During a recent interview with NandoLeaks, songwriter, producer and singer Omah Lay did not hold back when speaking about, Elmah, the newest artist signed to his record label—Boy Alone. “She’s Insane”,  he said.

The Nigerian hitmaker, who launched the imprint as an extension of his creative movement, used the conversation to introduce fans to the rising talent and explain the unconventional personality behind the artist, which drew his attention to her. 

Before her connection with Omah Lay, Elmah had quietly built momentum. With her soulful tone and emotionally driven songwriting skills, she made covers and snippets that blend Afrobeats with R&B and alternative influences.  Her early single “New Boy In Town” introduced listeners to lyrics  born from vulnerability, self-doubt, loneliness and the search for acceptance. It captured the emotional experience of stepping into unfamiliar territory, and it resonated with listeners because it was widely relatable, especially as her delivery feels intimate and honest, which makes it feel like she’s voicing emotions they struggle to articulate, which are qualities that have become defining traits of Afrofusion’s new wave. 

Her visibility  intensified when she appeared on his latest album “Clarity of Mind”, on the track  “Coping Mechanism”  

‍making her the only guest artist on the project, an opportunity that screams confidence in her potential. 

This artistic alignment is precisely why their collaboration feels natural, as they operate the same emotional territory that Afrofusion has come to represent: introspection, heartbreak, longing and spiritual reflection wrapped in mellow rhythm. Where Omah Lay leans towards haunting melodies and confessional storytelling, Elmah brings a softer but equally emotive tone. Together, their voices create a complementary dynamic, his textured and aching delivery with her airy, reflective presence. 

For Elmah, the moment marks the start of a breakthrough in her career. For Omah Lay, it signals an evolution in his journey, not as an artist but as a curator of a new talent for his imprint. However, if his words are anything to go by, the world would soon understand why he called her “Insane”, a remark that hints at an artist whose creativity, energy and artistry may be as unpredictable as they are compelling and could challenge expectations, therefore making unforgettable impressions. 

Following Coachella weekend 1  which unfolded over three days at the sun-soaked Empire Polo Club in Indio, California, the internet has been abuzz with glossy videos of music stars performing to crowds stretching into the horizon. As is now tradition, fans, many of whom followed the performances through timely clips circulated on social media, have spent the past few days engaging in spirited conversation about the performances that moved them the most. Sabrina Carpenter’s opening-day performance, which saw her deftly whizz through hits like “Espresso” and “House Tour” against the backdrop of a flamboyant stage decked out with a diorama of Los Angeles’ hilly terrain, has earned high praise for its delightfully theatrical mien. Meanwhile her blithe dismissal of a fan’s zaghrouta—a shrill ululation used in some Arab cultures to express excitement—as “weird” has earned her, perhaps, an equal amount of backlash. 

Performances by other acts—everyone from Iggy Pop to Young Thug and Offset, who was wheeled onto the stage a week after being shot in the foot—have similarly sparked a litany of reactions. Nonetheless, none of the performers has polarized the internet as intensely as Justin Bieber. On a sleek stage replete with curves and a dim ambiance that brings to mind a Star Wars set, the prince of Pop sang along to some of his biggest hits playing through a live-streamed YouTube feed, projected on the large screen behind him. His performance, the most-viewed in Coachella’s history, has split viewers in half, and set a litany of conversations in motion. 

Last week also brought with it a surprising new turn to the long-running hostility between Nigerian rappers Odumodublvck and Blaqbonez. Last year, the former friends began exchanging subliminal disses on social media. The tensions between them have since ballooned into a spate of scathing diss tracks and, more recently, a devastating play by Odumodublvck, which is either brutally genius or underhanded, depending on who you ask. 

In this installment of PopTakes, I pull apart the conflicting opinions attending Justin Bieber’s Coachella performance as well as Odumodublvck and Blaqbonez’s  long-running beef as a point of departure.

‍Justin Bieber’s Coachella Performance Was a Full Circle Moment 

Justin Bieber took the Coachella stage wearing an oversized peach hoodie and dark baggy pants to offer stirring performances of numbers from his 7th studio album Swag, which finds him luxuriating in a sedate, stripped-down universe where longing and earnest self-excavation exist in a charming equilibrium. Just when fans had begun to wonder if he’d perform any catalog songs, he plopped behind a traditional streaming setup, and performed some of the biggest songs from his catalog, many of which were requests from fans who had tuned into his YouTube live stream. The symbolism is hard to miss: a performance perfectly calibrated for the streaming era. The performance also doubles as a callback to his early days, when he leapfrogged to the center of the global zeitgeist after several of his chintzy YouTube videos went viral. 

