There was a time when music videos demanded patience. You watched them from beginning to end because the visual itself felt like an event. Directors treated music videos like miniature films, complete with story arcs, emotional pacing, costume changes, dramatic pauses, and cinematic reveals. Whether it was the glossy spectacle of early 2000s hip-hop or the aspirational storytelling that shaped older Afrobeats visuals, music videos once existed as experiences meant to hold a viewer’s attention for four uninterrupted minutes.

Today, many music videos seem designed for a completely different audience; people scrolling with one thumb.

Across Afrobeats, hip-hop, and pop music, directors are increasingly creating visuals that are not just meant to be watched, but redistributed. The modern music video now lives across TikTok clips, Instagram Reels, reaction edits, fan pages, and repost accounts. In many cases, the most important moment in a music video is no longer the ending or storyline. It is the fifteen-second clip that survives outside the video itself.

The shift is impossible to ignore. Asake’s visuals often thrive through chaotic crowd scenes, surreal transitions, repetitive choreography, and highly stylized frames that feel engineered for replayability. Rema has mastered dramatic imagery and fashion-forward aesthetics that frequently circulate online as standalone screenshots. Tyla’s visual appeal is deeply tied to movement, rhythm, and dance culture, making her videos naturally adaptable to short-form platforms.

This visual language extends beyond Afrobeats. In hip-hop, artists like Playboi Carti and Travis Scott lean into hyperactive editing styles, distorted visuals, chaotic lighting, and imagery that mirrors the pace of internet consumption itself. The audience has changed, and directors are adapting accordingly. A listener rarely experiences music in one place anymore. A song might first appear as a dance challenge on TikTok, then show up in a meme compilation on X, before eventually leading someone to the full video on YouTube weeks later. Music videos are no longer expected to function only as complete narratives. They must now survive fragmentation. Every frame has to compete for attention independently.

This is perhaps why modern visuals feel faster, louder, and overstimulating than before. Rapid cuts, exaggerated colour grading, dramatic transitions, choreographed “viral moments”,  and instantly recognizable aesthetics now dominate contemporary music videos. Directors understand that if a visual cannot generate conversation online within seconds, audiences may never engage with the full piece at all.The traditional music video rewarded immersion. Videos unfolded slowly, allowing emotion, storytelling, and symbolism to build naturally. Older hip-hop and R&B visuals often relied on cinematic narratives that mirrored film culture. Early Afrobeats visuals also leaned heavily into aspirational storytelling, luxury imagery, romance, nightlife, and carefully paced performance scenes. Now, the emphasis is increasingly placed on replayability rather than narrative depth.

This is not necessarily a bad thing. In many ways, short-form culture has pushed directors to become more inventive as audiences consume visuals so quickly; artists are experimenting more boldly with fashion, choreography, editing, animation, humour, and unconventional camera work. Internet culture rewards visual distinctiveness, and many directors are responding with more daring creative choices.  For African artists especially, this shift has opened new possibilities. Virality allows artists to travel globally without relying entirely on traditional media systems. A dance clip, transition sequence, or striking visual frame can circulate across continents within hours. Artists no longer need audiences to sit through entire interviews or television appearances to gain recognition. Sometimes, one visually memorable moment is enough. Yet something has undeniably been lost alongside this evolution.

Narrative-driven music videos are becoming increasingly rare. The slower pacing that once allowed viewers to emotionally connect with visuals is disappearing beneath rapid editing and constant stimulation. Some videos feel built for the algorithm, not for the story. Even the structure of music itself has started to change in response. Songs are shorter. Hooks arrive faster. Beat switches happen earlier. Visuals now mirror the same urgency. The goal is no longer simply to create art that resonates emotionally, but content that survives circulation. The modern music video exists in an era where attention itself has become currency. Maybe that is why today’s visuals often feel disjointed. Directors are no longer creating solely for television screens or YouTube premieres. They are creating for phone screens, repost culture, fan edits, and infinite scrolling timelines. The “moment” now matters more than the sequence.

This does not mean music videos are dying. Maybe they are simply evolving into a new visual language altogether.

A generation raised online does not necessarily remember entire music videos the way previous generations did. They remember frames. A dance move. A transition. A facial expression. A fashion look. A screenshot. A ten-second clip attached to a trending sound. The clip itself has become part of the storytelling process. In that sense, directors are not just filming for music anymore. They are filming for circulation. They are creating visuals designed to move through the internet at the same speed as culture itself. And perhaps the real question is no longer whether music videos are losing depth. The more uncomfortable question is whether virality has become our generation’s preferred form of storytelling.

Photo credit: Adobe stock

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Anybody who was not present at the Piano People Scorpion Kings show this weekend missed a day for the books. Kicking off festival season and the summer vibes in London, the sun was shining, the heat was at a high, and the vibes were flowing perfectly throughout Barking Park. With the anticipation for the Scorpion Kings' London return already at an all-time high, the duo came and once again left no crumbs. Playing a three-hour set, they once again showed why there is actually nobody like the Scorpion Kings, and they really are the kings of the game.

Before we got to the main act of the day, the vibes were set from the beginning. Arriving at the park almost halfway through the day meant we missed the early sets, but entering just in time to catch Sam Deep meant the vibes were set strong for us. Playing the Second Location stage, his set came at the peak of the heat and sunshine, and yet that did not stop a single person from vibing along, which started off with smooth vibes before going into his crowd favourites. Playing his latest single ‘Izospana’, which features Thatohatsi and Zuma, the crowd was already vibing to it despite it only being out for three days prior. The Shelaholics were also active and ready as soon as his hit came over the speakers, having everybody losing their minds and singing along at the top of their lungs. The rest of his set continued with other tracks, such as the Thatohatsi-featured standout ‘Who I Am’ track ‘Thandaza ’. 

From Sam Deep, we paid a brief visit to the Groove Station and caught the Qqom vibes, which we indulged in. One thing that was evident throughout the day is there was really something for everybody. With a rich diversity of South African sounds in the lineup, there was a strong display of South African music and the love and popularity it has travelled beyond its borders. 

A standout of the day was none other than Dlala Thuzkin, who, having now seen him perform live three times, has never performed a bad set. As the lead-up to the main act, the energy he brought to the masses on the main stage got everybody excited for the kings. As someone who has been a pioneer in the 3-Step space, he delivered a set that felt like the perfect moment at golden hour. The ladies of the mainstage, Thatohatsi & Tracy, also proved that they really are the top-tier vocalists that they are, as their vocals rang from the front to the back of the stage, bringing songs like ‘Abantwana Bhako’ to life in a different way that was sensational to experience. 

The Scorpion took to the stage and once again delivered a killer set that made three hours feel more like 30 minutes. If there was ever a question about the hype of Scorpion Kings as a duo, they really bring something different to the table. With Kabza’s gospel-soulful vibes, he ushered in the set very smoothly as we watched the sun set. Only to be matched by Maphorisha’s high-energy hits, he delivered. Joined by Uncool MC, who hosted the main stage all day and did what was needed without doing too much from an MC, allowing the Kings to shine. Their set certainly delivered and was worth all the wait. Never ones to disappoint, the range they bring not only of their songs but of amapiano in general really shows their star power in how they continue to showcase the genre, no matter the stage they are on. 

Overall, the day was a stunning vibe of music, food, drinks, and a cultural celebration of Amapiano and Southern African music and its global impact, which it continues to hold. 

On what felt like officially the beginning of summer, the masses gathered to London’s O2 Area to experience the legendary DJ that is Black Coffee take the centre stage joined by an orchestra as well as a few guest performers on stage as he played a 3 hour + set. 

The moment was no doubt a monumental one for him and brought his fans together for a unique offering. Accompanied by various musicians who brought their vocals to the O2 stage as they came on stage one by one. Stand out moments included an appearance by Msaki who joined him to perform their hit Wish You Were Here, as well as Delilah Montagu who performed Drive and even Alicia Keys who joined him to perform In Common. And as those moments brought the energy and love to the crowd to an all time high. 

The set that spanned 3 hours from when he came on at 7:45 was one that catered to the UK crowd. Bringing his collaborations from all over and infusing them all throughout his set. There was a moment in time which felt that perhaps sounded like it had fallen into one and called for an opportunity to bring back some of his classic hits. Having never experienced him before there was nothing to go off on except for the high expectations and hoping for some of his older hits. 

The set up itself was one that served its purpose with him centred in the arena on stage with the standing crowd all around him and the orchestra playing behind and surrounding him on stage for the moment they were on stage before they departed and came back towards the end of the show. The energy of the crowd definitely vibrated across the space of the arena and was very apparent throughout the duration of the show.

For all that was achieved it was certainly a moment for Black Coffee and marked another significant moment in his career and the levels he has been able to reach. Yet it somewhat felt like a reminder of what it really means to a global artist and such catering your sound for certain crowds in where you go in terms of how it impacts your sound and the music you make. In the case of Black Coffee who has become so global and playing for crowds with various musical palettes there felt like a bit of a loss to the classic sound of Black Coffee.  However the sentiment there is no doubt that this moment was a monumental one in the levels that he has been able to reach and his position in the international music scene.

Though the Super Eagles will not be at the tournament, Nigeria has two artists on the official FIFA World Cup 2026 soundtrack - Rema on 'Goals' and Burna Boy on 'Dai Dai' alongside Shakira. The irony writes itself: While the national team’s qualifying campaign collapsed, Nigerian artists were being called to soundtrack the most-watched sporting event on the planet.

That says something about where Afrobeats stands in 2026 and about where Rema stands within it.

“Goals”, the official FIFA World Cup 2026 anthem featuring LISA, Anitta, and Rema, dropped May 21. Produced by Grammy-winner Cirkut alongside Bava, PinkSlip and Tropkillaz, the multilingual track blends Latin pop, K-pop and Afrobeats into a percussion-soaked three-minute collaboration that pulls three continents into one stadium-ready record. LISA brings the precision and charisma of one of K-pop's most recognisable solo careers. Anitta brings the multilingual fluency and rhythmic confidence of Brazil's biggest musical export. Rema brings Afrobeats - and the specific, assured energy of someone who already knows the world knows his name.

The song has drawn inevitable comparisons to Shakira's 'Waka Waka', with fans split between nostalgia for older World Cup anthems and acceptance of a new, more globally fused sound. That debate misses the point. 'Goals' was not built to be 'Waka Waka'. It was built for 2026 - for an audience that consumes music in thirty-second clips, that follows artists across three continents simultaneously, that already knows every name on the track before the video drops. 

The conversation in Nigeria has been less about the song and more about the verse. Rema opens his section with intent: "Breaking all their records, now they wan shift the goal post / Normally Remy get unlimited flow / One of one, check around the world, me no get clone / From Nigeria to Monaco." It is confident, specific and fully Rema - a man who knows exactly what he is and where he stands. The frustration from Nigerian fans was never about quality. It was about appetite. The verse was good enough to make people want more of it, which is precisely the problem and precisely the point. 

Because 'Goals' did something that a World Cup anthem rarely does for a specific artist's fanbase - it reactivated a hunger. The announcement marked another major international milestone for Rema, who has continued to establish himself as one of Africa's most successful music exports. 'Calm Down' made him a global name. The FIFA stage - performing alongside LISA and Anitta at the opening ceremony in Los Angeles on June 12, in front of the largest audience a World Cup has ever commanded, is the next chapter of that story. 

Rema said it himself: "Three continents, one track… bringing all our sounds together like this is a big moment for music on the world stage." He is right. It is a big moment. It is also, for anyone paying attention, a reminder of what a full Rema project at this level of ambition and visibility could sound like.

The World Cup runs from June 11 to July 19. 'Goals' will soundtrack stadiums, opening ceremonies, highlight reels and closing nights. And when the last whistle blows, and the trophy is lifted, the question Nigeria has already started asking will still be sitting there, unanswered.

The verse was good. Where is the rest?

IG: @sophiannadozie

Sixteen years ago, Shakira stood on a South African stage and sang a song that has never fully left. 'Waka Waka (This Time for Africa)' became the standard by which every World Cup anthem since has been measured - not always fairly, but always inevitably. It had a euphoric chorus, an African heartbeat, and the specific warmth of a tournament that felt, for the first time, like it belonged to the continent hosting it. Every song that came after it has been living in its shadow. 

