path begins to separate from the mythology around his father. William Onyeabor’s legacy was not built around the stage in any conventional way, but Charles is drawn to the immediacy of performance, to the feeling of meeting an audience in real time.
Opening for acts such as P-Square, Otile Brown, Abrantee, May7ven and Ruger has taught him that audiences are moved by presence and emotional truth.
He has also continued to remain active on stage, opening for Offset and Odumodublvck on their European tours. The thrill of performing his music live continues to be an energy that propels him.
“Performance is really about energy and honesty more than anything else,” he says. “It’s not about trying to impress people. It’s about making them feel something.”
Ultimately, Charles sees himself within the wider global rise of African music. And, for him, artists like his father are proof that African music had long been ahead of its reception. The world may now be listening more closely, but the imagination was already there.
“African music getting global attention now is powerful, but it’s not new. Artists like my father were already creating sounds that the world is only just catching up to.”
In the end, Charles Onyeabor is writing his own story one chapter at a time. His surname is more than just nostalgia. It has become a movement. While his music is still unfolding, there is no finished reinvention here, no attempt to present the son as a fully formed answer to the father’s legend. Instead, he’s telling a story of a talented chap working through grief, pressure, memory and daredevil ambition, trying to discover what the Onyeabor name can mean in his own voice.
“I want Charles Onyeabor to represent growth, evolution, and fearlessness,” he says. “Someone who took the foundation and pushed it into new spaces, to the next level, creatively and culturally.”
At the heart of that dream is still legacy. Like his late father, Charles wants to leave something that will last for his children, the same way his father left something that still speaks to him.
“Something that speaks long after I’m gone. For my kids, just like my father did for us.”
Cover Credit: Charles Onyeabor
Shilo Sanders has never allowed himself to be defined by a single lane. Moving unapologetically as himself, Sanders has carved out a distinct identity that extends far past the gridiron. Beyond his athletic journey, he has emerged as a powerful cultural voice, creator, and motivational speaker using his platform to remind a new generation that no matter the setbacks or shifts in life, following your dreams and refocusing on your goals makes anything possible.
His trajectory serves as a blueprint for adaptability and resilience. Transitioning from elite athletics to dominating culture, fashion, and public speaking, Sanders proves that a career path isn't a straight line; it’s a commitment to continuous growth. His story reinforces a singular message: when you remain grounded in your purpose, pivot with confidence, and relentlessly pursue your passions, no vision is out of reach.
That authentic drive makes his role as a campaign face for PLAY Palm Angels a natural alignment. Debuting its Fall 2026 line, PLAY Palm Angels originates from the elevated luxury brand Palm Angels, bringing its signature rebellious DNA into a new, street-driven era. Designed to show up directly where culture is happening across fashion, music, sport, and digital spaces the brand operates as much like a community as it does a collection.
“Being part of PLAY Palm Angels from the beginning has been exciting. Palm Angels has been one of my favorite brands for years, so to be part of this next chapter and help introduce PLAY Palm Angels is a dream come true.” Shilo Sanders
Accessible Luxury at an Approachable Price Point The defining element of PLAY Palm Angels is its commitment to inclusive design and widespread accessibility. While the heritage Palm Angels main line operates in traditional high-fashion luxury where signature hoodies and tracksuits carry high-end price tags PLAY Palm Angels makes the brand's iconic aesthetic genuinely attainable.
The line introduces the concept of "obtainable luxury" without compromising quality or design integrity. Featuring graphic tees ($60–$80), fleece hoodies and track jackets ($100–$150), and daily essentials starting as low as $45, the brand offers a competitive range that bridges luxury streetwear directly to everyday youth culture.
The Debut Fall 2026 Line Sanders stands out as a focal point in the debut campaign alongside a curated group of creators, athletes, and digital personalities who embody the PLAY mindset. The collection features approximately 60 apparel and accessory styles for men and women, rooted in the relaxed, effortless energy of Venice Beach and Southern California.
The assortment centers on relaxed silhouettes and washed palettes, spanning heavyweight hoodies, graphic tees, washed fleece, denim, lightweight outerwear, and knitwear designed to move seamlessly from pickup games to late nights. Vintage-inspired graphics and collegiate references blend naturally with recognizable Palm Angels details woven throughout the apparel and accessories, prioritizing everyday wearability over short-lived seasonal trends.
For Sanders, the launch isn't just another fashion co-sign; it's a reflection of where culture is actually headed. By stepping away from the traditional athlete playback and anchoring a brand built on accessibility, he isn't just wearing the shift in luxury fashion he's helping write the manual for what comes next.
Cover Photo: PLAY Palm Angels
Crowned TikTok Best-dressed Guy by Vogue, Wisdom Kaye has seen many big fashion moments. From collaborations with big labels like Crocs and Adidas to having a Met Gala debut in early 2026, the Nigerian-American fashionista is presently having a major moment across global fashion.
He proved his mettle at the kickstarter event for New York Fashion Week, Harlem's Fashion Row's 19th Annual Awards Show, where he clinched the Virgil Abloh Award.
After receiving the award from LVMH, Kaye gave a speech about how much the moment meant to him and how he was once a boy with an iPhone camera and a dream. "I never thought that with an iPhone and the corner of my room that I would inspire people all over the world,” he said, tucked in his navy pinstripe suit and aviator-themed reading glasses.
Kaye built his fanbase across high fashion, just from styling ludicrous things on the internet like fonts, or countries, and even animated shows.
One of my favourite moments of Wisdom Kaye was his behind-the-scenes look on his YouTube channel of how he styled the solar system.
Kaye’s style of edits is heavily modern and alt. Music, jump cuts, and a silly sense of humour adorn his uploads on social media. A lover of the Chrome Hearts symbol and elegant fashion, Kaye represents effortless style. He is a proud poster-face of global Black fashion, one opening doors that were previously closed to creators like himself.
The Virgil Abloh award, sponsored by LVMH, honours fashion creators who carry the late fashion designer's creative ethos. Other recipients of the award include Issa Rae, in 2022, A$AP ROCKY, in 2023, Teyana Taylor, in 2024, and Usher, in 2025.
Some notable people were also given their flowers at the ceremony. Harlem's Fashion Row honoured Erykah Badu with the Fashion Icon Award for her bold, maximalist, and risk-taking style, Jahleel Weaver who was the deputy creative director of Fenty from 2019 to 2021 was awarded with Stylist Of The Year, and Brandon Blackwood was crowned Designer Of The Year.
Beyond an award night, it puts Black fashion creators under a spotlight, a place that is not credibly accessible due to the worsening industry classism, racism, and colourism.
Kaye, who was also recently featured in an Old Navy commercial with Cardi B, recognizes this privilege: "I recognize that not everybody has the same privilege that I do.”
Cover Credits: Photo by Max Tardio, Edited by Wisdom Kaye
Céline Dion feels like an idolization of our 2000s. One of her biggest hits and best-selling singles, My Heart Will Go On, was recorded for the blockbuster Hollywood flick, Titanic, in 1997. She has also soundtracked other movies like Disney's Beauty And The Beast and Up Close and Personal in 1996. And that’s barely just the surface to scratch with her accolades over the decades.
Other of her fan favourites include songs like; Power Of Love, Before You Loved Me, and It's All Coming Back To Me Now. Dubbed the Queen of Ballads, she is the youngest of 14 children and she wrote her first song when she was 12.
Recently, Céline Dion struggled with a rare neurological disorder called Stiff Person Syndrome. The singer was told she could never sing again. A 2024 documentary about her life, I Am: Céline Dion showed her opening up about her 2022 diagnosis: "If I can’t run, I’ll walk. If I can’t walk, I’ll crawl.” She promised to never stop singing.