Any discussion of a Justin Bieber performance reliably generates conflicting opinions, in part, due to his hectoring stardom and his influence on popular culture over the years. There’s something about cheering on or scrutinizing the action of a global star who came of age before all our eyes. All of this notwithstanding, Bieber’s Coachella performance has unleashed a level of debate we haven’t seen in several years. At least, not since 2023, when Frank Ocean clambered onto the stage an hour after his performance was scheduled to begin, performed unexpected reworks of fan favorites, ended the show abruptly and pulled out of his scheduled second week performance. Fans have characterized Bieber’s Coachella performance as a charming journey down memory lane. Meanwhile, his critics have called it lazy and uninspired. Where were the pyrotechnics, backup dancers, live bands, elaborate stage design, and similar elements fans have come to reliably expect from a Coachella headliner? 

What this line of criticism misses is that spectacle doesn’t necessarily translate to a good performance. More than spectacle, a great show deploys poignant and considered storytelling to bring the audience into an artist’s world. Bieber remains one of the few holdouts from an era of pop culture when discovery still felt organic and communal to audiences. We all watched him upload cover after cover on YouTube until he began his surreal jaunt to the zenith of popular culture. All of us who watched his rise, hold years of memories in our hearts, memories that trace back to his early days as a YouTube cover artist. Many fans and critics have reported feeling strangely heartened by the performance. A recent GQ interview described it as “thrilling and cathartic.” In Chris Willman’s review of the show for Variety Australia, he describes it as “a trip down memory lane.” In the hands of another artist, a meta karaoke show might have struggled to resonate but for Bieber, it hits all the right notes precisely because it feels authentic to him and harks back to a shared experience with his fans. 

As Odumodublvck and Blaqbonez's beef reaches a Fever Pitch, the Nigerian Hip Hop Scene Reckons With An Uncomfortable Question 

In light of recent events in the Nigerian Hip Hop scene, we find ourselves reckoning with the uncomfortable question of whether beefs—historically a major prong of Hip Hop’s upholstery—are beneficial to the culture. Last week, “ACL,” Blaqbonez’s diss track on which he bitterly decimates Odumodublvck, disappeared from streaming platforms. As the ensuing bedlam settled, word spread that Odumodublvck had exploited a loophole in the licensing agreement for the beat, purchased it for himself, and took down the song. 

This situation illustrates the state of beef culture in Hip Hop today. They have evolved from a lyrical sparring session to something much darker.  In Jay Z’s widely-circulated interview with GQ’s Frazier Tharpe a few weeks ago, he ardently comments on the current state of the once sacred pillar of  Hip Hop saying, “We love the excitement and I love the sparring, but in this day and age there’s so much negative stuff that comes with it that you almost wish it didn’t happen”.

Exchanging diss tracks no longer suffices and increasingly rap beefs translate into harmful real-world consequences. Much has been said about how the beef between Drake and Kendrick Lamar galvanized an increasingly lethargic Hip Hop scene. What many forget, however, is that at the height of the beef, a security guard was seriously injured in a drive-by shooting outside Drake's Toronto mansion, and an OVO store in London was also vandalized. The beef between Odumodublvck and Blaqbonez has similarly resulted in skirmishes between members of their respective camps. 

The excitement supplied by rap beefs now appears to be fleeting. Just as the Drake-Kendrick beef has not slowed down Hip Hop’s retrenchment from the American mainstream, despite its short-term gains, Odumodublvck and Blaqbonez’s beef has not translated into lasting wins for either party. Which brings us to the question of what purpose beef serves today in Hip Hop? Hip Hop heads might chafe at the suggestion that beef culture might be a net-negative in today’s world but that appears to be the case. Collaboration, like Jay Z suggests, might be a more effective strategy for achieving success. 

Sarz is more than a name in Afrobeats—he's a pioneer whose influence crosses continents. His legacy is built on innovation, mentorship, and relentless excellence. Sarz has shaped a generation's sound and inspired many artists. Protect Sarz at All Costs is more than a collection of songs; it celebrates his journey, creative evolution, and the resilience that fueled his rise from humble beginnings to global acclaim. As Sarz continues to push boundaries and uplift others, his story proves the enduring power of passion and vision.