The official FIFA 2026 World Cup song arrived May 14 - a nearly four-minute track featuring Shakira and Nigerian superstar Burna Boy, blending Afrobeats, dance-pop, world beats and reggaetón into something that moves between continents without losing its footing. This is not Shakira attempting to recreate Waka Waka. It is Shakira's understanding that the world has changed, that the sound of football has changed, and that the artist best placed to meet her in that new world is the one they call the African Giant. 

The pairing was purposeful. FIFA wanted artists who would appeal to the Latin population and the sub-Saharan African population simultaneously and Burna Boy, the first solo Nigerian artist to win a Grammy and the first African artist to sell out a US stadium, was the clearest possible choice for what that ambition required. His presence on this record is not decorative. It is structural. Lyrically, both artists deliver something motivational and uplifting - Shakira opening with "You knew from the day you were born / That here in this place you belong," Burna responded with "Go follow your desire / Where there's a will, there's a way." The song name-checks Maradona, Maldini, Ronaldo, Beckham, Messi - a roll call of the sport's mythology delivered with the ease of two artists who understand exactly what the stage requires. 

The music video, directed by Hannah Lux Davis and shot in Miami, opens with Messi, Mbappé and Haaland declaring "We are ready" for Shakira - before she appears atop Mexico City's iconic Angel of Independence, then dances through a desert landscape alongside African children, then stands on a glowing globe amid a starry sky as Burna Boy arrives for his verse. It is cinematic, global, and completely aware of its own scale. The kind of visual that was built to soundtrack highlight reels and opening ceremonies in equal measure. 

'Dai Dai' is the song the Waka Waka comparison was always meant to be about. Not 'Goals' - the cross-continental LISA, Anitta and Rema collaboration that was never competing in that lineage - but this one. Shakira returned to the World Cup stage 16 years after she defined what a tournament anthem could sound like, this time with Afrobeats not at the edges but at the centre. 

The question 'Dai Dai' leaves open is whether you would sing along at the terrace, or whether it was built more for the social media algorithm than the stadium. The song is immaculately constructed, its melody lodges itself after a few listens, and the groove is undeniable. But Waka Waka had something beyond craft. The kind of chorus that removes the distance between you and the music entirely. 'Dai Dai' is the more sophisticated record. Whether it becomes the more beloved one depends on what happens when 80,000 people try to sing it together on July 19 at the World Cup final in New Jersey. 

The 2026 FIFA World Cup begins June 11 at Estadio Azteca in Mexico City. Shakira will headline the first-ever World Cup final halftime show. 'Dai Dai' will soundtrack the opening. Between those two moments, the song will have every opportunity to prove what kind of anthem it actually is - not in a streaming session, not in a review, but in a stadium full of people who came to feel something.

IG:@sophiannadozie

The Cannes Film Festival continues to serve as one of the world’s most prominent film platforms, bringing together filmmakers, actors, and industry professionals globally.

At its 79th edition, held from May 12 to May 23, 2026 at the Palais des Festivals et des Congrès, three African titles were selected in the festival’s Un Certain Regard section, a category known for highlighting emerging filmmakers and distinctive storytelling.

This is not the first time African filmmakers have been recognised in this category. Previous selections include My Fathers Shadow , Nigeria’s first film to be featured at Cannes alongside titles like Aisha Can’t Fly and Promised Sky.

The inclusion of these films reflects the growing global attention on African storytelling particularly within the Un Certain Regard section.

‘Ben’ Imana ( Children of God)’

The film, Ben’Imana (Children of God), made history as the first film by a Rwandan director (Marie-Clémentine Dusabejambo) to be chosen for the main festival.

The story follows a woman named Veneranda, who survived the horrific 1994 Rwandan genocide. Years later, her community holds local trials to try and find justice. At the same time, her young daughter gets pregnant. These two events force the family and the village to finally talk about their painful past, learn to forgive, and find a way to heal together.

‘Congo Boy’

Congo Boy , directed by Rafiki Fariala from the Central African Republic, was a co-production between companies from the Central African Republic, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and France. Set in Bangui, the capital of the Central African Republic, the coming-of-age story followed Robert, a 17-year-old Congolese boy whose family had been displaced by conflict in the neighbouring Democratic Republic of the Congo. The film focused on themes of displacement, identity, and survival.

‘Las Mas Dulce’

Also selected is La Más Dulce, directed by French-Moroccan filmmaker Laïla Marrakchi. The film marked her return to the Un Certain Regard section 21 years after her 2005 film Marock. Co-written with Delphine Agut, the international co-production involves Morocco, France, Spain, and Belgium. Inspired by real-world investigative reporting, the story followed two young Moroccan women, Hasna and Meriem, who travel to southern Spain to work as seasonal laborers on strawberry farms in Andalusia. The film examined issues around migration, labor conditions, and economic survival.

Adding to the continent's prominent representation, the festival also featured Clarissa, a major new drama from Nigeria. Directed by the acclaimed twin filmmaking duo Arie and Chuko Esiri, the film secured a prestigious spot in the Directors’ Fortnight (Quinzaine des cinéastes) section. The movie is a modern-day reimagining of Virginia Woolf’s famous 1925 novel Mrs Dalloway, shifting the classic story to contemporary Lagos, Nigeria. 

In addition to screenings, African filmmakers  also participated in the Marché du Film, the festival’s film market, which ran alongside the main event. The market provided opportunities for producers, distributors, and investors to negotiate deals and form partnerships.

Industry reports indicated that African participation at Cannes has remained consistent in recent years, with multiple films from the continent featured in previous editions. The 2026 selection continued this trend, highlighting productions from different regions of Africa.

Before We Fall Asleep came Before The Morning Light. One ends the day; the other starts it.
Johnny Drille is there before the day closes and before it opens, a cyclic love, all the way through. Five years between albums, and what a return. What a poet.

Johnny shows tremendous growth in sound and range on this project. Originally known for his British-inflected folk-pop, he now moves freely between pidgin, American and British cadences.
Every track carries a dreamy, intentional quality celebrating love, acknowledging its trials without condemning them, lifting the listener. For anyone who still believes in love, Johnny is that artist, and Before The Morning Light is the clearest proof yet of that conviction. Sequenced with intention, the album moves like a relationship itself, early wonder, deeper commitment, occasional ache, and a closing resolve that this is the one you're limited forever is for.

"In Time", featuring Angélique Kidjo, opens the album, and their voices blend beautifully, each expressing love in their respective native dialects. A Grammy-winning artist on track one? You already know what kind of album you're in for. "Mind" is where the pidgin lands best, fluent and completely at home in the melody. It's amazing hearing pidgin sung the way Johnny does. "Blown Away" carries beautiful strings underneath the feeling of being undone by someone, every single day, with the standout line: "If no be you, then I no do love again."

"Colorado", featuring Ayra Starr and Young Jonn, the album's pilot single, has garnered over six million streams on Spotify. Ayra's ‘no be by who perfect’ is one of the most quotable lines on the entire record, funny, because this song kind of is. "Waste Your Time" featuring Jerub speaks directly to someone carrying old heartbreak, telling her he is not that story. "Chokehold" featuring Aquila blends so naturally with Johnny as he speaks on a woman who has him completely and will not let go.“'Last Forever” has a cool flow that suits his tone with the resounding words, 'Girl, I want you in my world, you got my back, and I got yours, imma protect you with my life, my heart, my love.’ In “No Yawa”, he reinstates forever love to his lover, saying he's her sure plug, ‘No yawa for you.’

Fireboy on "Angelina" is a solid track. Tiwa Savage on "Over The Moon" outdoes herself, full stop.
Johnny probes the sour era of the relationship with Nonso Amadi on “What is this Love”, asking why the change in their connection; ‘Why so unsure…what you want more?’ putting his foot forward in fixing it.
Lojay on "Speak Up" carries a lost love confession so honestly it aches, a painful reminisce. "Baby, I still need your love, I still think of us."
"I'm Available" has top-tier production with over a million streams already, and a simple promise: "I'm available anytime you call me”

"Second Chance" closes the album with honest words: "God knew what I needed, so he gave me you." Perfect for a wedding. Perfect for an album entirely about choosing to believe in love.
With all the noise in the world right now: Divisions, disillusionment, the gender wars playing out online.
Johnny Drille quietly shows defiance in believing in romance and love. He holds a lighter in the dark and speaks from the heart, unabashedly. Before The Morning Light is a solid 10/10 and genuinely a beautiful listen.

IG:| @zoannafr

Sometime last year, while struggling to cover coursework on the relationship between law, morality, and religion in time for upcoming exams, I uploaded the materials for the course to ChatGPT and prompted it to explain how these concepts intertwined to me like a 10-year-old, and it performed excellently. Looking back at it now, what I remember most about that period is the fact that my reliance on artificial intelligence (AI) was instinctive, which has now become commonplace in many fields such as medicine, construction, entertainment and war. However, there are still hesitations  amongst practitioners in certain fields that are hesitant to use it, one of which is creative writing.

On May 13, 2026, the Commonwealth Foundation released the winners of its Short Story Prize. A few days later, the Caribbean regional winner, Jamir Nazir's winning short story, The Serpent in the Grove, was alleged to have been written using AI. In response, the director general of the Commonwealth Foundation, Razmi Farook,  stated that the allegations are being investigated. On why AI detection tools weren't used, she responded that doing so “would raise significant concerns surrounding consent and artistic ownership”, seeing as the writers themselves had already stated that no AI was used in their works.

Literature has always been viewed as a creative expression carried out by people, not machines. Readers themselves have also come to see every sentence by writers as a result of specific human consciousness and ingenuity, but AI has come to overturn this, putting creative writing in a crisis of authenticity and originality. This incident speaks to the cultural anxiety of readers and writers alike in the wake of the various ways in which AI can be used. It saliently asks: should writing still be regarded as one of the last cultural practices in which sole human genius is romanticized or should it seek to evolve, like many other aspects of human living have, in light of the AI bloom?

Writing has been understood as one of the highest forms of human intellect and expression. The works of Plato, Karl Marx, Shakespeare, Freud, Kant and many others are revered for their internalised experience and thought, which have been used to shape the world today. Literature, even in the minds of the illiterate, is respected because of the human mind behind it.

This is the background against which AI seeks to integrate itself into writing, especially creative writing. Creative writing seeks to strip layers that often seem complex to describe, to animate what would otherwise have been inanimate. This is why we have fiction, poetry, memoirs, playwriting, songwriting, and short stories, among others, writing that exists only if one taps into the deepest parts of their psyche and is true to themselves. This is perhaps why people feel betrayed when literature benefits from an AI assist. This is what informs the critiques of Jamir's submission, because even though the allegations may be wrong, the fact that the authenticity of his short story is in dispute in the first place is proof of the distrust that shimmers beneath the surface in literature these days.

It is noteworthy to mention that the idea of originality and authenticity, as is perceived in creative writing, is not as pure as many may think. Writing workshops, dictionaries, research assistants, and ghostwriting show that writing isn't something that is done alone by a writer, let alone creative writing. The relationship between an editor and a writer is explained here. The editor feeds the writer's work into a literary furnace to make it better, but the writer is still regarded as the author. This is a practice that has existed for decades, and the issue of authorship of the article, after editing, is never in dispute.

Inching closer to the present iteration, Grammarly, an AI, is used for grammatical and structural correction. More often than not, suggestions made by this AI in correcting one's work do not seem to compromise the integrity of said work, further establishing the idea that the myth of the completely solitary writer is a creation of literary culture. Even the concept of writing rooms, in the context of creative writing for TV/film scripts, was created so that writers can come together to collaborate on film scripts before production. AI simply represents the latest in supplementary tools created by technology to assist the creative writer in their work.

But merely summing up AI usage as a supplementary tool for creative writing would be oversimplifying things, especially without a basis. This is because AI, for all its benefits, sacrifices authenticity on the altar of simplicity. It recycles other people's works and ideas and then uses them as the basis for its inspiration. Once inspired by other people's works, it then simply reassembles them into a new text. This is why AI can only plagiarise and not create.

There's also the fact that AI effaces the voice of the creative writer. By itself, authentic creative writing is not perfect and involves a lot of flaws and mistakes. Throwing a prompt to AI to write an article from scratch makes things easier and probably better. However, such continued use would transform creative writing into something monolithic with repetitive rhythms and recognisable patterns such as the negative parallelism for which AI, like ChatGPT, is known, and which was also used as evidence of Jamir's alleged use of AI in his short story, thus defeating the need to create, one of writing’s primary purposes.