On Saturday, Dion later returned to Paris, at the Plénitude Arena in Nanterre, to much love and admiration at the opening night of her five-week residency in a statement black dress and diamond jewelry. It's no surprise that fans had camped out to watch the star perform her first sold-out live concert in six years.
Mid-show, Céline Dion got emotional - a testament to a six-year struggle with the nightmarish possibility of never singing again. She has one of the most powerful voices in the industry, and has sold a lot of records and dominated charts.
Seeing an invincible figure break down gave fans a vulnerable look into everything she has gone through with her diagnosis. "I made a promise to be back on stage. Singing for you. Singing for me, Singing for life,” Dion said, muffling tears. And she did it!
She pummeled through with hits like Because You Loved Me, The Power of Love, My Heart Will Go On, All By Myself, and Courage - a song that was recorded after the death of her husband, René Angélil. She performed more of her other classics to a crowd of more than 30,000 people that night, proving why she is one of the highest-grossing female artists of all time.
According to John Hopkins Medicine, the rare neurological disorder called Stiff Person Syndrome causes severe muscle spasms and, in other cases, symptoms include unsteady gait, slurred speech or double vision. The syndrome is common in people around 40-50 and it can come in different types.
In the 2024 documentary, we saw how the disease affected the once potent voice that earned her awards and adulations. SPS gave her strong muscle spasms that left her with broken ribs.
The 58-year-old is also an entrepreneur and a philanthropist. She goes through life's blocks with strength and confidence, whether she’s battling grief from her husband's death or anxiety from her neurological diagnosis. Céline Dion is always going to be Céline Dion, irrespective of circumstances that societal conditioning might see as a disability. Céline Dion would go on and on.
Cover Credits: Robin Galiegue
In December 2025, at the Streamer Awards, American streamer-cum-designer Kai Cenat announced he was going into fashion. He took nine months away from the most subscribed streaming career on Twitch, flew to Italy, learned to sew, studied textiles and came back with a collection.
Last Saturday, Cenat’s Vivet Collection 1 had its inaugural show at New York Fashion Week, attended by Ms. Lauryn Hill, Law Roach, DDG, Karrahbooo, PlaqueBoyMax and the full AMP crew. The show was also livestreamed globally.
The nine months matter because of what Cenat left behind to spend them. In October 2025, he had just surpassed one million Twitch subscribers. His final broadcast before the hiatus, Mafiathon 3, featured Twitch CEO Dan Clancy and LeBron James. He stepped away from all of it. The YouTube video he posted in January 2026 was titled "I Quit," but what he said he was quitting was not streaming. "I quit overthinking. I quit staying in my head about the goals I have and whether they're going to work or not. I want to push limits to see what I can truly create in life."
He travelled to Italy to study textiles and document the brand's denim manufacturing process, learned to sew, and attended the Louis Vuitton and 424 runway shows at Paris Fashion Week Men's in January 2026 with a Vivet journal in hand, connecting with Pharrell and Guillermo Andrade. Law Roach became his fashion industry mentor.
He documented the process across vlogs, posting journal pages, leather swatches, handwritten notes, Polaroids from a sewing shop and factory floors as the collection took shape. Select orders of Vivet Collection 1 include a printed copy of the journal. The brand is 100 percent owned by Cenat through VIVET APPAREL LLC, registered in Marietta, Georgia, with no outside investors and no corporate backing.
Cenat did not claim to be a fashion authority. He found people he could learn from, including Law Roach, Pharrell and Guillermo Andrade, and he listened. What matters is that he spent nine months learning the process before showing anyone a single piece. He did not need to draw every design himself or lead every part of the execution for that time to count. “This is not me sticking my name on a brand and money-grabbing,” he said in the “I Quit” video. His decision to spend nine months working on Vivet before launching it gives that claim some weight. He returned to streaming in July, pulling over one million combined peak viewers on his first broadcast back, and continued building Vivet alongside it.
Collection 1 is 20 pieces across men's and women's, covering tops and knitwear, bottoms, footwear and accessories. The aesthetic is dark and graphic-heavy, with bold tribal-style shirts, leather pieces including a cargo jacket, slim-fit leather pants and a leather button-down, chunky boots and a raglan zip-up jacket. The ornate cross-like logo runs through the collection as a recurring motif, and prices range from $20 to $1,195, available immediately through a see-now-buy-now model purchased directly from the livestream. The models who walked the runway held two worlds at once.
Alton Mason, one of the most recognisable faces in high fashion, walked alongside Duke Dennis, Raysian Boy, Marlon, Giovanna Ramos, BruceDropEmOff and Siebe: the fashion industry Cenat spent nine months trying to earn credibility inside, and the internet community that already believed in him before the first stitch was sewn.
Ms. Lauryn Hill in the front row at a first-time designer’s debut says a lot about the scale of attention around the show. Law Roach, whose mentorship shaped the collection and whose eye helped Cenat understand what he was building toward, was also there. The show was livestreamed rather than invitation-only, giving the audience that has followed Cenat throughout the process a way into the presentation.
Whether or not he designed every piece himself or handled every part of the execution is beside the point. The important thing is that he did it. It is still too early to know if Vivet will become something significant in streetwear, but Cenat has already put serious work into the project.
Cover Credit: Kai Cenat
The 12th of September marks a great loss for the Nigerian music industry. It was the day Mohbad, Ilerioluwa Aloba, reportedly died three years ago while receiving unlicensed treatment in Lagos. Sadly, three years later, and the controversy surrounding how he died is still debated by the aggrieved families involved.
Mohbad is known for hits like Peace, Sorry, Feel Good, and KPK(Ko Po Ke), which would go on to be nominated multiple times for the 2022 The Headies Awards, among other notable awards. His musical prowess is his ability to tap into different genres like hip-hop, street-pop, Afrobeats, Amapiano, and Afropop and translate these genres into songs that resonated with thousands. He was also nominated for Best Street-Hop Artist by The Headies Awards in 2023, the very year he passed away.
The 27-year-old singer had built a fanbase with his freestyle videos before breaking into the scene with a debut album called, Light EP. One of his popular songs, Ponmo, which features Lil Kesh and Naira Marley was part of this album. His collaborations with other artists went from Davido to Small Doctor, Zlatan to Oladips, and many more.
Perhaps one of the biggest controversies when he was alive was his 2022 split from his then label, Marlian Records, headed by street-pop maverick, Naira Marley. Mohbad alleged mistreatment and assault from Naira Marley, as well as his then manager, and industry socialite Samson Balogun, popularly known as Sam Larry. However, these cases were not addressed for many reasons; prior to his death Mohbad hadn't followed up with the police over these allegations, majority of the parties involved distanced themselves from the reported crimes, while others filed a defamation suit.
Justice delayed or dignity denied?
Also, Mohbad’s death has been marked by public discourse of which his wife, Omowunmi and his father, Joseph Aloba, are positioned in the centre. He remains unburied under divisive paternity claims and unresolved DNA tests.
Many of his fans are calling for justice over his death as the investigation has been inconclusive, entering a third year with no closure or any end in sight.
A Nigerian tabloid called Leadership Newspapers spoke to a civil rights advocate, Kunle Faboyade, who commented on Mohbad’s body being held without a forthcoming burial that "justice delayed is dignity denied."
Bella Shmurda, a colleague of his and fellow collaborator who has made a tribute song called My Brother and also released a R2 Sept 12 EP dedicated to the late singer, posted a three year tribute on X (Formerly Twitter) saying, "Woe to Evildoers. Keep resting Imole!".