Sarz’s sound is instantly recognisable—bold, innovative, and uniquely his. As a cultivator, he has built an inspiring career with a clearly identifiable sound. Wherever you hear it, you know it’s a Sarz beat. Now, at this pivotal point, he’s breaking boundaries, stretching his creativity beyond music, and redefining what it means to be an artist.

As part of our Cultivators Issue, we captured Sarz in London after the release of his debut album—a moment that seemed to crystallise the energy and vision he brings to everything he does. The photo shoot didn’t just showcase his style; it offered a glimpse into the creative force that has propelled his career for over a decade. Born in Benin City, Edo State, Sarz began tinkering with music software as a teenager, but quickly grew into the architect behind the soundtracks of Afrobeats’ biggest stars. His unique ability to identify, nurture, and elevate talent is evident in the careers he’s helped launch and sustain across genres. Now, as he steps into a new chapter, Sarz is not only pushing his own boundaries but is also empowering a new generation through the Sarz Academy—a platform that’s already produced some of the most sought-after producers in the industry. His influence extends beyond music, as he explores fashion, mentorship, and other creative endeavours, proving that his vision knows no limits. Far from finished, Sarz continues to shape culture and inspire, making this just the beginning of an even greater legacy. 

We've known you for a while, but this particular album feels like not even a career introduction, but more like another level. How do you feel this moment represents a particular point in your journey so far?

I'm so grateful to God for making this happen. Because sometimes, even with all the talents and all the connections and everything you have or think you have, if it's not going to work, it's not going to work for you. So I'm just grateful to God for this growth, and it's been an amazing journey. I feel like I still have so much to give, and not many people, especially on the Afrobeat side of things, have careers that are this long and still feel fresh. So I'm just really grateful for that. And, I also have to pat myself on the back for just working hard, staying consistent and evolving.  

What would you say has been the main driving factor, or the thing that you felt has made you keep going, keep doing music and just keep going the way that you have?

It's a mix of passion and discipline. I'm so passionate about music, I don't see myself doing anything else. I think I would feel purposeless without music. And also the discipline to keep going even when I don't feel like it's because there are times where life happens, or even in the music industry, you things don't go your way and things happen, and it can rub you the wrong way, and you feel like quitting, but you don't, because you have discipline to keep going. I know I still have so many more ideas I want to put out into the world. I really feel like I want to empty this vessel before my time is up.

Was there a particular thing that made you feel like music was something you wanted to pursue and explore in terms of how you express yourself?  What was the motivating factor,  or is it just something that has always been a part of you?

Music wasn't a part of me when I was young. As far as I know, no one in my family has a musical background. I would say that, in my early teenage years, when I started to discover music for myself and developed a taste for it, I found myself drawn to producers. I listened to a song because a producer I liked made it, and I found myself more intrigued by music production. I didn't care much for lyrics; as long as the song had a great beat and vocal melodies to go with it, I was fine. So I've always just been that way inclined. A friend of mine introduced me to a certain music software, and I tried making a beat. That was a light-bulb moment in my life when I just knew I didn't want to do anything else but make music. That is how my journey started. I was so passionate about it that I would make 10 beats a day. That's all I did for a very long time until I found a foot in the music industry, and the rest is history.

just in terms of, like, now being the moment that you thought, Okay, I'm gonna, I'm gonna do this album now, as opposed to, like, I'll just put out a few songs, or, you know, maybe, like an EP or something. Why did you feel like you wanted to present like a body of work in this particular format, like in this current time?

I can't really explain why I chose now, but I think that, now that I've put it out, it will be easier for me to just keep expressing myself, you know, through albums and other things. I don't have a reason to do this now. I've been making EPS with some of my frequent collaborators, and I just think it's time to do things on my own. I've been producing music for a long time, and I'm exploring other ventures. It's part of growth, it's part of evolving.

Protect Sarz At All Costs was a special project in the fact that it's your debut album. What about the process of making this album felt different to the previous bodies of work that you've done?

because I'm very involved in producing music for other people. I don't just send beats and have them release the song. I'm very involved in the song arrangements, with ideas and sometimes with who's mixing the song. Like, I want to be very involved and hands-on. So the creative process isn't that different from what I'm used to. The process that was different was more about putting together a compilation or collab album with a lot of people on the track and trying to fit them together cohesively and make it make sense. Sometimes you have certain ideas for certain people on the track, and you play the track to them, and it doesn't resonate with them, so you have to go back to the drawing board to figure out something that works with them. which can then lead you to make other decisions for the other tracks, so that it makes sense as an album.  So that part of the process was different, having to think of this as an album rather than just a track, and producing for someone you know, collectively.