Though its continued use is one of the many causes of cognitive debt, outright refusal of its use in creative writing is perhaps unrealistic. For a creative writer, there are 2 types of thinking: irrational (divergent thinking) and rational (convergent thinking). The former involves the chaotic process of brainstorming ideas, while the latter is methodically and consistently arranging those ideas into points. A creative writer needs to possess both mindsets as well as the dexterity to switch between them; otherwise, the work would be incomplete. While putting pen to paper, there is a strong likelihood of deviating from the consistency that the creative piece demands. In this regard, an assistant may be necessary, especially one versed in outlining, editing, and restructuring pieces to suit one's tone and voice based on experience.

Outside the creative writing space, AI is used to write, improve and remix songs, for digital production of art, CGI in films and for photoshopping images. Technology used in each of these fields did not destroy them. If anything, it improved them, none more so than AI in contemporary times. Since that's the case, why do many fear the death of creative writing in the age of AI?

The real issue here then seems to shift from AI itself and towards the unclear boundaries of how to use AI in creative writing, misrepresenting AI-generated works as solely carried out by the “author” and the issue of secrecy. If AI was used to write a creative piece, the questions should be: to what extent was it used, in what manner was it used, should such disclosures be compulsory and who actually authored the article? AI cannot replace human creativity, and the literary community can't say that AI won't pervade creative writing. Rather, the focus should be on deciding what kinds of human originality and authenticity matter in light of the growth of mimetic machines that question such.

IG:@muyiwavstheopp

In its sixth edition, the Red Bull Dance Your Style Kenya arrived at Nairobi’s KICC Tsavo Hall on May 24. Built around one-on-one freestyle battles and unpredictable music selections, the competition challenges dancers to adapt instantly while winning over the crowd rather than a traditional judging panel. But beyond the competition format itself, the event also highlighted something much larger happening across the continent–the growing visibility and interconnectedness of African street dance culture.

As Red Bull Dance Your Style continues expanding through countries including Kenya, Nigeria, Tanzania, and Uganda, the competition has become part of a wider ecosystem connecting dancers, creatives, and youth communities across borders. In many ways, the event reflects how African youth culture itself is becoming increasingly collaborative through music, fashion, internet culture, and movement.

That transformation is happening both online and offline. Through TikTok, Instagram Reels, and music-driven creator communities, dance trends now circulate rapidly between African cities, often blurring distinctions between local and regional styles. Amapiano choreography, Afro-fusion movement, dancehall influences, and street-inspired freestyle routines have become part of a constantly evolving visual language shared by young people across the continent.

For PESOS’s founder and creative director, Edmund Eldridge, Red Bull Dance Your Style arrived at a moment when African youth are already actively shaping and expanding these cultural movements on their own. “It strongly highlights how the African youth are actively taking part in growing the subculture and pushing the boundaries to evolve the movement art,” Eldridge says.

PESOS collaborated with Red Bull Kenya on the event’s creative direction and campaign visuals, bringing together dancers and artists already rooted within Nairobi’s street culture. Eldridge describes the collaboration as a natural intersection between fashion, dance and youth identity. “Streetwear and dance emerged together from the same cultural DNA; hip-hop,” he explains.

The campaign featured collaborators including dancer Ian Tico, artist Xenia Manasseh, and the Legitz dance collective, all chosen for their connection to the culture beyond performance alone. According to Eldridge, the goal was to document Kenyan street dance culture through a contemporary visual lens while still preserving its authenticity. “The idea was to merge the Kenyan street dance art with our contemporary style of documentation to uplift the visuals,” he says. That emphasis on authenticity speaks to a larger shift currently happening within African creative industries. Historically, many dance communities existed outside institutional or commercial support structures, developing instead through community-led spaces, informal networks, and online sharing. 

Events like Red Bull Dance Your Style are now bringing greater visibility to those communities while simultaneously creating new opportunities for dancers and creatives. This year’s edition ultimately crowned dancer Zac_the.great as Kenya’s representative for the World Final set to take place later this year in Zurich, Switzerland, where dancers from over 50 countries are expected to compete.

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The event also created moments of cultural exchange that extended beyond the competition floor itself. Eldridge recalls international dancers connecting with Kenyan performers throughout the weekend, sharing routines and learning local dance styles from one another. “We saw Kenyan dancers teaching the Kenyan street dances to one of the foreign dancers,” he says. “That shows you that the youth want to connect beyond borders.”

Those moments reflect a broader reality within contemporary African youth culture: connection increasingly happens through shared creative language. Music has already demonstrated Africa’s global influence over the past decade through genres like Afrobeats and amapiano. Dance culture now appears positioned for similar expansion, fueled largely by young creators building audiences online while simultaneously developing local scenes on the ground.

Still, Eldridge believes recognition for many African creatives remains overdue, admitting, “These subcultures are lives we see people live every day, and it’s painful to see very gifted people not getting the recognition they deserve.” For him, collaborations like Red Bull Dance Your Style are not simply about entertainment or short-term visibility, but about long-term cultural investment and changing perceptions around creative work itself. “We want more kids growing up to be confident that they can follow their passions, get recognition and also get paid for it,” he says.

Later this year, Kenya’s newest Red Bull Dance Your Style champion will carry that same energy from Nairobi to Zurich for the world finals, representing not only personal ambition but the momentum of a dance culture increasingly refusing to remain local. As African street dance continues evolving across borders, competitions like Red Bull Dance Your Style are becoming more than performance spaces; by helping document, connect and legitimize creative communities already shaping the future of African youth culture in real time.

IG:@_stanleykilonzo

A sixth sold out appearance at the O2 Arena finalised a homecoming, crowned in glory and cloaked in anticipation, for 28-year old singer and songwriter Rachel Keen, better known as Raye. The final show of her global tour on the 20th of May for her second studio album, This Album May Contain Hope, marked her independent debut and solidified her as an artist in the truest sense of the word.

The tour - a personal and professional triumph - was a family affair, opened by the singer’s two younger sisters, Amma and Absolutely. 

Starting the night with a nostalgic sound, reminiscent of Y2k whimsy, middle child Lauren Keen, professionally known as Amma, held the audience in her hands as she joked and chatted between songs. A joy in energy and presence, the singer’s tenderly familiar tone and lyrical prowess shone through hits from her solo project Middle Child and a comforting rendition of The Climb.  

As she floated off the stage, the youngest of the three strutted in with an allure that was all her own. What her sister exposed in glowing vulnerability, Abby-Lynn Keen, known by the moniker Absolutely, continued breaking away with cutting lyrics wrapped in electronic and alte-R&B rhythms. From a shy girl “deathly afraid of performing and being seen by people” to a woman having performed over 50 shows in a year, Absolutely’s performance was grounded in a unique prose that set the scene for the story of hope everyone came to see.  

In true eldest sister fashion, Raye appeared on stage beaming with pride for her sisters and, what I imagine to be, excitement for the performance to come. Covered head to toe in a hooded gown, the set began with the story of depression and despair that had plagued the Tooting-born vocalist. As trumpeters and violinists scurried across the stage, the dark rain cloud that boomed overhead stood no chance as the curtains opened, and the hope that was once contained, spread around the arena. 

A six-time Brit award winner and three-time Grammy nominee, Raye’s vocal expertise and knack for artistry was never really in question. Widely known as one of the best artists of this generation, the stakes were high. As the night went on, though, a reverence for the art of performing bled through the night in an indescribable way. The kind that solidifies legends and stakes claim to mastery. 

The album’s tracklist emphasised  heavy jazz influences and symphonic melodies throughout, with mentions of pop, blues and classical laced in the seasonal shift in songs. Opening strong with her now infamous track from the summer season of the album, Where the Hell is my Husband set the tone for the kind of performance to expect from performers to come. The inclusion of a brass section, live strings, soulful background vocals, and an interactive set created an immersive experience from the standing room to the seating area. Flowing seamlessly into tracks like Beware.. The South London Lover Boy, Flip a Switch, and Winter Woman brought the characteristic storytelling style we’ve come to love from the songstress into full effect. Annotated screens, her flowing bob flipping to the choreography, and the soulful tact applied to a discography with a range as far and wide as her dreams will take her. 

Where the attention to detail was placed in the album, the same was felt in the production. Changing from a concert venue to a jazz bar to a rave, Raye’s versatility was on full display - regaling the crowd with stories behind beloved tracks, a plea for some much-needed deodorant (her words not mine), and a venerating vocal performance that tackled everything from modern day dating to the traumas, pain, strength, and rebirth of humans.

The only disappointment came when the night ended. As her sisters Amma and Absolutely rejoined her on stage in an upbeat production of their song Joy, the crowd lingered for a promised encore in throes. As promised, as quickly as the curtains closed, they went right back up to a boisterous performance of her hit song Escapism. 

The only disappointment came when the night ended. As her sisters Amma and Absolutely rejoined her on stage in an upbeat production of their song Joy, the crowd lingered for a promised encore in throes. As promised, as quickly as the curtains closed, they went right back up to a boisterous performance of her hit song Escapism. 

In her final moments on stage, Raye thanked the crowd profusely, speaking of her plans to escape to the countryside for some rest, reflection, and a chance to let the reality of her life sink in. 

But while she’ll be in the meadows, the rest of us will be escaping to the memories of the final night of her This Tour May Contain New Music - writing her name amongst the greats. 

There’s a certain form of nostalgia stitched into the world of Kwasi Paul. It’s not the polished, trend-driven nostalgia fashion often romanticises, but something much warmer and more lived-in. It’s the kind found in old family photo albums with folded edges, inherited stories passed down over time, heirloom weaving techniques, and memories that refuse to disappear.

“What I like to tell everybody is that Kwasi Paul is my personal diary,” says Sam Boakye, founder and creative director of Kwasi Paul, over a call earlier this month. “A reflection of my upbringing, living in a space I like to call the in-between.” At the time of speaking to Boakye, he'd been moving through “different time zones,” but his voice sharpens the moment he begins talking about the brand. Kwasi Paul, he tells me, is less a fashion label than it is a diary. It’s built from the emotional contradictions of being Ghanaian-American, raised between the Bronx, Queens, and West African culture.

Born in the Bronx and raised in Queens by Ghanaian parents, Boakye describes the brand as an extension of that duality that's both African and American, traditional and contemporary, and deeply personal yet communal. That in-between feeling exists everywhere in the brand’s language. Across Kwasi Paul’s universe, cowrie shell embellishments sit beside sharply tailored coats, heirloom-woven cotton is transformed into contemporary menswear, and family portraits are embedded into garments. Much of the brand’s visual language pulls directly from the textures of memory, from music and childhood nostalgia to the emotional residue of growing up across cultures.

“It’s luxury,” Boakye says later, pausing briefly before clarifying, “but it’s not luxury European-coded. It’s luxury African diaspora with real culture, real meaning, real history.”

What makes Kwasi Paul most compelling is not just the craftsmanship, though that’s certainly part of it. It’s the emotional intentionality underneath it all. Every collection feels like a preservation exercise and an attempt to archive memory before it slips away. His latest collection, Keepsakes, leans furthest into that intimacy yet, drawing from childhood innocence, Anansi stories, books, games, family photographs, and folklore to reconstruct what Boakye describes as “child joy” in the middle of an increasingly exhausting world.

“The world is obviously a shitshow at the current moment,” he tells me bluntly. “So sometimes I like to get lost in the past. Specifically when I was a child.”

That emotional honesty runs throughout our conversation. Fashion, for Boakye, is about storytelling, time travel, and building a world expansive enough for diaspora identity to exist without explanation.

Below, Boakye speaks to Deeds Magazine about music as memory, rejecting creative boxes, childhood nostalgia, and why Kwasi Paul is only just getting started.

‍Hi Sam – Tell me a little bit about yourself and how Kwasi Paul came to be.

Sam Boakye: I was born in the Bronx and raised in Queens. I’m first-generation by way of Ghana, West Africa. I actually got into fashion through a friend, and over time I developed a strong passion for it and decided I wanted to create something more personal. That’s how Kwasi Paul came about.

What I like to tell everybody is that Kwasi Paul is my personal diary. It’s a reflection of my upbringing, living in a space I call “the in-between,” being influenced by two different worlds. A lot of what you see is direct influence from the diaspora and West African culture, but there’s also a lot of New York personality and Western influence in the DNA of the brand too.

It’s really a combination of my experiences and also curiosity. I’m always thinking about: what does the world look like in the future? And how do I implement that into my design world?