Fans and loved ones alike are still calling on the authorities to conclude investigations on his case so he can be laid to rest.
Cover Credit: Spotify
When Yemi Alade dropped her breakout hit, Johnny, in 2014, Nigeria’s pop culture felt her pulse in full force. Bars, concerts, disco floors, recreational spaces — her music was embraced everywhere. Its distinct cultural flavour, powerful melodies and unforgettable hooks kept Yemi Alade in the spotlight since then.
Six albums, two Grammy nominations, a Grammy win alongside Angélique Kidjo, a Beyoncé collaboration, sold-out world tours, over one billion global streams, a UNDP ambassadorship and a beauty brand later, Yemi Alade is back with her seventh album, It’s Yemi Alade.
The album was named by her fans directly — the first time she has handed that decision over — and is built on highlife, zouk, RnB, house, disco and Afropop. She taps vocal powerhouses from Nigeria, Kenya and Congo including Bien, Jeriq, Fave, Njerae, Don Jazzy, Singuila, Spyro, Ferre Gola and Sofiya Nzau.
The 37-year-old chanteuse describes it as something new, something old and something borrowed. Before the day of its release, Deeds spoke with Alade about going back to her roots, what it felt like to let her fans choose the album title, and why she is not interested in playing it safe.
Sophia From Deeds: For anyone reading this and discovering you for the first time, how would you introduce yourself and your music?
My name is Yemi Alade. I am a musician and music is what I do. It's therapy to me and it's my love language to the entire world. It's the thing that I was put on this earth to do. I'm best known for my high life inspired Afro Pop sound. Blessed to also be one of the few Nigerians granted Grammy nominations. At the end of the day, I feel like my music is a safe space for people that love authentic music and are in touch with their roots or want to reconnect with their roots. I'm that person.
It's Yemi Alade is your eight studio album, shaped by two years of writing and recording. What was different about this process compared to your other album?
First of all, this is the one album that was titled by the fans. My fans were in charge of the process. I had put it out online that I needed their assistance to influence and inspire me on the album title. They came to my rescue. They offered me hundreds of options but the most reoccurrent option was Yemi Alade. I feel like they wanted a self named album and chose that and that is one thing that really stands out for me. I've never done that before. I always produce the title of my album. So that's it about the title. However, speaking on the body of work itself, I went with the approach of something new, something old, something borrowed.
The thing that is old is going back to my roots of high life completely and really revisiting that and revamping that to elevate it to the sound of today and also still retaining something old. Then in terms of something new, I played music that people did not expect to see me on. I dabbled with a bit of rap and some house music. In terms of elevating the sound and borrowing a sound, I mixed high life and disco at some point. There's a lot to experience on this album and I feel like on this album I wasn't playing it safe. That's a very beautiful place to be creative.
The collab list spans Kenya, Nigeria and Congo - Bien, Don Jazzy, Ferre Gola, Teni, Singuila and others. How do you actually manage that in the studio without losing the thread of your own identity?
I feel like the best way to answer that question would be to say, I feel like every artist is the product of their environments, their experiences and their musical taste boards. And for me, I grew up in a family where I was exposed to all genres from jazz, the high life to juju to opera, RnB etc. So, there is no putting me in a box. I feel like that foundation has helped me to very easily flourish in any genre that I find myself in. So when I am on beats or a piano beat or whatever instrumental I might put in my face, I'm able to flow, I'm able to adapt, I'm able to occupy space like water because of my foundation. At the end of the day there will always be the Yemi flair. There is no diluting. I'm just always becoming myself on every track.
'Don't Be Shy' with Bien has already gone viral and 'Ala Bekee' with Don Jazzy is the highlife-inspired lead single. What do those two songs together say about the emotional range of this album? I do love Ala Bekee’s music video.
It's been a while since people did that. Shout out to Clarence Peters for putting all of that together.
I feel like Don't Be Shy featuring Bien and Ala Bekee featuring Don Jazzy. They are both two good examples of the range that is on the Itzyme Aladdin album where the. The Ala Bekee song with Don Jazzy truly emerged, is submerged into the high life side, whereas the Don't Be Shy truck, which is on a zouk beat is also an R & B version of myself. It's R & B and it's still Afro pop in there. It just goes to show the versatility that is on the album. It's a buffet of sound.
You collaborated with Beyoncé on The Lion King: The Gift and with Angélique Kidjo on Mother Nature, which earned you your first Grammy. Looking at those two moments and now It's Yemi Alade, how has your understanding of what African music can do globally shifted?
Honestly, I have always known that African music would always belong in the sky amongst all the stars of the world. I've never doubted that for a second. I'm also aware of the history of musicians before me who have been. Who have been nominated and actually won several awards that are world acclaimed, you know, but for me personally now being on this journey to self where I have been blessed to be nominated in association with Angelique as for the Grammys as well as be nominated with Beyonce on Lion King for the Grammys, it has opened my eyes to the possibility even more. Just knowing that in my own lifetime, I'm able to experience that as. Also there's the Grammy nomination for the Latin Grammys as well.
That's not a category that a lot of Afrobeat artists are blessed to have under their belt, and I'm thankful for that. Even with all these Grammy nominations in association with other artists, God has been so gracious because I have also been nominated for a solo song that is mine, and that song is called Tomorrow. It came at the right time, especially with the message behind the song. The message in life as well. I think it just goes to show that everyone's, every one of us, our dreams.
You are UNDP ambassador, ONE Campaign ambassador, founder of the James and Helen PathWay Foundation, founder of yem beauty and Mama Africa to millions. How do you hold all of that alongside simply being an artist who makes music?
Now that you mention everything like that, I'm like, who, who's that? That's a lot to carry on and I'm thankful that I'm able to carry these things and make it seem like it's easy. But I would say that I've always taken everything one step at a time. Everything that you mentioned, now all those titles, were amassed over time. They didn't just come at me. I feel like as long as, you know, they say a rolling stone, you know, God is no more. Then the more you move, I feel like the more momentum you get and things start to seem easy. So in all I would just say that I have continued to be myself and what is for me. I'm thankful for the opportunities that come and opportunities that are still on their way. I'm more than ready for more titles.
It's Yemi Alade arrived September 11. What do you want a first-time listener to feel by the time the last track ends?
So what I'm served on this album is a proper food buffet, and a proper balanced diet. Every corner is covered. Expect you to be full of joy and full of a connection. I want the listener to feel seen and to connect with me on the topics that truly matter the most to them. Because that is my number one goal on this album, it is a love letter to my fans and to any listener out there. Connection is the most under-appreciated thing in life. But that is what we thrive on. Human beings, we all thrive on connection. I dearly and truly intend to and hope that at the end of the track, of the album, the listener will feel more connected than ever to me and to the experience that we have said in that moment.
Cover Credit: It’s Yemi Alade Album Cover
We have all had that moment when a song finds us before we find the artist behind it. It might be a few seconds in a TikTok or Instagram Reel, the kind of hook that refuses to leave your head for a few days. The discovery feels intimate even though it happened through an algorithm.
Now, imagine finally finding the song, only to discover that the voice you have been trying to place belongs to nobody at all.
AI-generated music has moved from an experimental corner of the internet into the mainstream music ecosystem, with synthetic and AI-assisted acts appearing on charts, artists incorporating generative tools into their work and streaming platforms confronting an unprecedented volume of machine-made uploads.