The opening track, Grateful, sets the tone for the rest of the album. How did it come to be, and why did you want to start the album with this particular song?

It just felt natural, and I felt right to start with being grateful. WurlD and I have collaborated on so many songs, so we usually just catch up on what's going on in our lives. The day we made this song, we were just talking about how far we've come and how grateful we are for everything.  Where we are,  the ups and the downs and sometimes conversations like that inspire songs. I remember, mid-conversation, he just started singing, and we just put it together. It just felt right for  the album to start that way,

How did you find it to whittle it down to these particular 12 songs and sort of craft, like the sound in terms of, like, even, not just thinking, like the tracklisting, but just like the sonic palette of the album, if you will. Like, how did you, how did you come to pull all of that together, to bring it together to these 12 songs?

There are two types of artists. They are the artists that make 100 songs and streamline to 12, and they're the artists that make 12 songs and know that those 12 songs are going to work.  I think I'm one of those who, if I'm going to make a 10-track album, I'm probably going to make, like, 15 tracks, just to have backup, because I really believe in my ideas. If I believe in an idea, I work on it until I'm satisfied. I don't like having a bunch of tracks just trying different things. If you just feel the slightest discomfort,you throw that away and be like, Oh, that's not working. It's really about being fluid and just, you know, making things work with the ideas you have. You know, you try someone on the track. If it doesn't work, you know, you try the next best person on. You just keep going until you find what works.

The intentionality, and even talking about this, this particular album, what was the intention that you had, or the intention that you set for what you wanted this album to be, if there was one at all?

My intention for this album was to inspire people, especially from where I'm from, from this side of the world, to know that you can do anything if you put your mind to it, and you don't have to be mediocre. You can really push yourself and set a standard.

What would you say has been like, the changes within yourself you've seen evolve over the years? When you talk about, you know, growth and evolution and things like that?

Music has opened doors for me that I would have never imagined would be open. Music has given me opportunities to be exposed, to be self-aware, and to become the person I am now. It has created opportunities to find these experiences and take what I need from them. I'm really, really grateful for that, and as we speak, it keeps, you know, it keeps opening doors. It keeps giving me a life worth living.

When you think about your background and how you grew up, what? Yeah, what is that done for your family and how they respond to that, and how they've seen what you've been able to do, what has the experience been like for you and then be able to see your career go as far as it has?

So there was a lot of friction with my choice of how I was spending my time, which was on music. As a young teenager, there was a lot of friction and kickback because my parents didn't understand that career path. And thinking about it, I guess they were projecting their fears that I wouldn't succeed, but the moment they saw I was serious, and I started making a living for myself, all that changed. And it has really shaped my family in a way that my nephews have been encouraged to do what they want to do, which I think is a byproduct of the success I've had in music. I'm just very grateful for choosing music. I didn't go to university, so I was up against the wall. I only had one option: to succeed in music. That gave me tunnel vision to make sure this career path I chose works out. So I'm just very grateful to God for everything. This is why I  chose that track as track one, it's very important, and meaningful to me, because I am very, very, very grateful for this life, because if it didn't work out, I don't know, maybe I'll be asking you for a job now.

Even for you and your legacy, and as you know, the impact that you have on people, I know you've got your academy that you do now. Even in terms of like yourself and thinking about that. How does that feel for the next generation of producers and artists? Is that something that you think about often, when you think about how far you've come, and you've reflected on your journey and like, when you see the next generation of young creatives coming up, and what that and what your impact has been on them?

I think about this a lot, and this is one of the reasons why I started my academy, just to help people who go through things like this, because it's very common in Africa for parents not to support the creative industry. Like, if you know your kids have a passion for the creative industry. I know how hard it was for me to get where I am, and it's easy for someone from where I'm from to look at me and say, if this guy can do it, then I can do it. Compared to a producer like Metro Boomin in America, for example, it feels far away and almost unreachable. But if you see that I can do this, you see me in Lagos, you know I'm human like you. You know that our struggles are very similar, so if I can do it, it inspires people like me to do the same. In our academy, we've been able to help a lot of creatives have careers, and some of them are among the best producers in the Afrobeat space today. So this is something I really think about, you know, and I'm here to be of service.

I know music is the hub. But in terms of your other creative pursuits, whether it be, you know, like your style and your fashion, and other sides of your creativity. How do you feel like you express yourself differently through the different creative things that you do?