That idea of a “personal diary” feels really central to the brand. As Kwasi Paul has grown, has that relationship changed for you at all?

Sam Boakye: I think it’s still personal, but it’s more of a public diary now. By sharing my experiences and being vulnerable through my art, people now have access to it. Fashion became my outlet. And once you start doing collections, you realise so many people share the same experiences, the same beliefs, and the same views that are relatable. So yeah, it went from being a personal diary into a public diary.

‍How would you describe the world of Kwasi Paul to somebody discovering the brand for the first time?

Sam Boakye: Somebody told me recently that it’s for the person who wants to walk into a room and draw attention without doing too much. It’s innovative leadership through cuts, craftsmanship, and styling.

There’s a bit of 70s flair, maybe some 80s and 90s references too, and classic gentleman-like menswear tailoring. But what really makes it unique is the fabric. We work a lot with heirloom-woven cotton, which has existed across West Africa for centuries, so the story is already rich.

We also create our own patterns and use colour combinations that aren’t always popular. Sometimes you’ll find cowrie shell embellishments or portraits of my family and buttons. It’s really a combination of many things existing together.

There’s a very intentional sense of world-building in the collections and campaigns. What perspective guides that?

Sam Boakye: That’s a good question. I guess my perspective has always been creating a lifestyle for people within the diaspora. I don’t like being put into a box. Sometimes, especially when you come from both worlds, people try to place you into either category. Like, okay, I’m a Black designer or I’m an African designer. But technically, I’m both, right? I’m African-American.

So I think my perspective is really about not being boxed in creatively. If I were to describe the world of Kwasi Paul, it’s a free world for people of the diaspora and allies of the diaspora. It’s an acquired taste too. It’s luxury, but it’s not luxury European-coded. It’s luxury African diaspora — real culture, real meaning, real history. I’m always thinking about innovation too. How do we continue taking what we know, our culture and history, and continue to innovate it in ways that still feel fresh while still holding onto that history tag?

What’s interesting is that even when you speak about clothes, you speak about them emotionally first. When you’re beginning a collection, where does that process usually start for you?

‍Sam Boakye: The story. Always the story.

I’ll sit down and think about what’s happening in the world right now, what happened in the past, and how I can create something that represents the future. Once the story is there, then we develop the garments around it.

Most of our pieces are made from heirloom-woven textiles, but after that we start building the colour story, the stitching, and the silhouettes around the narrative. Music is a huge part of that too. I usually create playlists for collections because music really sets the mood. It helps me understand what the world of the collection feels like emotionally. It’s kind of like writing the first journal entry. Like, what are we going to write about today?

You mentioned music there, and it seems deeply tied to the brand, especially with Diaspora FM. What role does sound play in your creative process? 

Sam Boakye: Music helps me time travel.

If I’m listening to Teddy Pendergrass or Barry White, it takes me back to when my pops used to play those records all the time. Then I start thinking about what I was seeing around me during those years, what influenced me visually, emotionally, culturally.

Sometimes I’ll listen to traditional highlife music from before I was even born and imagine myself in that era through family photo albums and stories. I’m definitely an old soul, so a lot of what I listen to are classics. Music allows me to travel emotionally, and that rhythm influences the silhouettes too. It shapes the entire mood of the collection.

Your latest collection, Keepsakes, feels especially emotional. What was the starting point for that project?

‍Sam Boakye: Keepsakes was very personal. I wanted to tap into a childlike spirit.

As we get older, we lose ourselves a bit. We get caught up in work and responsibilities, and the world is obviously a shitshow right now. So sometimes I like to revisit the past, specifically childhood, because that was when everything felt innocent and pure. I wanted the collection to feel like joy and nostalgia. I pulled from things I kept dear to my heart as a kid: my grandmother’s photographs, my parents’ photo albums, games I used to play, books I used to read, all the way down to Ghanaian folklore like Anansi stories.

Then the research became about memory, family, and storytelling. We started thinking about how Anansi connects to weaving and memory itself. So Keepsakes became this folklore-inspired collection centred around childhood joy and emotional escape.

‍Now that Keepsakes is out in the world, what’s next for Kwasi Paul?

‍Sam Boakye: Honestly, the world-building is only just beginning.

People know us for the clothes and the tailoring right now, but I want to continue expanding the universe around the brand. We’re working on new collections, new silhouettes, and different forms of storytelling beyond fashion too. We’re about to release an animation project connected to Keepsakes, which I’m excited about. More than anything, I just want to keep having fun and continue sharing dialogue with the world through Kwasi Paul.

‍Kwasi Paul SS26 collection is available for order at www.kwasipaul.com

Ashley wants the start of her 28th year to be more than just a birthday, but as emotional evidence of her blossoming and the beginning of a new age. A groovy stylist and arguably one of the continent’s superb IT girls, she’s taking us on a journey of how she spent her years bridging worlds of fashion, creative direction, and unrestrained performance. Ashley is using A28 to break down the walls between her craft and her actual identity.

She sat down for an openhearted interview with Deeds Magazine to talk about moving on her own terms, finding absolute peace, and accepting vulnerability in the midst of a chaotic creative life.

Hi Ashley, how’re you? What have you been up to lately? First off, Happy birthday in advance! Let’s talk about A28, how does it feel to be 28? ‍

‍Ashley: I’m doing waaay better than I started the week, so that’s a huge win for me. Definitely felt like the world (my mind) was out to get me. Ayy! Thank you so much! Truly appreciate the birthday wish.
What have I been up to? PLOTTING! Hustling like I've never hustled in my life.  
How it feels? Ask me how it feels again, in a couple days, hehe!

Back to A28, your work crosses creative direction, styling, performance and many more. but A28 explores the friction between these different versions of yourself.  How have you been able to build and navigate these layers as a creative when they are so deeply intertwined with your actual identity and who you represent as a person?

‍Ashley: The friction between these versions is actually where everything interesting and authentic about me comes from. There were moments this year where I genuinely couldn’t tell if I was creating or collapsing. And A28 kind of came from just deciding that distinction doesn’t matter. My story, and work inspired by these stories, hold all the power.

‍Becoming older is one of the greatest blessings life gives us. Reflecting back on your years so far, what is something you’ll always be grateful for? And on the other side of the coin, what is something you wished had happened but never did because you waited or doubted yourself and what has that taught you? 

‍Ashley: I’ll always be grateful for my ability to genuinely learn from my mistakes and not just move past them, but let them actually change me. It makes me even more excited about aging.

If I’m honest, it’ll be my first real paid opportunity as a creative. I had significant money in my hands for the first time, and I didn’t have the financial knowledge to use it wisely. But I don’t fully regret it because most of it went toward seeing the world and travelling internationally for the first time on my own terms. I was learning how to be the person that opportunity was meant for.

In a broader sense, I don't really doubt myself,  I just get stuck between seeking clarity and realising it was always inside me. My focus now is making sure I’m moving toward what I actually want, which is peace of mind and stability. There’s no manual. Not repeating what I know doesn’t serve me.

In a broader sense, I don't really doubt myself,  I just get stuck between seeking clarity and realising it was always inside me. My focus now is making sure I’m moving toward what I actually want, which is peace of mind and stability. There’s no manual. Not repeating what I know doesn’t serve me.

If you could look back at the years that molded you, what are the mistakes you're most grateful for  and what would you tell the younger version of yourself who was still figuring out how to carry all these different parts and layers of yourself? 

‍Ashley: “BREATHE, it’ll ALL make sense soon.” That’s exactly what I would tell a younger version of me. I wouldn’t say being rebellious, outspoken, and a go-getter is a mistake, but I am extremely grateful for my mind and resilience.

“BREATHE, it’ll ALL make sense soon.”

Why A28? What inspired the Film A28? What was the thought process ? and what was it like? 

Ashley: A28, whew! Firstly, I didn’t want just another traditional Instagram post. I wanted to mark turning 28 in a way that felt honest, a real reflection. Because 27 was a lot. It was the year I felt the most powerful I’d ever felt and also the most stripped. And I couldn’t find a way to talk about that in a caption or a conversation, so I made a film instead.

The thought process was really just: “What did this year actually feel like in my body?” Not what I achieved, not what I lost, but the actual feelings attached to it.

“What did this year actually feel like in my body?”‍

I won’t lie, it wasn’t easy to make. I’m someone who doesn’t find it easy to be an open book, so there’s something very exposing about being in front of a camera when the subject is yourself. But I think that discomfort was kind of the point. It was a quiet act of courage for me, even if it doesn’t look like it from the outside.

A28 is what I made at the end of a year that tried to undo me and didn’t quite manage it.

With A28, Ashley isn’t glamorizing becoming. She is showing it as it is: the uncertainty, the confusion, and the exhaustion. A year held together by both clarity and chaos becomes something she learns to sit with rather than escape.

In leaving 27 behind, she begins to trust herself more, even when things feel open and unresolved. The need to perfect her story falls away, replaced by something more honest: experience.

If A28 is any sign, her 28th year won’t be about having everything figured out. It will be about continuing to choose herself.

Happy Birthday, Ashley.

‍Team Credits:
Written & Directed by Ashley Okoli
Nwobu Kenechukwu (@onlykene) - Producer & Set design
Uzuegbunam Gabriel Ebuka (@slumhabibi) - Asst. Director & Editor
Gospel Coker Chibueze (@isboyyeenagram - Sound design/Composer
Ayanfe Olarinde (@un.earthical) - Photgrapher
Ashley Okoli - Stylist
Lolu Pinheiro (@loludoesmakeup) - Makeup Artist
Joke Lawal (@nifemilarj) - Hairstylist
Ruqayyah Sadiq(@ruqayyahsa) - Writer

‍

The first time African music conquered the world, Africa barely got the credit.

Long before streaming platforms renamed playlists as “Afrobeats essential” and global superstars scrambled for Lagos features, African sounds had already been circulating through Western pop music like ghosts without passports in the early 1980s-2000s.  From polyrhythms bedded in discos and dance halls to the unmistakable bounce of Afrobeats-inspired percussion in mainstream pop music, African music was consumed as texture rather than authorship. It’s in the log drums under Drake’s “One Dance”, the Afroswing percussion driving Beyoncé’s “Already” and the talking drum patterns in Rihanna’s “Work”, all of which are global hits where African sonic fingerprints are clear but the African creator was footnoted. 

What is different in today’s soundscape now  is the audience’s ability to place African sounds back to their source. Streaming platforms flattened geography, and social media weakened the old gatekeepers  that once filtered African music through Western approval first. Those gatekeepers were label executives, radio programmers and media outlets that controlled global distribution and narratives, therefore letting African artists reach audiences directly and forcing the industry to meet them on their terms.

African artists no longer appear  as anonymous inspiration buried inside global pop records; they are arriving as visible collaborators, charting acts, Grammy winners and industry powerhouses. 

In 2024, Rema’s “Calm Down” became the first African-led track to surpass one billion streams on Spotify, while the remix with Selena Gomez crossed billions more across other streaming platforms. The achievement was not symbolic. It signalled a redistribution of cultural authority because African artists now own publishing in global hits like Wizkid’s One Dance headline 60k capacity stadiums from London to New York City and entered the Grammy as lead nominee rather than afterthoughts. 

Fela Anikulapo Kuti’s sonic influence echoed through jazz, hip-hop, funk and contemporary pop, yet his name was treated as a niche reference rather than a foundational innovator. South African house music shaped electronic dance long before Amapiano became a global festival obsession. Caribbean genres carrying a deep African lineage gained legitimacy only after being repackaged through Western markets. 

The problem was never whether music should travel. Music has always travelled. The issue was who got recognised as the creator and who got reduced to inspiration. 

Now the imbalance is harder to sustain because African artists are too globally visible to erase. A listener discovering Davido, Burna Boy  or Ayra Starr would encounter them as primary artists, not cultural accessories attached to American or European acts. The collaboration economy has changed because African music is no longer orbiting the mainstream; it has a hand in its definition. 

The shift matters beyond charts. It changes the politics of visibility. When Beyoncé assembled African artists and producers for The Lion King: The Gift, the project was praised precisely because of its foregrounded African participation instead of just borrowing African aesthetics. When Drake collaborated with Wizkid on “One Dance”, global audiences could no longer pretend Afrobeats existed only as an unnamed Sonic influence floating around Western pop music. Credits suddenly became culturally important because listeners started asking where the sounds came from. 