In June 2025, Deezer said fully AI-generated tracks accounted for more than half of all new music delivered to the platform on some days, with the service receiving nearly 90,000 such tracks daily. Although fully AI-generated music still represented only a small share of actual music streams, at that time, its sheer volume was enough to force the industry to confront what happens when making music becomes something that can be done almost endlessly.
The development has inevitably revived an old argument about technology and music. Every major technological shift has initially unsettled the people whose work it changes, from drum machines and synthesisers to sampling, Auto-Tune and, more recently, streaming.
Streaming was once criticised by artists and independent musicians who feared that a system built around unlimited access would devalue recorded music and make it harder to earn a sustainable living. Those concerns did not prevent streaming from becoming the dominant way much of the world consumes music; instead, the industry gradually built its business around it, even as debates over royalties, algorithms and artist compensation continue.
Is it Time to Regulate?
AI is obviously not the same technological or economic phenomenon, but streaming offers a useful warning about what happens when an industry treats a disruptive technology as something it can simply react to later. By the time the music business established the structures through which streaming would operate, the technology had already fundamentally changed how music was distributed and consumed. AI is still at an earlier stage, which means artists, labels, platforms and regulators have an opportunity to decide what kinds of participation, consent and compensation should be expected before synthetic music becomes as ordinary as a Spotify release.
Black music has a particular reason to be attentive to that conversation because technological change has always been woven into its evolution. Drum machines helped shape the rhythms of hip-hop and R&B, synthesisers transformed production, sampling became an artistic language of its own and Auto-Tune eventually became an expressive tool rather than simply a piece of corrective software.
The difference with generative AI is that the technology does not merely expand what a human artist can do; it can draw from existing music, generate new material and, in some cases, imitate voices and styles closely enough to make the distinction between influence, assistance and replacement increasingly difficult to establish.
Tyga's latest album, $TARFACE, placed that tension directly in the public eye. After initially discussing the project largely in terms of its analogue equipment and '80s-inspired sound, Tyga later confirmed that AI had been used as a tool during production, specifically mentioning the generation of '80s-style synthesiser parts and a guitar solo while maintaining that the songwriting and vocals were completely his. He compared the technology to Auto-Tune and argued that artists should adapt to where music technology is going. The response demonstrated how quickly the presence of AI can become part of an argument about artistic credibility.
Tyga's position is not shared by everyone however. Dr. Dre has taken a more openly pragmatic view, describing AI as another tool for creativity and comparing people who see it as an existential threat to those who would once have opposed drum machines. Coming from a producer whose career has been built around technological experimentation as much as musical instinct, his argument reflects a long-standing reality of music production: new tools do not necessarily eliminate the artist who uses them, but they can change what the artist is expected to contribute.
That contrast is precisely where Tiffany Ngige, an A&R at Unhurdmusic, sees the enduring value of human artists. For her, a label is not investing in a song alone but in whether there is an entire world around an artist that can be developed, from their identity and community to their relationship with an audience, personality, values and lived experiences. She argues that those things are fundamental to the music business precisely because it remains, at its core, a people business.
“If AI makes it possible to create an endless amount of music then the scarce commodity becomes the artist themselves; their perspective, emotional depth and ability to connect with people,” Ngige tells Deeds.
She also points to something that can be difficult for generative systems to replicate convincingly: the accidents of human creativity. For instance a vocal crack that was never supposed to make the final recording, an unexpected take, a spontaneous lyric or an imperfect moment in the studio as the very things that gives a record its emotional character.
Those moments are not necessarily the result of an artist deliberately choosing imperfection; they emerge from the unpredictable experience of human beings making something together.
That does not mean the A&R sees AI as inherently destructive. In fact, she believes it has already begun democratising music-making, particularly for independent and emerging artists who may not have access to expensive studios, engineers or producers. AI stem splitters, for example, can allow artists to isolate vocals and instruments for remixing, sampling, experimentation or analysis, giving musicians ways to explore ideas that might previously have required considerably more money and technical access.
Her concern is what happens when the tool stops serving the creative decision and begins making the creative decision itself. If artists begin using the same systems to generate music optimised around what algorithms already reward, the industry could find itself with more music but less distinction between the people making it. In that scenario, convenience and volume could become more valuable commercially than risk, experimentation or individual perspective.
“There’s a line between using technology to realise your creative vision and allowing technology to become the creative vision,” she says, something that becomes even more complicated when audiences cannot tell whether the human contribution they believe they are hearing actually exists.
Fenix Flexin's “Rubberz” became one of the year's most striking examples of that uncertainty after the song climbed to No. 58 on the Billboard Hot 100 while listeners questioned whether its unusual vocal performance and production had been generated using AI. Flexin has denied that the song was AI-generated, and the controversy remains unresolved, but the fact that a song could become a significant charting hit while listeners were simultaneously debating whether the credited artist had actually made the recording himself points to a new problem for the industry. Authenticity is becoming something audiences may feel compelled to investigate rather than simply assume.
Pushing Back on IP Theft
It is one thing for an artist to use AI themselves; it is another when their music is used without their knowledge or consent. R&B singer-songwriter SZA has spoken forcefully about discovering that 238 of her songs appeared in material identified as being used to train AI systems, including songs she believed could include unreleased work. Her anger points to a different side of the debate from artists such as Tyga and Dr. Dre, not as a user of AI herself yet large chunks of her catalogue have become part of the material from which machines learn without her permission.
Mary J. Blige's own recent experience with Suno, an AI music creation platform, exposed another dimension of the same problem. The company released an advertisement that made it appear as though Blige was endorsing an AI-generated R&B song, only to withdraw the campaign after discovering that the person who negotiated the deal had falsely claimed to represent her. The incident goes to show that the threat posed by AI is not limited to copying a recording or generating a synthetic vocal; an artist's name, likeness, credibility and cultural authority are also increasingly becoming part of the technology's commercial machinery without their consent.
For the music industry, these developments have made regulation increasingly difficult to postpone. The International Federation of the Phonographic Industry (IFPI) introduced principles this year for determining the eligibility of recordings developed using generative technology for official charts, while industry organisations have also moved toward distinguishing between music that is substantially human-made but AI-assisted and recordings in which generative AI creates the primary creative material.
Streaming platforms are developing their own approaches as well, namely platforms like Tidal which announced that fully AI-generated tracks would be labelled and excluded from royalty payments, while Spotify and other platforms have introduced measures targeting unauthorised vocal impersonation and mass-uploaded AI music.
Responses that suggest the industry is beginning to recognise the central issue of how unstoppable AI is and draft measures to protect the people whose work, voices and audiences make the music business valuable as it is and give it meaningful control over how AI participates in it.
This becomes even more urgent for African music. AI could give artists across the continent access to production possibilities that were previously limited by money, geography or industry connections. At the same time, African music is increasingly valuable within a global cultural economy, which means the continent's artists have to think carefully about who controls the technologies learning from their music, how cultural material is incorporated into those systems and whether the economic value generated from that material returns to the communities that created it.
Ngige believes the answer should not be to reject the technology outright. Instead, she argues that AI can remain useful as long as artists retain control over the creative decisions that give their work meaning – which ultimately determines whether AI becomes another chapter in music's long history of technological adaptation or something more disruptive to the people who make/have made the industry function.
The temptation will be to measure that disruption in the simplest terms of how many AI songs are uploaded, how many are streamed, how many appear on charts and how much money can be made from producing them. But those measurements risk overlooking the thing that has always made music more than an efficiently manufactured product. A song carries the perspective of the person who wrote it, the experiences that shaped the performance, the decisions made in a studio and the relationship that develops between an artist and the people who listen to them. At the core, music is and has always been inherently human.
If AI eventually makes it possible to generate an effectively infinite supply of competent music, that abundance may make those human qualities more important rather than less. As Ngige puts it, when music becomes easier to generate at enormous volume, “authenticity becomes a lot harder to fake.” The challenge for the industry, then, is not simply deciding how much AI it can tolerate, but making sure that in its pursuit of efficiency it does not lose sight of why audiences cared about the human artists in the first place.
Cover Credit: Courtesy of Getty Images.
Graphic treatment and AI composition by Stanley Kilonzo.
Photo Credits: Adraint Khadafhi Bereal
After her 2015 mixtape, But You Caint Use My Phone, Erykah Badu did not release any musical project. After a decade of waiting, it is unsurprising that when she announced her collaborative album, early last year, with one of Hip Hop’s most influential producers, The Alchemist, fans were strapped to their seats before the tracklist, cover, or title was out.
Before the World Blows: The Abi and Alan Experiment, is a 16-track project with star features ranging from Earl Sweatshirt, Kamasi Washington, Westside Gunn, to Steve Lacy. The recording of this album bounced from Dallas to Los Angeles, and after many cryptic teasers Before The World Blows saw a digital release on August 28.
Erykah Badu, known for her afrocentric expression and her big contribution to the neo-soul genre, is always an exciting act to watch out for. Her last mixtape project was a 30-minute RnB/Soul bop inspired by Drake's 2015 Hotline Bling. She made a Hotline Bling remix titled HOTLINE BLING BUT U CAINT USE MY PHONE MIX before expanding the idea into a mixtape. The mixtape was about how everyone is always connected due to the accessibility of the cellphone. After this mixtape, Erykah Badu would go on to sell out arenas for 10 years before her recent album.
The Alchemist, Alan Maman, is one of the big names in hip-hop, having produced tracks for main hip-hop artists like Kendrick Lamar, Rick Ross, Lil Wayne, Eminem, MF DOOM, Earl Sweatshirt, Ghostface Killah and many more. His signature sample-heavy beats made him popular to underground rap acts. His discography is a wide range of interesting genres; alternative hip-hop, jazz rap, and lo-fi. He produced Meet the Grahams by Kendrick Lamar during the 2024 feud with Drake. And was the runner-up for Producer of the Year by HipHopDX, an online magazine for hip-hop news.
Two influential people in hip-hop collaborating on a record was sure to create electric buzz before and after the album release. Erykah Badu's contribution was more than vocals and a self-directed visual to the track, Witch Doctor.
In a video posted on Instagram, Erykah Badu spoke about her production abilities saying, "My ears are lethal. I have a gift." She has always talked about not wanting to be limited to being the queen of neo-soul. In the same Instagram upload, she continued to say, "I just want you guys to know I ain't just a singer. This is my production." The Alchemist had provided some beats for Badu and she programmed it into what is now Before The World Blows.
About their collaboration, The Alchemist said in a conversation with Apple Music that it "enabled him to be like a motorcycle sidecar instead of riding in the cockpit." Erykah Badu also revealed in the conversation that she has written a poem with the title Before The World Blows. The now-released album had been given a placeholder title because the album title took a while to be figured out.
A throwback to one of her appearances in Tamron Hall Show, Erykah Badu sat before the interviewer in a statement red hood (or hijab) and bold, eclectic jewellery. She said the difference between a recording artist and a performance artist is: a recording artist perfects a moment, while a performance artist creates a moment. Before The World Blows is a seamless integration of Erykah Badu being a recording and performance artist.
In an NTS RADIO live show, Erykah Badu is seen singing passionately in a trashy blonde wig, a distinct look from the Witch Doctor video, and creating a soulful performance with The Alchemist. The producer duo/hip-hop trendsetters would embark on a North American tour with hip-hop group De La Soul that was formed in New York in 1988 and St. Louis rapper, Smino in 2026-2027.
Cover Credits: Adraint Khadafhi Bereal
There has never been a better time to be African in global culture. Across music, fashion, film and entertainment, African creativity has moved from being something the world occasionally discovered to something it actively seeks out.
From Burna Boy headlining stadiums, Wizkid selling out arenas, Tems appearing and co-writing on some of the world's biggest records to Ayra Starr and South Africa’s Tyla turning their distinct sounds into a global pop language, as well as Aya Nakamura —despite being largely French-speaking— becoming one of the biggest African-born pop stars on the planet.
One thing from all this is evidently clear: the world is paying attention. This makes East Africa's relative absence from that conversation increasingly difficult to ignore.
Not absent entirely, of course. East Africa is not short of musicians, filmmakers, designers, writers, photographers, artists or digital creators doing excellent work. But why are they largely missing from the spotlight?
Nairobi, Kigali, Dar es Salaam and Kampala remain some of the continent's most interesting creative cities. Sauti Sol became one of Africa's most respected contemporary groups and former member and lead vocalist Bien has gone on to build a solo career beyond the confines of the band. Diamond Platnumz turned Tanzanian Bongo Flava into a regional force. Visionaries across the region continue to produce work that deserves international attention.
So, talent across East Africa isn’t up for debate. Instead, the lens is on how it rarely becomes a global cultural power – a contrast that may explain why calling this a “flop era” feels both laughable and strangely accurate
We can all agree that the term “flop” is deliberately dramatic. East Africa is obviously not culturally irrelevant. But if the last decade has represented a historic opportunity for African culture to establish itself globally, the region has arguably been slower than its potential suggests to convert creativity into sustained influence.
Talent alone as we know it has never been enough. What separates a talented artist from a global star is often the machinery surrounding them: management, PR, publishing, distribution, international partnerships, touring infrastructure, investment, legal support and an ecosystem that knows how to turn local success into an international business.
West and Southern Africa has spent years building much of that machinery around its biggest exports. East Africa still largely seems to be figuring that out as it goes. One artist breaking through can be and is exciting, but an industry consistently producing artists who break through is something else entirely.
Look at music. East Africa has sounds of its own. Bongo Flava, Genge, traditional tunes like Taarab, Indie/Afro-soul and a growing range of hybrid sounds have travelled beyond their countries of origin; yet the biggest hurdle is an ecosystem that hasn’t been capable of making that momentum sustainable.
And the same problem appears outside music. East African fashion has produced designers whose work is sophisticated enough to belong in international conversations. Yoshita 1967’s LVMH Prize win this year by the designer Anil Padia affirms that. Our filmmakers be it Wanuri Kahiu, Dilman Dila, Toni Kamau and more are telling stories with global resonance. Our writers have published stories that deserve to be read beyond the continent as do photographers and visual artists' works that are documenting a region whose cultural identity is increasingly compelling to the rest of the world.
Yet somehow global recognition still feels like an event rather than an ecosystem.
A creative gets featured in an international publication, invited to an overseas festival or collaborates with a major foreign brand, and the moment is celebrated as an exception. We rarely stop to ask what infrastructure exists to make the next ten such moments easier.
Perhaps that is part of the problem. East Africa is very good at producing moments. We are less convincing at producing movements. There is also something peculiar about how we understand ourselves collectively. Nigeria has become almost synonymous with Afrobeats. South Africa has successfully attached amapiano to a global cultural movement.
Still, what does East Africa mean to the rest of the world? Kenya is not Tanzania, neither is the latter Uganda or Rwanda. Our differences are part of what makes the region culturally rich, but our creative industries still operate largely within national boundaries.
An artist who has built a following at home can struggle to turn that momentum into a regional career, while a designer, filmmaker or musician looking beyond their own country may find clearer pathways through international markets than through neighbouring ones. We have the talent, the audiences and the proximity, but the infrastructure connecting those pieces remains surprisingly thin.