However, collaboration is not automatically fair. Some cross-continental collaborations feel genuinely reciprocal, artists exchanging rhythms, languages, audiences and histories in ways that expand music itself. Some feel suspiciously market-driven, appearing the moment African music became commercially unavoidable. It is possible to create the visibility these collaborations create while questioning who ultimately benefits most from them. 

The global music industry has always known how to monetise Black creativity. What it struggles with is surrendering narrative control. Afrobeats disrupted that control, not because it begged for entry into the Western music space but because it built a global audience large enough to force those spaces to respond and did not wait for Western validation. There is a difference between being invited into a room and becoming the reason why the room rearranged itself. Unlike earlier eras where African artists needed foreign co-signs in order to access international audiences, today's Afrobeats stars can fill arenas in London, Paris, New York City, and perform at festivals like Coachella while remaining culturally rooted in Lagos, Pidgin slangs, Akwuaba, African percussion and local storytelling traditions. The power dynamics shifted because the audience was already there. But this moment still deserves scrutiny.

Global visibility can quickly become another form of dilution of African music that begins to sand down its capacity for Western consumption. There is always the danger of turning African culture into a permanent global mood board where they are endlessly sampled, aesthetically celebrated but disconnected from investments in local industries and infrastructures. Representation alone does not equal equity. 

However, something undeniably important has changed. African artists are entering global music conversations with more leverage, more authorship and greater awareness of the history behind these exchanges. They are no longer influencing the world from the margins; they are shaping what the centre looks and sounds like. ‍

Cover credit: YouTube 

As rom-coms continue to be dismissed as “cringe,” Nollywood’s latest romance asks whether we have simply forgotten how to feel something without apologising for it.

"You are the sugar in my tea." "You are the air that I breathe." "If you leave me yawa go dey" - roughly, if you leave me, trouble follows - Tekno warned in ‘Yawa’ - and Nigerians turned it into a flirting line. The sincerity of the original, dissolved into a joke. Say either of those sentences out loud in a room full of Nigerians and watch what happens. Someone will laugh. Someone will cringe visibly. The people who would mock it online would screenshot the words and miss the feeling underneath them entirely. We have decided, collectively and without much debate, that this kind of language is embarrassing. That saying something beautiful to someone you love - out loud, with sincerity, without a punchline - is the cultural equivalent of showing up to a party overdressed. The word for it is cringe, and it has become the default response to Nigerian romance on screen.

‍Call of My Life, directed by Dammy Twitch, produced by Blessing Uzzi, written by and starring Uzoamaka Power as Soluchi, is a film that will give the cringe crowd exactly what they came looking for. Eli, the calm, handsome TV presenter played by Andrew Bunting, does a lot of talking. He says things with his whole chest. In one scene, Soluchi is wearing his shirt. They are having the kind of conversation that exists only inside the emotional logic of a romance, and Eli tells her she is lava. He wants to be her boss. The internet would have a field day.

The film has spent its runtime building the specific world in which those words make sense. Soluchi - colourful tights, block heels, a woman who celebrates everything and apologises for nothing - is not the kind of person who would accept a muted love. She is lava. The film has shown us that. Eli calling her that is not a writer reaching for a metaphor. It is a man who has been paying attention. The cringe crowd would screenshot the words and miss the feeling underneath them entirely.

This is the problem with how Nigerians engage with romance on screen right now. The mockery is not really about quality. It is about discomfort with verbal sincerity. We have become a culture that processes emotion through deflection - through jokes, through irony, through the safety of not being the person in the room who admitted they felt something. Words of love, spoken plainly and without hedging, expose you. And nobody wants to be exposed, so we reach for mockery instead. 

‘Call of My Life’ gives Nkem Owoh and Patience Ozokwo - two of Nollywood’s most beloved legends  - the roles of Soluchi’s parents, and through them the film offers something quietly devastating: proof that an older generation understood something about love that the online generation is too defensive to access. Their love story, told in fragments, is the emotional foundation of everything Soluchi believes. She did not invent her extravagance. She inherited it. That inheritance is the most honest thing in the film.

Justin Ugonna, in his first major acting role as Ezekiel - caught in an enemies-to-lovers orbit with Beverly Osu’s Zim - is warm, funny, and fully present. A debut that earns its place in the film.

The airport scene is where the film makes its fullest argument. Soluchi, stripped of her colourful armour, in a blue gym outfit, tells Eli exactly why she has been resisting him. She is not performing. She is not hedging. She is saying the thing she means, the way she means it, in the specific language of someone who has always believed that love is worth the exposure.

The cinemas are full. Nigerians are watching romance and calling it cringe in the same breath -  consuming the feeling while performing detachment from it. ‘Call of My Life’ does not negotiate with that contradiction. It simply asks: what if you let the thing move you? What if the sugar in the tea, the air in the breath, the lava - what if all of it was just someone telling the truth about how they feel?

The film stayed earnest. We stopped allowing ourselves to express our genuine feelings with the vocabulary that reflects them. 

IG: @ffeistyhuman

Ivy Winfrey feels like she’s “in the twilight zone.” What began as a series of nudgings and notes filed away in her mind, turned into a video Winfrey posted on Instagram early last week. The topic? The increasingly obvious disconnect between the potential of Kenya’s sports team, and their performance - that is the women’s football team and the lack of diasporic influence on its roster. 

With an estimated 3 to 4 million Kenyans abroad, there’s a guarantee of sports players, coaches, and enthusiasts all waiting to get involved in their nation’s system. But where do these people fall in the list of priorities for the Football Kenya Federation (FKF)? As a former player with every aspiration to represent my nation, the wait came with no happy ending. But for others, like Gianna Maina, the story is still being written. With a daughter heavily involved in the American soccer system, the same wait that had been staring Winfrey in the face became all the more weighted. So now, instead of waiting for the answers to her questions, she decided to make one.

After growing up in Kenya and relocating to Texas, Winfrey knows all too well the disconnect between the best infrastructure and the developing ones. Co-owner of Afroballers and creative in the entertainment and sports industries under the Dallas Mavericks, she grew up and works within basketball - another leading sport in the women's sport scene across Africa. The biggest differences being the systems in place and their intentions. Where North America’s system champions competition, quality, and opportunity, Kenya’s barely begins to scratch the surface. From a federation riddled with scandal to an under established grassroots foundation, the infrastructure simply doesn’t measure up. 

Kenyan-Tanzanian football player Gianna Maina represented Kenya internationally in 2023. Growing up across the eastern coast of the United States, she grew up playing football at a high level from a young age, and currently plays at Suffolk University on a football scholarship. 

“From the moment I could walk, I couldn't keep my feet off a ball. My parents always saw something in me, so I've been playing since I was about four years old. Honestly, it started as a way to burn off energy as a kid, but by the time I was six, I was training and competing with U10 and U11 players,” she said, exclusively.

As she progressed through the ranks, Maina came across a tension many players in the diaspora, particularly in the West, arrived at: I’m good but am I good enough? With such thorough infrastructure, the rate of girls competing in football across North America is high - making the pool for eligible youth and women for national team representation that much more competitive. Winfrey noted this as well mentioning the appeal of young sports players seeking dual nationalities to stand out. 

“At the end of the day, it’s all marketing - especially in America. I’m having conversations with my daughter about the best partnerships, opportunities, schools, for her brand because that’s what’s being sold. She is an asset - in life and especially in sports.”

It’s that same mindset that led Maina to represent Kenya. Through a family member at the Embassy of Women's Sports, she was able to get her name on women’s coach Beldine Odemba’s radar.

“Through that connection, I was reached out to and given the opportunity to train with the Harambee Starlets before their big match against Ethiopia. I had to send multiple rounds of my highlights, along with recommendations from my coaches, to even be considered,” Maina said. 

But while Maina’s nepotism brought her a “one in a million” experience, her presence broaches two questions: what about those without the family connection? And where are the others meant to walk through the door she opened?

As Winfrey mentioned in her video, it’s not the fault of a child that their parents relocated to the diaspora in search of better opportunities. And it certainly does not make them any less Kenyan. But, if Maina’s example is anything to go off of, it is that a family connection is like marketing with a network. Without it, though, the FKF doesn’t seem to be paying any female players in the diaspora any mind.

Kenya’s male football teams have performed at the highest level domestically, but never abroad. In their last 6 appearances in the Africa Cup of Nations, the Harambee Stars have returned home in the group stages - long before any hopes of competing in the World Cup. Their teams, in what looks like a response to the zeitgeist, have begun to integrate diasporic players, like British-Kenyans Zech Obiero, Zak Vyner, and Sammy Henia-Kamau, into the rosters.

Their female counterparts, though, have shown more promise, appearing in the U17 World Cup for the first time in 2024 and winning in their final match of the group stage against Mexico. Goalscorers Valerie Nakesa and Lornah Faith made history as the first Kenyans ever to score in a World Cup, under the leadership of Mildred Chehche. Two years on, the girls, though still a force, have not returned to the world stage or responded to the cultural shift the men and other women’s teams are relying on - at any level.

Make no mistake: what the men’s rosters have just begun to integrate is exactly as it sounds — new; having only started in the last five years. But as Winfrey pointed out, there begins to be questions about a system and its intentions when the same opportunities are not being applied to or simply being ignored at the women’s level - especially with a competitive team.

As WAFCON looms large in the next two months, the Harambee Starlets have the opportunity to make a statement in their return to the tournament after a group stage exit in 2016. But there’s a noticeable gap between Kenya’s presence and their counterparts, which Winfrey believes starts abroad.

“I’m just sick of the lack of our leaders' understanding of seismic opportunities that benefit the industries I built my career on… we just fail to do it the right way. We’re not really worried about championing our stories. When journalists wrote about the U17 team in the World Cup, they’re not even mentioning the girls by name. You can’t scout the Harambee Starlets, you can scout the players by name,” she said. 

“Let’s think about how to reverse engineer a problem into an opportunity: when these girls [in the diaspora] come they bring eyes, they bring conversations, they bring opportunities. But it all starts with opening the door.”

She hopes to open a door with coach Lawrence Olum, the first Kenyan MLS player and former Kenya men’s national team player. Now a youth development coach at Alliance FC in the States, Olum’s 14 year career is hallmarked with an MLS Cup winning season in 2013. While he echoed much of the concern and sentiment that Winfrey stated about the resources available, he offered another unique perspective.

“The idea that the U.S. is not a big soccer powerhouse - in Kenya - [is something] I find to be so crazy. The U.S has been ranked in the top 40 consistently over the last 20 years, and Kenya hasn’t even brushed 100. And for [Kenyans] to have that mentality that the U.S is not good? It’s wild to me. The leagues they play in here, we could not even match, yet they overlook the US,” he said. 

“Even at the college level here, you train better than a Kenyan…I’d been in the MLS for 8 years and won the MLS Cup and yeah, some people heard about it…but until [Victor] Wanyama started playing here? Then it was like ‘The U.S. is this, the U.S. is that.’”

At a time where female football is at peak interest globally, it’s in the FKF’s best interest to get involved in what can only be called an untapped market. Projected to garner $3 billion in global revenue, women’s football drives 35% of that. High performing women’s football programmes, like Nigeria’s Super Falcons, have long begun sowing the seeds and already reaping the rewards. Why can’t the Starlets?

Winfrey and Olum’s goal now is to show the FKF what they’ve been missing, or simply ignored. In the final seconds of her post, Winfrey made a call to action for anyone in the diaspora looking to represent Kenya, girls aged 14-17. From Toronto to Spain to the U.S.A, the two are looking to put together an exhibition or ID Camp to showcase the kind of talent present and palpable across the diaspora. Hoping to shift the narrative around the present system and start conversations around its resources and outreach, this would be an opportunity to put more of Kenya on display and, hopefully, even higher stages as a community. 

Olum said, “It took a foreign coach to invite me to play on the national team… the mind needs to shift in terms of looking at the first generation of diaspora-born Kenyans. I have Kenyan girls and boys here who play at local clubs and may never represent the United States, but they could represent Kenya… all I ask is for coaches to just look at them. And that should start from a federation level.”

Winfrey, always a mother first, said, “I can’t do it for everybody, but if I can do it in my household then sure…maybe that’ll be the change you see because maybe sharing starts at home. Let’s show what’s possible when someone just decides to start.”  