Then, there is our complicated relationship with international validation. Sometimes, it feels as though East African culture only becomes valuable to us after someone outside Africa confirms it is. A Vogue feature makes a designer suddenly important. A foreign festival invitation makes a filmmaker suddenly prestigious. An international collaboration makes an artist suddenly “global.”
Of course, these opportunities matter. International recognition can open doors that local markets cannot. Nevertheless, there is a difference between building global relevance and waiting for somebody else to certify your relevance.
Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o didn’t have to retain a Eurocentric identity to become an internationally successful author nor did Tyla have to stop being South African to become global. Their identities were not obstacles to their global appeal; they were part of it.
East Africa similarly has plenty to export but we have to believe in it to make it. Our diaspora could also be doing more to bridge that gap. East Africans living in London, Toronto, New York and elsewhere represent communities with cultural, economic and professional connections to home. The global success of African culture has repeatedly demonstrated how powerful those communities can be – not just as audiences, but as marketers, tastemakers and consumers. Festivals and concert platforms such as Afro Nation and Afro Plus Fest have shown how diaspora communities can help create demand for African music and culture far from the continent, turning cultural familiarity into a viable international market. East Africa has that diaspora resource too. Perhaps, we haven't been strategic enough about turning it into a bridge between local talent and global audiences.
None of this means West, South or other regions in Africa have figured everything out. They haven't. African creatives everywhere still contend with exploitative contracts, limited funding, piracy, weak infrastructure, visa restrictions and unequal access to international markets.
So perhaps the “flop era” diagnosis is ultimately unfair. Maybe East Africa is simply playing a different game. The long game. Our cultural influence doesn't always show up on Billboard, at the Grammys or on the cover of an international fashion magazine. Perhaps the region's influence is more fragmented, more local and less interested in becoming a single exportable product.
But again, if that is our defence, we should be honest about whether we are comfortable with it. Because the ‘world has long moved on from waiting for Africa to become interesting.’ African culture is already interesting. The market has already demonstrated its appetite.
The fact that we have something to say is clear enough. The challenge now is to convince ourselves and others whether that’s worth building an industry around.
To answer the question, East Africa is not in its flop era. It is simply a frustratingly unfinished one. The region doesn't need another viral moment. It needs infrastructure. It needs investment. It needs stronger creative institutions, better regional collaboration, international-facing management and industries that understand culture now as an economic force more than an identity.
Most importantly, it needs to stop measuring its potential against what other heavyweights like Lagos or Jo’burg have already achieved. East Africa doesn't need to produce another Fela Kuti, Burna Boy, Hugh Masekela or even another Tyla. It calls for creating the conditions in which the world can discover whoever comes next.
Cover Image Credit: Skott Bennett-Riff Magazine
The first time this writer heard Nikita Kering’, she was already singing with the kind of conviction that made it easy to forget how young she was.
“Happy With You,” her debut 2018 single, arrived when she was just 16, introducing audiences to a young Kenyan R&B and pop singer-songwriter whose voice seemed far older than her years.
Nearly a decade in, her music still carries that same immediacy. But Kering’ has spent the years since growing far beyond that girl to a more intimate, assured fully-fledged artist who isn’t afraid to say exactly what she means.
That evolution has unfolded across three EPs, A Side of Me, The Other Side and this year’s The Lick Back that finds her leaning further into self-possession, desire, vulnerability and the freedom to speak from a place of greater personal clarity.
In 2021, just three years after her breakthrough, Kering’ became the first-ever East African musician selected for Apple Music’s Africa Rising programme, another benchmark of how quickly her career was expanding beyond home. Since then, she continued to build a catalogue around her distinctive RnB sensibilities while drawing from pop, Afrobeats, dancehall and the sounds of her roots – all feats she has done without a full-length studio album to her name yet and a gap she hopes to finally close next year.
Deeds caught up with the Kenyan singer-songwriter to talk about growing into her voice, embracing the parts of herself she once kept hidden, the evolving identity of Kenyan music, and what comes next for an artist who is still discovering just how much she has to say.
Stanley for Deeds: How is your day going so far?
My day is great. I just came back from a getaway, so just kind of back with a lot of work.
Your music has been around for more than five years now, but songs like “Never Let You Go” and “Ex” still feel remarkably current. How does it feel knowing people are still returning to those songs years later?
So cute. Thank you so much.
You’ve been making music since you were very young. When did music stop feeling like something you were naturally good at and start feeling like something you had something to say through?
I guess from just being a talent to being almost like a channel or a platform for expression, right? I'd say probably when I was around 16. It's kind of my mom that pushed me and pressured me into writing my own music. I really used to think that I can't write my own music. So she used to just tell me, you can just try. And so that's when it happened. It stopped being about music school, stopped being about just vocal ability. But it started to be about like, who is she? Because the only way people can really know who I am is to connect with me really, was through using my music as a space where I could give my thoughts and opinions on certain things, where I can share my emotions. People could tell the kind of person that I am through my music. And so yeah, I'd say around that time and then it also became a business, so it was kind of just trying to balance the two.
Fans can hear different versions of you across A Side of Me, The Other Side and your newer work. Which version feels furthest from who you are now?
I'd say the first EP. I'm only saying that because it just makes sense for that to be so, given that that was the youngest version of me. And I allow myself to really immerse myself into my eras or phases, like I really live in the moment. And so, A Side of Me may be the furthest to who I am now, but it was very authentic to who I was then, right?
You’ve grown up in public ever since the Emmy Kosgei days we discovered you and that audience has grown up alongside you. What part of your evolution do you think people haven’t quite caught up with yet?
People haven't yet seen that side of me that doesn't really care, the side of me that is aggressive and speaks up for herself. And I think with The Lick Back, the people who are the closest fans that are listening to the music deeply and listening to the lyrics, they can see that.
But what I've seen is my music really takes a long time for people to catch up to. I don't know what it is about the music, because when I drop it at first, no one ever really gets it. Then a year comes, okay, everyone is now on the Nikita Kering’ hype and blah, blah, blah. So I would just say, perhaps the people who listen to my music at a more surface level haven't really gotten to see the side of me that is a little bit more outspoken and doesn't shy away from the truth.
So you feel like sleeper hits/albums are a good thing?
A hundred percent I think sleeper albums are the best because the majority of people then who are discovering are actually in a quest to discover, rather than the people who just were listening to it because it had hype at the moment. You'll find that people who are listening to an album a year after and had never listened to it probably were like, okay, this album had gotten good reviews let me see it for myself and there isn't that noise at the time that they're listening.
So I'm for it and the whole sleeper concept has really built and sustained my longevity that I've had because then people are still able to experience music of three, four years ago right now. And in fact, if you want to look at TikTok and stuff like that, there's people that I'm seeing still discovering “Ex.” There's a performance I did in Ethiopia months ago of a song that came out years ago that's trending right now. So that just tells you that rediscovery is amazing because even as I perform songs I sang five years ago today, they're still relevant. And I feel like that's how music is supposed to be.
People are always listening. Is there a song you've written that you understand differently now than when you wrote it?
I actually don't. I don't think I have an answer to that because I don't really listen to my own songs. I just perform them. After I sing them, now it's in the hands of the people I made it for.
You write quite openly about love, heartbreak, and desire. Do you really understand what you're feeling or do you need to understand it before you can?
I don't think I internalize my feelings before writing music. I kind of just go with the flow. So I would say I discover my feelings after the fact.
When a melody or lyric comes to you, do you usually know what the song is about, or does the song tell you as you go?
Yeah, it definitely tells me, but it depends. Different songs, different approaches. When I initially write it, sometimes I know what I'm trying to talk about, but for the most part, it always reveals itself.
For instance, the “Niwache” song, the line that you sang, was actually the first line I came up with in the whole song. I only had that, and nothing else. And then I sent that to the producer, and we built from that. So already that kind of tells me this song is probably about someone who's playing games, someone who's doing like a cycle back and forth type of thing.
What emotions do you find the easiest to sing about, but hardest to actually live through?
I think the pain from heartbreak; because we hear about it so much, we watch a lot of movies, we interact with each other, our friends go through it and the pieces of heartbreak; the crying at night, people's life moving on and yours is kind of stuck. We know those little pieces, so I'd say heartbreak is very easy to write, yet very difficult to go through.
When you're going through it, the process is so profound and you get so immersed in it that those feelings never really leave you and that's why perhaps it's very easy to describe them because literally, you live inside those feelings so immensely and so vividly that I guess you can't forget.
Your latest EP feels like another step into your artistic evolution. What did making The Lick Back reveal about the artist you're becoming?
I would say that it reveals less to me about the artist that I'm becoming, but more so the person that I'm becoming because my art is directly linked to my personal experiences and to who I am and how I'm feeling. So I think it's just a reflection of somebody growing up, finally becoming a woman. Being able to speak out for myself because that's some of the things I struggled with a lot as a young person. Like I’m finally grown up and out of being that timid young girl who is scared of voicing her opinions and is scared of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. It's just shown me how much I am actually growing and if I thought that I wasn't growing I can now see it in my music from also experimenting with different sounds.
You’ve experimented with different sounds and languages throughout your catalogue. Is there a version of yourself you can express musically that you can’t quite access in everyday life?
The sensual part of me, mainly because I find that society isn't very forgiving with women. Sometimes when it comes to freely expressing your sensuality and yourself. That’s something that I've been able to put in my music, even in collaborations such as Motto, I feel as though if I was to transcribe that and tell it to people word for word, everyone would be like, what the hell is this girl saying?
We are also at a time when Kenyan music is drawing increasingly from across the continent while also developing its own new identities. What does the Kenyan sound look like to you today?
I think that Kenyan sound looks like a Kenyan person that grew up in Kenya or was exposed to Kenyan culture, presenting it in the way that they understood it. I don't think there's any way that it's supposed to sound. I just think that if you took part in being Kenyan in any way and you're expressing that musically, I think that's Kenyan music.
I think the exposure to the difference in cultures and even different music and how you choose to interpret that is exactly what makes it Kenyan, because the thing is, that culture is just a bunch of people that sat together and behaved and acted a certain type of way. It wasn't influenced by any sort of DNA or anything. We are just a couple of people that settled on this part of the earth and started to do things in this manner. And that became culture. So I think with music, it's the same. I'm glad the exact rule applies.
And what do you think Kenyan artists or creatives are doing exceptionally well right now and what are they still getting wrong?
Let me start by saying that finally, there's some kind of trend where there's a lot more Kenyan musicians making Kenyan music that is inspired by their own cultures. So when I look at Kodongklan, Kosta Ojuang, Elsie Wameno or Zaituni, all of these people are not only inspired by, for example, the Nairobi culture or the Swahili language. They have embraced who they are and where they come from. And even through my EP and what I was doing with the intro with Sofiya Nzau.
We have unlocked a new level to even more content by allowing ourselves to access our own cultures because I genuinely believe that we are spiritually connected to where we are from. I myself come from the Nandi community, and I know my clan and exactly where we come from. And there are stories our parents teach us about our clan and the things that we used to do and our strengths. And I can see that coming out now, even being in Nairobi or traveling around the world, I can understand.
So I would say how we are attaching ourselves or rather how we are holding on to our history is really important and I think that is something that we're doing so right because it makes the pot overflow. It will consistently pour out more and more content because we're not just Kenyans, we're not just Kalenjins, we're not just Nandis, we're not just Taitas, we come from this home. And the deeper you go into who you are, the more there is to find and the more of that DNA will show through your music making it even way more unique than perhaps someone that was just following some trends, right?
Yeah and at the end of the day, like creativity, music continues. Music has been around for maybe a few thousand years and maybe even more, but I mean in terms of like proper proper structured songs and stuff like that, it can't end here. It has to keep going and how does it? We have to keep finding new inspirations and that means going deeper into your culture while at the same time going wider into the future and wider into exposing yourself. How can my culture mesh into this? How can we intermarry different cultures to create a new art form? And that discovery is what I'm seeing in Kenyan music and not just music/artistic space, because even with fine arts, even with culinary arts, with people like Denis Ombachi, turning things like managu and terere into cold salads, you know, that kind of stuff. That's why people like that are still relevant, because it's innovation. And innovation doesn't necessarily mean that you have to come up with something from thin air. Sometimes it just means taking this thing, taking this other thing, and blending them together to create a new thing.
Because that's exactly how humans evolve. It's a mother and a father coming together to create something new. And if you yourself see yourself as a new being, as a new creation, then that, I think, reflects creativity. That you've taken this that was already in existence, and this other thing, and you're putting them together, and you're literally just consistently creating something new every time. And I think that's amazing. In terms of what I feel like Kenyan artists are doing wrong, I don't know what Kenyan artists And I don't think I will ever come out and say anyone is doing anything wrong creatively because I see artists who are making “bubblegum” music being shunned upon, but we are listening to it.
That is an art form in itself. For example, there's calculus and then there's freaking one plus one. And without one plus one, there would have never been calculus. Like both of those things are necessary. Sometimes life doesn't have to be so complex. People don't have to do the right thing all the time. And so I would never, ever comment on what I think someone should do or shouldn't do creatively. What I think I would say is how hard are you working to make this into something proper? Because you can turn something very stupid into something amazing and something that is worth sharing to the world as a representation of Kenya music. What I would say artists are doing wrong on the other side of things is not knowing how to protect this art that they are creating, is not knowing how to correctly monetize it. Those are now the things I can speak on because I can see exactly how my input would benefit them.
What do you admire about the next generation of East African artists coming up alongside you?
I applaud my fellow artists because they’ve kept going because I've seen and experienced crazy things, and there's times where I've genuinely sat down and was just like, bro, I don't think I can do this anymore. I can imagine that all these different artists have probably been in the same exact space where they felt like giving up. But the choice to continue, to me, that is the most amazing, brilliant thing. And I'm so proud of all of them.
And I support in the ways that I can. When I speak to upcoming artists, when I talk to Bridget Blue, when I speak to so and so; I sit with these people, and all I do is encourage them and tell people, you should try this and try that. My hand is never closed. It's always open to giving and that's why I believe that I keep receiving, because I don't tie that information to myself. I don't believe in gatekeeping, because I really genuinely believe that we can all coexist. And I know people that are so worried about gatekeeping and stuff, they're copycats because they know they copied something and they know it's not authentic enough to sustain, but because I know what I'm coming with is so original, I'll never be worried about what anyone else is doing or that they're doing better than me.
I'm so proud of each and every one of my fellow artists and I wish them all the best and I have generally given upcoming artists opportunities way more than I've even given anyone else and I don't talk about it, I don't post about it, I don't go out there wanting anyone to lick my bum about it, I'm just out here and I know one day, should I help the right person, and they're grateful, they're gonna come out and they're gonna be like, you know what, I appreciate Nikita because she helped me get here, she helped me get there, but I don't even do it for the applause, I don't do it so that they can say, I do it because it's just the right thing to do. And why not?