IG: @clungaho

Recently, news about Michael B. Jordan's role as executive producer of the upcoming TV series adaptation of BookTok darling and New York Times bestseller, Fourth Wing, made the rounds. Jordan's role was positively received and signalled a turning point for Black people in fantasy films. Fourth Wing has been endeared to readers for two cogent reasons: (1)the kind of romance it breeds between main characters, Xarden and Violet, and (2) the presence of dragons, magic and the like, leading to it being dubbed a “romantasy” novel, a portmanteau of “romance” and “fantasy”. Its plot centres on Violet Sorrengail, daughter of military general Lilith Sorrengail, who is forced to give up her dream of being a scribe and fulfil her mother’s wishes to be a dragon rider of the fictional kingdom of Navarre. Violet has to undergo strict and brutal dragon rider training at Basgiath War College, to prove to herself and her mother that she is tougher than perceived. The goal of Violet’s dragon rider training, other included, is to bond with a dragon to gain powers that can be used to defend the kingdom. However, as the book goes on, this training is put to the test sooner than later as she’s forced to fight, alongside other dragon riders, against dark forces, the Venin and Wyvern as well as other threats within Navarre’s government.

Fantasy movies cannot be divorced from being seen through the perspective of the White man due to the social and cultural history from which it was conceived. The easiest proof of this are franchises and series like The Lord of the Rings, Underworld, Merlin, Legend of the Seeker, which were all Eurocentric and replicated tales similar to those born from the Medieval era or Middle Ages. Watching these fantasy movies and shows by white producers reinforced the fact that fantasy traditionally built its conventions around race and gender, which, usually, were White, middle-class and male, although Black people constituted a large part of fantasy culture. 

However, Jordan's role as executive producer shows the new zeitgeist regarding Black audience and fantasy culture: the movement from representation in fantasy movies as playing the roles of slaves and dressed in drab clothing in movies to control and ownership of the institutions that shape the genre. The timing of this could not be more important in light of Hollywood's search for the next major fantasy franchise or series after Game of Thrones, the rise of romantasy as more than just a concept created by fans, and Black creatives opting for more ownership and authorship roles in the movie industry.

Fantasy films and TV have traditionally centered whiteness. As fans often argue, fantasy adaptations are expected to maintain faithfulness to their source material, that is, preserving whiteness as the default visual identity of the genre. Fandoms attached to historically white fantasy worlds have often demanded the removal of the Black cast members of the cast. Anything short of this attracts accusations like “going woke equals going broke”. These reactions followed, for instance, Steve Toussaint as Lord Corlys Velaryon in House of the Dragon. This just goes to show that race doesn't just serve as a pillar in fantasy movies; it is a towering cornerstone which holds the fantasy world together. 

But, Black people have always been present in fantasy worlds and fandoms: Usopp from One Piece(1997), Killer Bee, jinchūriki of the Eight Tails, from Naruto(2002), and Ogun Montgomery from Fire Force(2015) stand as clear examples of Black representation in fantasy, even if filtered via stereotypes. Black audiences have also shown love for fantasy through gaming, cosplay, and sci-fi communities, albeit with more controversy than reception. This just shows that the issue was never about participation but power: to show who is in charge. Black people existed in these fantasy worlds but were prevented from shaping the institutions, aesthetics and storytelling architectures that governed them.

As executive producer, Jordan occupies a position that can challenge this perception. An executive producer (EP) oversees producers, development decisions, financing and major creative direction(s). Through his company, Outlier Society, his influence extends further across production, post-production and marketing. More than this, it gives Jordan and his company input as to who's cast in Fourth Wing, how the adaptation is to be shaped, as well as what story receives company endorsement. As a Black man involved in the series production, Jordan's role augments an argument that has long been canvassed by Black actors, creatives and audience as far as fantasy movies are concerned: representation matters, but infrastructure even more.

Case in point is the time before Black Panther. Black participation in fantasy and speculative storytelling was often treated by Hollywood as a niche experiment rather than a central commercial force. Big-budget fantasy worlds were still imagined through mainly white creative infrastructures, and fantasy genre projects by Black people were frequently framed as financially risky, culturally limited, or dependent on “diversity” goodwill rather than the demands of a broad audience.

‍Black Panther disrupted that logic entirely. The film became a global cultural event. It proved that Black audiences were not just laid-back consumers of fantasy movies, but one of its most powerful and emotionally invested markets. More importantly, it demonstrated that worldbuilding that focused on Black people could generate the same scale of obsession, fandom, merchandising, and mythmaking traditionally associated with franchises like Star Wars or The Lord of the Rings.‍

That success changed the economics of genre storytelling in Hollywood. After Black Panther, Black involvement in fantasy and science fiction no longer looked like a gamble but a profitable venture. The shift was both about visibility onscreen and legitimacy behind the scenes. Black creatives began to move from mere participation within genre worlds to positions of authorship and institutional influence. Producers, directors, and production companies gained greater leverage to shape which speculative stories received investment, adaptation deals, and franchise support.

This is the context in which Michael B. Jordan's production of Fourth Wing is culturally significant. Jordan’s involvement reflects a post-Black Panther Hollywood in which Black creatives are no longer being invited into fantasy worlds simply as actors or supporting figures. They are the ones now charged with determining how those worlds are built, marketed, and imagined in the first place. In this regard, Fourth Wing is part of a broader transformation in genre culture: the gradual redistribution of imaginative power within fantasy itself.

Fourth Wing is not just another fantasy adaptation. It represents the kind of franchise Hollywood believes can define the next era of streaming culture. Its emergence from BookTok's ecosystem, where romantasy has become one of publishing’s most commercially powerful genres, marks its significance in sales numbers and the intensity of its fandom. Readers build online identities around it through fancasts, edits, discourse, theories, and emotional investment in its characters and world. That kind of participatory fandom is precisely what streaming platforms now want. In an entertainment industry still searching for its next long-running fantasy obsession after Game of Thrones, romantasy offers something especially valuable: audiences that are already organized, emotionally engaged, and digitally active long before adaptation begins.

This is why Fourth Wing matters as a case study. Jordan's entrance into this space as executive producer is therefore culturally meaningful because romance itself is becoming a new site of mainstream fantasy power. For decades, fantasy’s dominant visual language was largely shaped around male-centered epics and overwhelmingly white creative frameworks. But the success of books like Fourth Wing suggests that the future of fantasy may be increasingly shaped by audiences that are younger, more female, more online, and more racially diverse than the genre’s traditional gatekeepers. That shift, from a broader perspective, then raises the bigger question of who gets to visually define the next generation of fantasy worlds. Fantasy determines whose faces become mythic, whose desires become central, and whose imagination gets treated as universal. In that sense, the adaptation of Fourth Wing derives its meaning mainly from the fact that it asks who now has the authority to shape fantasy culture itself.

IG:@muyiwavstheopp

Not speaking French might actually be the most honest position from which to review this album.
For years, Tayc has built an audience that extends far beyond francophone listeners, largely because his music has never depended entirely on language but feeling which comes before the translation does.
JOŸA leans fully into that reality and turns it into the project’s greatest strength.

The album arrives after one of the most emotionally charged periods of Tayc’s career. Over the past year, the French-Cameroonian artist hinted repeatedly at stepping away from music, posting cryptic visuals that left fans unsure whether they were watching a rollout or a goodbye. Then came silence. When JOŸA finally emerged, It felt like someone who had been through something returning to the only thing that made sense.  JOŸA dropped the same day as Drake's Iceman, an album that came with two additional projects, making three albums. Tayc did not move his date, a decision that makes sense if you are completely sure of your audience, sound and numbers. He is playing the long game because his music is one that eases into people over time. 

“Y- Prologue: 2 Mai 1826” opens like the beginning of a film rather than a streaming-era intro track. Sounds of metal cutting through soil sit underneath soft piano passages while orchestral textures slowly rise around Tayc’s voice. He has described the album as a project shaped by reconnecting with his roots, and the opener establishes that atmosphere before the listener fully understands where the album is heading.

“Girlfriend” is an example of that balance. Built around an interpolation of You Rock My World by Michael Jackson, the track could have easily collapsed into cheap nostalgia. Instead, Tayc reshapes the warmth of the original into something softer and intimate.
"Need" pulls from the same instinct. The music video portrayed Tayc as James Brown, singing, drumming, on the trumpet, on the guitar, performing on a family's television screen. Reminding us of the greats and putting himself in that conversation.

‍(Tayc via Instagram)Across JOŸA, Tayc moves between romance, chaos and vulnerability without letting the album settle in one place for too long. “Dive In” reveals its most reckless side, turning a messy situationship into something almost triumphant as Tayc bluntly tells his girlfriend that another woman simply does it better. The man is basically confessing to disaster over perfect production, and somehow it works. Then there is “Koki & Plantain,” one of the album’s most culturally rooted moments, where Tayc compares love to the iconic Cameroonian pairing in a way that feels personal rather than performative.

The features on JOŸA complement Tayc's voice. RnBoi on "Maman Prie," Aya Nakamura on "Va Loin" and Masego on "Masterpiece" each slot in so well you stop noticing where Tayc ends and they begin. Before any of this, Tayc screened a short film at a cinema in Paris before a single track was available to stream.
What makes JOŸA particularly interesting for Anglophone listeners is that it works less through literal meaning and more through feeling. Even without understanding every lyric, you can still follow where the songs are going emotionally through the pauses in Tayc’s delivery, the crack in his voice at the end of certain lines and the way the choirs rise behind him.

IG: @zoannafr

“I knew what I wanted to say, and I spoke up a lot more in the studio. I was very meticulous with everything, and I just felt like I was getting back to my sense of self, and that's something that I really discovered in this process.” British singer-songwriter Konyikeh shares about the process of creating her third EP, Cinere. The project begins with a simple, somewhat haunting sound on the opening track “Buyer’s Remorse,” which once again brings her deep, rich vocals to the forefront amid a stunning piano-and-string arrangement. It begins the journey across the 7-track EP, bringing a fresh vibe to her and introducing us to a more elevated, evolved version of the singer we met back in 2023.

“I was very meticulous in the process of making this project, and the songs were extremely personal to me. I want people to listen to this music and take in everything around it.” She shares about the making of this EP. Everything from the sequencing to the instrumentation, arrangements and everything in between was carefully crafted and considered for the listener's experience. The project, which plays for a total of 15 minutes across the 7 tracks, really does bring an effortless and smooth process as you weave between tracks and once again displays her as an artist who feels like a breath of fresh air cutting through the clutter of noise that exists in the musical landscape and brings something new and refreshing to the table.

The EP, which follows 2024’s Problem With Authority, represents a shift not just sonically, bringing together a variety of sounds into the project she has tapped into, but also another layer of her artistry in how she has presented herself. For her, the shift has brought back a true sense of herself and her love for the music she is creating. There is a rawness and openness that comes through in what she says and in the topics she speaks about on the project. That presentation has been really intentional about what she wants to say and how she has represented where she is and everything it has taken to reach this point in her journey.

Speaking with Konyikeh, we caught up on everything from making the EP to regaining control, expressing vulnerability, finding your voice, and more.

‍Congratulations on the release, Cinere. This is your third EP, and so even getting to this point and putting the project out, how does this feel for you?

I feel like I've always trusted myself as a musician since I started making music. This is the first EP where I've had to really become an artist, build a visual world around the music I've made for this project, and just think about every single thing. I’m so passionate about it. I was very meticulous in the process of making this project, and the songs being extremely personal to me, that attention to detail is super important, and in the world that we live in, where everyone's attention span is so short, I want people to listen to this music and take in everything around it. I feel like this project, I've really pushed myself and, in a way, yes, it's my third project, but I feel like it's the first project, also, in a sense, with an extremely clear vision. The first two projects were learning experiences and helped me find my footing, whereas this one was very clear about what I wanted it to be and how I wanted to make it.

With the entire process of creating the EP. How did that experience differ for this EP compared to the previous ones?

The first project was a collection of songs I'd written, and I still very much stand by that body of work. I still think it flows together beautifully. The second project was a collection of songs that people thought was good and I put it out, but there was no real cohesive thread behind it, So coming into my third EP I had to force myself to trust myself, Bar the last song, “There For Me (Freestyle)” was written in 2021 I made the project within a two, three month period in 2025. I worked with the same three producers: the production duo DUKE (David Dyson and Luke Grieve), and Charlie Perry, whom I had worked with before. Those are the only people I worked with, including myself, obviously, and that was something I loved. In my first EP, I had worked with just one producer and really liked it, so with this one, I knew I wanted to keep it small. I knew what I wanted to say, I was very meticulous with everything, and I just felt like I was getting back to myself. That is something I really discovered in this process: I need to understand who I am and how to iterate that understanding with others, so I can understand that as well.

You are someone who has always been very open in your music, and even on this EP, you are very open and raw. So, even in how you express yourself and your emotions, is that something that has always been easy for you?

​I think because, especially as a woman, as a black woman, we're so constrained and put into boxes, and you always have to be self-pleasing, not always able to be ourselves, and so for me, I feel like if I can't have one medium where I can be completely honest, then what the hell is the point? I find it extremely cathartic, like just putting it all out, and if you listen, you listen, and if you don't, you don't. I hate that other people can relate to it  because it's not a feeling that I'd want other people to relate to. It is quite a selfish act, and it's so freeing not to have to think, Oh, can I say this, or can I say that, or can I do this, or can I do that? And just put it into a medium that I love, and like it's heard by other people, and like people can find comfort in that.

As you listen to the EP, one thing that stands out is the variety of sounds you hear throughout. You can hear all sorts of musical influences and styles. So when you were approaching this sonically, in terms of what you wanted it to sound like, how did that come together?

​What I like about this project is that I went into it thinking I'm just gonna lay down a bunch of ideas. I didn't go in saying, "I want to achieve this, I want to do this, I want to do this," which is something I usually apply in every other aspect of my life. It was literally whatever flowed. With “Mercenary”, I was listening to a lot of Amapiano and Gqom at the time with the log drums; I was obsessed with that sound. I was also listening to a lot of Arabic scales and that type of sound, and then I was like, re-listening to Les Misérables, which is one of my favourite musicals, and I love the gang vocals from there. There was no, I want to tap into this. I want to tap into this. It was an amalgamation of everything, and I just want to make something I want to listen to that taps into my feelings and makes me feel what I want it to.

Even though it's seven tracks, I thought of it as an A-side and a B-side. I made “Miserere”, which I think is like track five, like a kind of palette cleanser that, like soft watches you into, like the softer side of the EP with “BlackThorne” and “There For Me” coming off the back of “Jealous”, which has all the drums and is quite a big song. After I put the tracklist together, everything was so meticulous, down to the second, and it has been curated for the listener's experience. I just want people to be able to tune out of the world for 15  minutes and just listen.

Talk to me about the visual aspects of the EP, since you have put out a couple of videos for the project, and that's always been a strong part of your process: working with the music to bring it to life. So how did you approach these for the EP?

So with my previous EPs, I’ve always done my videos by sending the song to a bunch of directors, who come back with a treatment, and we do it that way. This time, I focused on the ideas and what I wanted them to be, and I wrote them down meticulously. This is what's going on, and I want this to be the idea. So it was just a case of me needing someone to help elevate this, like, a shot list and all that. Every music video that's coming out has come out, I've written everything down, down to what I want the location to look like, what the casting should look like. Even giving proposed shots, and all that stuff. I thought it would be harder than it was, but I used to be a photographer, which kind of helped. The visuals have been really important. I love consuming art, whether it's paintings or photos, and I've spent a lot of time in galleries and museums over the past year or so. Even just on Pinterest, that was like a huge reference point as well. So yeah, just building that world around it has been super important.

How do you find that inspiration? Going beyond just the visuals, but even in the things that fuel or interest you and speak to you creatively?

I think it’s just like immersion therapy; it's definitely quality over quantity. If you expose yourself to a lot of art and all mediums, from theatre to concerts and all that stuff, you never know how it can come out in the studio. You just file things away in your brain and can pull them out as a reference. For example, the cover art for my EP was inspired by a picture I saw on Twitter from a film, which prompted me to watch it and use it as a set of different reference points. Even watching things, for example, TV shows where you see things that may visually look interesting or hearing something sonically somewhere, I find that it's just having things and storing them in your brain that you can pull out musically, visually, as reference points at a later point that speaks to me creatively.​

In speaking to the starting process of the EP, where would you say it began, as to when you knew that it was something you were working towards, as opposed to just making music?

So actually, I started this process in January 2025. It was a very weird time for me, and I ended up in the studio. I literally was like, I have nothing else to do, so I just said fuck it, I'm just gonna be as raw and open. And that was actually a session I had with Charlie. It was very cathartic, and we were working on a song. It was a session where I wanted a lot of instrumentation, all the stuff, and it took me two days to emotionally recover from that session. I played it for the people I work with, and they liked it, but it was like oh maybe this is a bit too honest. So I said to myself, unless I can make something better, I'm still gonna release this other song. But then I made something better: “Buyer’s Remorse”. I also had my first conversation with DUKE, and that was “Vulnerability”. I remember the first half of vulnerability hadn't been finished, and I was going on tour, I was playing some new material, and I was like, I need to finish this one because I can't wait to play it live. So that was when I knew I had something to work with. What turned out to be “Buyer's Remorse” and “Vulnerability” were the real starting things for the EP.

When it comes to how you’ve spoken about making the EP in the meticulousness of everything, and really taking everything into your own hands and leading every single process. How has that been like in terms of actually finding that voice and being able to take this control and really assert yourself when it comes to working with other people and just being able to find your voice in expressing yourself in this way?

With my first EP, I already had the songs written. So I had made that EP myself, and it was very much a "take it or leave it" project. I am extremely stubborn and headstrong, and that has ruined a lot of things for me in the past. I am someone who doesn't crave external validation, and any validation I do seek is unfortunately tied to my work. I know people liked my second EP and responded to it very well; however, I wasn't necessarily proud of the music I put on it, and it made me extremely insecure, and I felt that bled into other parts of my life. And I knew that I didn’t want to feel that way ever again.​

So now, with this process, I've been much stricter; I set high standards and expect the people I work with to at least do their best. It's been a really hard process, but I have found some people to work with who also take their work seriously and hold themselves to a high standard. From Maria the girl who shot my cover art, to the girl who does my nails, she does things to a very high standard. So it's been a lot. It's been a process, and I've had to learn a lot myself, so I at least have a baseline standard, and anyone coming in can build on that. I feel like I'm going back to my 15/16-year-old self, who had unshakable confidence and knew right from wrong. Also, I think it's important to always speak with kindness and give people grace, but don't let people take the piss, because people will take the fucking piss.

So even in the era that you're in now, what does that feel like for you? And what are you excited about and looking forward to in this next phase?

I think before, I had a way of thinking of the studios as work. I didn't really associate work with fun. But I feel like, after this process and while making this project, I felt so free in the studio that I allowed myself to have fun. Now I find myself looking forward to studio sessions, learning new things, like learning past my voice, like feeling free, and sometimes I can just get something off my chest. Like, sometimes I can just have, like, the most fun. And like, I'm super, super excited to perform this project live, all my other music, all this new stuff that I'm working on live. So I'm just so excited to play this music live, build new worlds. And I feel like I'm growing, it sounds so stupid, because I have discovered a sense of self. And I feel like I've transitioned and I'm growing up. And just curating everything with an intention. But my big thing, I just wanna have fun. I just wanna have the best time farming, expand my musical palate, and discover new artists I haven't listened to in a long time that I'm loving. So, yeah, I'm just big on having fun.

When Fally Ipupa stepped onto the stage at Paris’ Stade de France earlier this month, making history as the first African artist to sell out the iconic venue across two consecutive nights, the moment was already destined to live far beyond music. In front of more than 180,000 fans, the Congolese superstar marked the occasion donning a Double Breasted Cutout Vest sharply deconstructed by Moohong Kim, the Seoul-based designer, from his eponymous label, MOOHONG SS26 collection–whose quietly cerebral approach to menswear has been steadily catching the attention of stylists, editors, and performers around the world. For many, it may have been their first introduction to MOOHONG. For those paying closer attention, it felt like the latest chapter in a much bigger story.

While rooted in philosophy, political theory, and a desire to question traditional masculinity, Moohong Kim's work asks bigger questions than most, with a knack for reimagining Western tailoring through a global lens, going beyond simply designing clothes to turning ideas into silhouette, structure, and form. In conversation with Deeds, the designer reflects on the unexpected path that led him from academia to fashion, the intellectual framework behind MOOHONG, and what it meant to see his work become part of one of African music’s most defining cultural moments.

‍Stanley for Deeds Magazine: Before we talk about recent milestones, I’d love to start at the beginning–what first drew you to fashion, and when did clothing become something you saw not just as design, but as a language?

While I was doing my PhD in Politics in the UK, I visited an exhibition in London that left a strong impression on me. The exhibition connected architecture and philosophical theory in a highly interdisciplinary way. For example, if the theme was Neo-Realism, it presented both architectural works and theoretical ideas related to Neo-Realism together.

Until then, I had always thought of political philosophy and art as completely separate fields. Seeing them operate through similar structures and methods of expression felt like a very fresh shock to me. It made me realize that ideas could move across disciplines, and that theory could also exist visually and emotionally, not only through text.

I had always enjoyed expressing my thoughts from a young age, which is one of the reasons I pursued a PhD in the first place. As I became more accustomed to expressing my thoughts through academic writing during my PhD, I began to have another realization. I started wondering how meaningful it would be if I could also communicate my ideas through visual forms, not only through text.

To me, that felt very exciting–the possibility of being able to communicate through both language and visual expression at the same time. I became increasingly interested in the idea that philosophy, emotion, and perspectives could also be carried through images, silhouettes, and the body itself. Based on those desires and questions, after completing my doctorate, I decided to experiment with the relationship between the humanities and fashion, which eventually led me to launch MOOHONG.

When you launched MOOHONG, what did you feel was missing in menswear, and what kind of space or perspective were you hoping to create through your own work?

At the time, menswear felt relatively conservative to me. I felt that many collections were still centered around a very fixed and dominant idea of masculinity. I was more interested in creating something less rigid–something more androgynous, fluid, and emotionally ambiguous.

I was also drawn to tension and collision between opposing elements. I wanted to place mainstream and underground sensibilities, refinement and rawness, structure and disruption into dialogue with one another. To me, those kinds of contrasts create more dynamic and emotionally complex results.

When I began developing my first collection, I approached it almost like a conceptual mapping process influenced by critical theory, which I was deeply interested in at the time. Rather than designing clothes only from an aesthetic perspective, I became interested in how garments could communicate conflict, instability, and layered identities through silhouette and construction.

Your work often challenges traditional tailoring through deconstruction, draping, and unexpected proportions. What first pulled you toward that design language, and how has it evolved over time?

One of the central ideas within critical theory is the idea of viewing different historical systems and structures not hierarchically, but in parallel. By doing so, it becomes possible to continuously question dominant norms and keep the possibility of change alive.

To me, traditional tailoring represented a dominant cultural system within menswear. But if we look at fashion history through a longer timeline, the history of Western tailoring is actually relatively short. I became interested in placing contemporary tailoring alongside garments, silhouettes, and dress systems from different historical periods and non-Western cultural traditions in order to create transformation and new perspectives.

For me, deconstruction is not simply destruction. It is a reinterpretation of the dominant culture and proposes potential changes. Draping, meanwhile, became a way to introduce fluidity, androgyny, and references to non-Western dress traditions into contemporary menswear. Through these processes, I became interested in creating garments that feel less fixed–something more unstable, layered, and open to multiple interpretations.

There’s a tension in your collections between structure and softness, precision and disruption. How would you describe the emotional or conceptual world of MOOHONG in your own words?

I often think of MOOHONG as a counterintuitive mental framework. I see clothing not simply as fashion, but as a way of proposing different perspectives. In that sense, MOOHONG is less about creating a fixed aesthetic and more about continuously questioning fixed systems, norms, and ways of seeing.

Seoul has become one of the most exciting fashion cities in the world. How has designing there shaped your perspective creatively, culturally, and as the person building this brand?

Seoul is a city with an extremely intense rhythm. Different historical periods, social classes, and cultural identities coexist very closely together, often in quite contradictory ways. I think living and designing in that environment naturally shaped the way I see tension, structure, and transformation.

What interests me about Seoul is not simply its energy or speed, but the constant sense of transition. The city changes very quickly, yet at the same time, there are still strong, unseen social hierarchies, traditions, and pressures underneath the surface. That coexistence between hyper-contemporary culture and deeply rooted structures is something I continuously respond to through MOOHONG.