Your music influences have ranged from Rose Muhando and Nigerian pop to American R&B with people like Rihanna. When you're creating, do you think about those influences, or have they become so deeply embedded that they just come out in the way you create your own music?
I see inspiration kind of like taking a test. You read for your exam, and when you're in the exam room sitting with your paper, you're not thinking about every single thing that you read. You read the question, and you hope that the answer will flow to you depending on how prepared you are.
How I relate it to making my music is if I am genuinely, I've listened to the music, I've taken it in, I've meditated with it, I do not need to go over my notes again. I just write, and it will show. There is a way that your brain is able to divide or to compartmentalize different ideas and how they would apply into your different ideas. You never have to be listening to other songs at the same time in order to make that happen.
You just have to constantly feed yourself with the material, and then it will show in the music, because if you then do the former, what's going to happen is you're just going to plagiarize. So even when I'm making a song and I can hear like, okay, this song kind of sounds like, let me give an example, Diamonds by Rihanna. The one thing you're not allowed to do at that one instance is play that song because then you're going to start copying. That's how I do it.
Speaking of influences, are there any people that are on your dream collaboration list?
I think I only have one person on my dream collaboration list right now, and that's Dave. I really like Dave. His song, Raindance with Tems is amazing. But I think if I were to make a song with Dave it would never be a commercial song. I wouldn't waste my opportunity on that. I would want to drain him of every little bit of niche creativity he has in him, because that's how I fell in love with Dave. I didn't really get exposed to Dave through the commercial song.
What can fans look forward to next? Is there anything else in the book? An unreleased project before the year ends that you want to bless them with?
There's definitely gonna be some songs out before the year ends, but, in terms of a whole project, no. I'm not gonna lie and say that. I really hope to release my debut album next year though.
For the Peaches and Cream event, I would say that's gonna be the best show of the year yet, actually the best of my life yet. So if anyone is waiting to attend my concert, and they don't know which one to attend, because I know there's a couple, they need to attend that one.
Finally, if we remove Nikita Kering’ the public persona that people know, what would you want to discover next just for yourself?
I really just want to see how far I can push my entrepreneurial side. I'm just about to launch one of my businesses, aside from Nikita Kering’, because I'm not going to be publicizing it, and I just want to see that I can actually manage a huge business and not lose my mind.
Cover Credit: Nikita Kering’/Tofauti Vibes
In its first 12 days on Prime Video, The US TV series Off Campus drew 36 million viewers worldwide, becoming Prime Video's most-viewed series debut of all time among young women aged 18 to 34.
It was the first of a dozen young adult titles the video streaming platform rolled out this summer as part of its "Obsession Is In Session" initiative. Other titles coming include: Every Year After, The Love Hypothesis, Fourth Wing, Rose Hill, Boys of Tommen, Sterling Point and Elle, a Legally Blonde prequel.
Three weeks after Off Campus broke records, The Last Sunrise, based on Anna Todd's novel and starring Maia Reficco and Eva Longoria, debuted at number one on Prime Video's global Top 10 Movies chart in 33 countries within 24 hours of release.
Prime Video is not dabbling in young adult romance. It is building a content world around it. To understand why that matters, it helps to understand what existed before it.
For two decades, The CW was the home of glossy, emotionally intense young adult television. Gossip Girl, The Vampire Diaries, Supernatural, Riverdale, Arrow, Jane the Virgin, One Tree Hill: the network built a specific audience and served it steadily.
When Nexstar Media Group took over The CW, in August 2022, ten shows were cancelled immediately, three times the average annual cancellation rate over the previous decade. Average primetime viewership fell to 453,000 in 2023, down 21 percent year over year, finishing last among all five major broadcast networks. Riverdale, the last show still carrying the network, ended in August 2023 after seven seasons, averaging just under half a million viewers in its final run — a quarter of what it drew at its peak.
The CW's Netflix licensing deal ending was the financial trigger. Without that revenue stream, the network cut aggressively. The audience that had grown up watching Gossip Girl and The Vampire Diaries had nowhere to go.
Netflix had built a streaming version of that audience in the late 2010s. To All the Boys I've Loved Before, The Kissing Booth, Never Have I Ever, Heartstopper: the platform demonstrated that young adult romance worked on streaming and drew a devoted, active fanbase. Then it moved on. Adolescence swept awards in 2026 and became the defining teen drama of the year. XO Kitty and Heartbreak High continued but represented lighter investments. Netflix recognised that the young adult romance audience existed and then chose to serve a more prestigious version of teen content instead. The gap it left was real.
Prime Video's path into that gap was not accidental. A Prime Video executive told The Hollywood Reporter directly that the push into young adult content had been "very thoughtful, very curated", and that the platform had done a purposeful study of what engages younger female audiences.
The answer was BookTok, the TikTok subcommunity for readers that had already built passionate, active fanbases around titles like Off Campus, The Summer I Turned Pretty and Red, White and Royal Blue before any of them had a screen adaptation. BookTok readers are not passive audiences. They campaign for adaptations, create content around them and drive conversation before a show has aired a single episode.
Prime Video noticed that energy as a distribution infrastructure it could plug directly into. Adapting novels with pre-built fanbases was not just a creative decision. It was a way of acquiring an audience that had already done the promotional work.
The shows reflect this logic consistently. The Summer I Turned Pretty is based on Jenny Han's novels. Maxton Hall on Mona Kasten's. Off Campus on Elle Kennedy's. Every Year After on Carley Fortune's. The Last Sunrise on Anna Todd's, the author behind the After series, one of the most successful self-published young adult romance franchises in history.
Every major Prime Video young adult romance is a book adaptation. Every author had an established fanbase that preceded the screen version. Every fanbase was active on BookTok. The A.V. Club's assessment was direct: "All the soaps and ships have moved to Prime Video."
Maxton Hall Season 2 is confirmed. Off Campus is already renewed for Season 2. The pipeline beyond that includes Fourth Wing, based on Rebecca Yarros' romantic novel that broke UK records for fastest-selling sci-fi and fantasy title, and Boys of Tommen, another BookTok phenomenon. The platform is not treating these shows as experiments. It is treating them as franchises.
The demographic the platform is targeting is specific. 66 percent of romantasy book buyers in the UK are aged 13 to 34. Prime Video's Off Campus debut set records among women aged 18 to 34 specifically, the same demographic The CW spent two decades building and then lost.
The Last Sunrise reaching number one globally in 33 countries in 24 hours confirms the audience is not limited to one market. Young adult romance travels, and Prime Video has built its slate around titles with global fanbases rather than domestic ones. Maxton Hall is German. The Last Sunrise was shot in Mallorca. Every Year After is Canadian. The platform understands that BookTok is not an American phenomenon and has positioned its slate accordingly.
What Prime Video has built is something The CW spent twenty years cultivating through broadcast television and Netflix briefly owned through streaming: a destination. When a viewer finishes one show and wants another like it, Prime Video is now the platform they open. The Summer I Turned Pretty leads to Maxton Hall leads to Off Campus leads to Every Year After. The slate holds them. The CW understood this logic for two decades. Netflix understood it briefly and then chose prestige. Prime Video is the third party in this sequence, and the first to build intentionally around serving this audience.
The CW served this audience for twenty years and then stopped. Netflix created a streaming version of it and then moved on. Whether Prime Video becomes the permanent home of young adult romance or simply its current one is a question the next few years will answer. What the numbers already confirm is that 36 million people in 12 days is an audience that was waiting for somewhere to go. Prime Video gave them an address.
Credit: Amazon Prime Video
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