At the same time, building a brand in Seoul also gave me a certain independence. Because the city is evolving so rapidly, it creates space for younger designers to question existing systems and propose different perspectives.

Your garments often feel architectural–almost sculptural. When you begin a collection, does it usually start with a silhouette, an emotion, a reference, or a larger question you want to explore?

Most of the time, a collection begins from a theoretical framework or a conceptual way of thinking. For example, with the 26FW collection, I became interested in the idea of connecting different times and spaces not hierarchically, but in parallel, following the idea of neo-Gramscian. I wanted to create a world where multiple historical and cultural contexts could coexist simultaneously rather than being understood through a linear structure.

From that starting point, I began experimenting with the collision and coexistence of different dress cultures and garment systems across time and geography. The central question at the beginning of the collection was: “What if contemporary Western tailoring had existed within non-Western historical and cultural contexts?”

That question eventually guided the silhouettes, draping, construction, and layering throughout the collection. Rather than treating tailoring as something fixed or historically absolute, I became interested in how it could transform when placed into completely different cultural and historical environments.

After that, I start researching references from different time periods, dress systems, political theories, architecture, or subcultures, and I try to place those elements into dialogue with one another. The silhouette often emerges later through that process rather than being the starting point itself.

Your SS26 collection reinterprets classic menswear through cutouts, layering, and manipulated proportions. What conversations were you hoping that collection would spark, and what did it reveal about where MOOHONG is creatively right now?

The title of the SS26 collection was “Enlightenment.” With this collection, I wanted many of the philosophical ideas and perspectives behind MOOHONG’s design process–which we discussed earlier–to become more naturally embedded within the garments themselves. I think the collection revealed that MOOHONG is becoming more focused on coexistence and transformation rather than simple opposition or destruction.

How do you approach masculinity when designing, especially at a time when the language around menswear is evolving so quickly, and is timelessness something you consciously design for?

I think I’m interested in exploring various dimensions of masculinity rather than presenting a single fixed idea of it. Traditionally, menswear has often been associated with strength, rigidity, and control, but I’ve always been more drawn to ambiguity, softness, vulnerability, and fluidity existing alongside those qualities.

That’s also why draping and deconstruction became important parts of my work. They allow me to challenge more conventional structures of masculinity and create something less absolute and more open-ended.

I don’t consciously try to design for timelessness every season. Rather than deliberately pursuing something timeless, I’m more interested in remaining aware of the importance of potential change. Because of that, I naturally tend to approach clothing from outside fixed conventions or temporary contemporary trends, and I think that process sometimes leads to garments that feel timeless in the end.

Days ago, the world saw your work on Fally Ipupa during his historic Stade de France performances in Paris. How did that collaboration first come together, and what was your reaction when you learned the look would be part of such a major cultural moment?

The collaboration came together quite naturally through his team and stylists, who connected with the spirit of the collection. What interested me most was not simply the scale of the performance, but the idea of seeing MOOHONG exist within a completely different cultural and musical context.

Fally Ipupa has a very strong stage presence and cultural identity, so it was fascinating to see how the garments transformed through his movement, energy, and performance.

On a stage as large as Stade de France, silhouette almost begins functioning architecturally rather than simply as fashion.

Personally, it was a very meaningful moment. Seeing the work become part of such a large collective experience reminded me that clothing can move beyond the runway and exist within wider cultural conversations and emotional moments.

Knowing your work would be seen by more than 180,000 people across two nights, did that change how you thought about movement, silhouette, or impact–and what did it mean personally to see your work become part of that moment?

I don’t think it changed the core way I design, but it definitely made me think more about movement and presence. On a stage of that scale, clothing interacts very differently with the body and the audience.

What was especially interesting to me was seeing how the silhouettes transformed through performance and movement in such a large space. Certain proportions and layered constructions became much more visible and expressive from a distance.

Personally, it was a very meaningful moment. Seeing MOOHONG become part of such a large cultural experience reminded me that fashion can live far beyond the runway.

Your designs have also appeared on figures like Emma D'Arcy and in international editorials. Was there a moment when you realized MOOHONG was beginning to resonate far beyond Seoul?

I don’t think there was one single moment. It happened gradually through different people, stylists, artists, and editors connecting with the work in their own way. What felt most meaningful to me was realizing that the emotional and conceptual tension within MOOHONG could still resonate beyond Seoul, even across very different cultural contexts. That made me feel that certain questions around identity, structure, masculinity, instability, or transformation are actually quite universal. 

Seeing figures like Emma D’Arcy or artists such as Fally Ipupa engage with the work was meaningful not simply because of visibility, but because they each brought completely different energy and interpretation to the garments. I’ve always been more interested in that kind of dialogue rather than dressing a specific type of person.

As more artists, stylists, and editors around the world discover your work, how do you protect the original DNA of MOOHONG while continuing to evolve?

I think the core DNA of MOOHONG is not a specific silhouette or aesthetic, but a particular way of thinking rooted in theoretical frameworks. Because of that, I believe the brand can continue evolving without losing its identity. Rather than being shaken by temporary trends or external expectations, I want MOOHONG to continue evolving quietly and consistently while remaining connected to its original philosophy.

In recent years, Korean fashion has become increasingly visible on the global stage. Where do you see MOOHONG fitting into that larger conversation?

Recently, Korean fashion has been receiving a great deal of global attention, and I think one of its strengths is the diversity of strong and distinctive brands emerging from the scene. Within that landscape, I think MOOHONG has developed its own unique positioning. While many Korean brands are known for strong visual identity or youth culture, I believe MOOHONG approaches fashion from a slightly different perspective–one that is more rooted in theoretical thinking, structure, and the questioning of established systems. I think that difference has allowed the brand to develop its own language gradually over time.

Outside of fashion, what influences your eye most–whether film, architecture, music, memory, or people–and where do you find yourself creatively recharging?

Without question, contemporary art and books influence me the most. Whenever I have time, I visit contemporary art exhibitions, and I receive a great deal of inspiration and creative energy from them. I’m also deeply influenced by books related to politics, society, and the humanities. In many cases, those ideas and theoretical perspectives actually become the starting point of a collection and even the main theme.

Looking back, what does success mean to you now compared to when you first launched MOOHONG, and what does the next chapter of the brand look like?

To be honest, I think my definition of success has remained quite consistent from the beginning until now. For me, success has never been defined only by visibility or commercial growth. What matters most to me is how freely and convincingly I can communicate my thoughts, perspectives, and philosophies through fashion at a deeply developed level–almost in the way one would construct and communicate ideas through a thesis. That was also the original reason I became interested in fashion in the first place. I wanted to express ideas not only through writing, but through visual and physical forms as well. In many ways, my standard for success is still connected to that same motivation today.

Finally, if someone is discovering MOOHONG for the first time through this Fally Ipupa moment, what’s the first thing you hope they understand–not just about the brand, but about you as a designer?

I hope people understand that MOOHONG is not simply about clothing or aesthetics, but about perspective–a different way of seeing and questioning existing systems.

IG: @_STANLEYKILONZO

There’s been multiple moments over the past year when it’s impossible to look at a handbag without something hanging off it. Labubus clipped onto Birkins. Tiny books dangling from Miu Miu Arcadies. Beaded charms attached to bags already overloaded with keys, ribbons, headphones, and half a personality. Accessories stopped being singular objects and started becoming whole ecosystems — messy accumulations of taste, irony, nostalgia, and internet literacy all hanging together at once.  

The Audemars Piguet x Swatch “Royal Pop” collaboration arrives directly inside that cultural shift. Before the watch's official photos were released, AI-generated images of brightly coloured plastic Royal Oaks had already spread across social media, circulating fast enough to shape public perception. The fantasy of an accessible Audemars Piguet moved through the internet almost too perfectly: candy-coloured bezels, Swatch materials, AP branched into something suddenly obtainable. By the time the real collaboration appeared earlier this week, people had already written their own version of the story.

What Swatch and Audemars Piguet released felt less predictable. Rather than producing a direct reinterpretation of the Royal Oak, the brands introduced eight oversized pocket watches inspired by Swatch’s archival POP watches from the ‘80s, complete with detachable clips, chains, and leather lanyards designed to move the watch beyond the wrist entirely. 

Framed by the brands as a meeting point between “joyful boldness” and “positive provocation,” the collaboration positions itself as a disruption of watchmaking’s inherited codes. It is presented as a rule-breaker: a collection that challenges not only what a watch looks like, but how it is worn, where it sits on the body, and what it signifies when it leaves the wrist entirely.

Royal Pop merges two distinct visual languages: Audemars Piguet’s Royal Oak, one of the most recognisable luxury watch designs in circulation, and Swatch’s modular POP line from the 1980s, known for its interchangeable, playful system of wear. The result is eight statement-making pocket watches designed for “endless creative styling,” shifting the watch from fixed object to mobile accessory.

Suddenly, one of the most recognizable symbols in luxury watchmaking looks closer to a bag charm than a collector’s object, and predictably, watch forums are spiraling. But the anxiety surrounding Royal Pop reveals something larger about how luxury currently functions. The outrage has very little to do with the actual design of the watches and almost everything to do with what the Royal Oak represents culturally. Over the last decade, the watch has become deeply entangled with scarcity, and wealth performance. The Royal Oak operates less as a practical object than a social signal, and a shorthand for access itself.

Royal Pop interrupts that language slightly. Not fully, but enough to make people uncomfortable. What makes the collaboration so smart is that Audemars Piguet never actually compromises the exclusivity of the original Royal Oak. The watches avoid becoming straightforward plastic APs by refusing the traditional wristwatch format altogether. Instead, the collaboration translates the visual identity of the Royal Oak into something modular, playful, and culturally mobile. 

And fashion has already been moving in that direction for a while.

Over the last few years, luxury consumers have become increasingly interested in objects that function symbolically, even if it evades practicality. Fashion’s obsession with charms, trinkets, and collectible accessories exists within that same ecosystem: objects acting as visible markers of taste, personality, and cultural awareness. Royal Pop understands this instinct perfectly.

People are not going to wear these watches traditionally. They are going to attach them to handbags, backpacks, belt loops, suitcases, headphones, and keychains. Someone will inevitably clip one onto their bag, and Royal Pop feels designed for circulation already. That fluidity feels particularly important for luxury watchmaking right now. For years, the industry has remained trapped in conversations around investment value, waitlists, resale markets, and technical legitimacy. Seriousness is the dominant aesthetic. Quiet luxury only intensified that atmosphere further, flattening fashion into increasingly muted displays of restraint. Royal Pop cuts through all of that with colour, absurdity, and a sense of play that feels intentionally contemporary.

The collaboration also builds on the strange cultural space Swatch has occupied ever since the original MoonSwatch launch in 2022. That release transformed Omega’s Speedmaster into a mass-market cultural object without significantly damaging the mythology of the original watch. Long queues formed outside stores, resale prices exploded, and younger consumers who had never engaged with watch culture suddenly cared about horology, or at least its imagery.

Blancpain followed with the Fifty Fathoms collaboration in 2023, though the impact felt more contained within watch communities. Audemars Piguet entering this territory always carried more symbolic weight because the Royal Oak occupies a different position within fashion culture itself. The watch exists simultaneously as a luxury object, accessory, and internet shorthand.

Royal Pop navigates this by leaning fully into this. Even before launch day, third-party brands had already started producing wrist adapters and replacement straps designed to transform the pocket watches into traditional wearables. Consumers immediately began reshaping the product beyond the intentions of either company. That responsiveness feels central to contemporary fashion consumption now: luxury objects no longer remain fixed after release.Their meaning evolves collaboratively through styling, customization and online circulation.

In many ways, the collaboration feels like the watch industry finally catching up to how fashion already behaves online. Because increasingly the social life surrounding objects matters more.

Online threads are filled with debates about whether AP had diluted its image or secured its future relevance. The outrage itself is becoming part of the product’s visibility cycle. The collaboration is thriving precisely because it generates emotional reactions. And right now, emotional reaction is one of the few things luxury brands cannot manufacture through scarcity alone.

What Royal Pop ultimately recognizes is that younger audiences approach watches differently than previous generations did. More than anything, the collaboration recognizes that watches are re-entering fashion as styling objects rather than purely collector pieces. The wrist is no longer the only destination. The watch becomes part of a larger visual ecosystem built around personalization, attachment, and display. Not everyone buying a Royal Pop will become a serious watch collector. But that almost feels beside the point.

Because in 2026, watches no longer belong exclusively on the wrist.

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