Its expression. The more confident you become, the more you want to express yourself; the more exposed you are, the more you want to express yourself in different ways. I love expressing myself through fashion. I love expressing myself through fitness. I love expressing myself through anything that interests me.  Whether it's tech, gadgets, or movies. I have concept ideas, and I just love expressing myself in my own unique way.  I think that the more exposed and the more confident you are, the more you start to express these things, and not just for you, maybe just to inspire people. That's a big thing for me, I really just want to be myself so I can inspire other people to be themselves. In a world where you know everyone has a crowd mentality and wants to blend in with what everyone else is doing. I would want to express myself because I have that self-identity.

What are you looking forward to most in terms of what's coming next and what excites you about the future of the Sarz journey?

I'm really excited to see myself grow in so many ways, beyond music. I'm really excited to take my DJing career to greater heights. I have my upcoming show, Fabric Live, on April 24th, which will be a new experience for me. I have a lineup of exciting artists, and it's going to be a great night. I'm really excited to try out other genres of music, you know. Really excited to like, just, you know, diving into other creative ventures. I'm really excited to take my swimming lessons seriously and become a swimmer in 2026.  So many things I've just really opened up to growing, and not just in music. I feel like music is there; it's going to do its thing. Just the other pillars of what makes Sarz. I’m really excited to do a cultural collaboration with the academy and people interested in music across the world. You know, there are so, so many plans.

Credits:
Photography: Ahmed Idries @haruki.design
Creative Director: Zekaria Al-Bostani @zek.snaps & Ahmed Idries @haruki.design
Producer: Seneo Mwamba @seneomwamba
Grooming: Dalila Bone @dalila_mua
Fashion Stylist: Rhys Marcus Jay @rhysmarcujay
Styling Assistant: Annabel Webster @annabeljwebsterstylist
Co-Director: @_faysalhassan
Co Producer: Nadeem Ahmed: @nadderz_photography
Design: @shalemalone | @dianeadanna
BTS: Blair Watson @blairs_cornershop
Writer: Seneo Mwamba @seneomwamba
Studio: @plainwhitestudio_

Zubaboy is Aiming for Global Recognition

When you think of Congolese music and its artists roaming the continent, who are the first names that come to mind? Fally Ipupa? Koffi Olomide? Theodora? Tiakola? Well, let me introduce you to Pson, a Congolese artist who feels just like a gift that keeps on giving. Why does he stand out from the crowd, you may ask? While everyone else in the continent sticks to traditional sounds such as Soukous or Rumba, the Zubaboy adds a bit of flair to the mix, making him one of the most exciting acts coming from Congo.

Pson Zubaboy, or Pson in short, is a 30-year-old Congolese artist born in Kalemie, Eastern Congo. Growing up, Pson listened to a lot to the late Congolese legend Papa Wemba and American R&B icon Craig David. He is one of the founding members of Zubaboy Music, a label based in the region. Beginning his music career around 2017 with a few standout singles across the years, it was his debut album, ‘Classik’, in 2025; however, that really brought him to the limelight. For a small-town boy,  at first, his sole mission was simply to merge his hometown, Lumumbashi and the capital city of Kinshasa, bridging the gap between a long feud of different ethnics and native languages. As his career grew, so did his interest. He began incorporating sounds from Nigeria, Ghana and Tanzania, whilst choosing to sing in English, Swahili and Lingala.

Congolese people are naturally very formulaic; they stick to what they know and are very good at it. It is all in their avant-garde high-end fashion, best known as La Sape, their distinctive food like Kwanga and Pondu, or perhaps their naturally comedic appeal. Unfortunately, that leaves little room for innovation and evolution, which, for most, is a natural course of time that every genre or culture will inevitably be struck by. But not in Congo! You see, music enthusiasts still swaying some ndombolo steps to Koffi Olomide’s ‘Héros National’ or Fally Ipupa’s ‘Original’ like there’s no tomorrow, and rightfully so. Rumba is a dance music ingrained into Congolese culture, from the movements to the fashion sense, everything becomes like a second skin to the listener, deeply rooted in the cause. For a country that constantly faces persecution, an immense social gap, and general devaluation from all of its neighbours, pride is of great importance. In this case, it almost becomes a tool for survival, a way of life. And although Pson is experimenting, he is undoubtedly cut from the same cloth.

It goes without saying that Pson has a deep respect for traditional Congolese rhythms. Pson isn’t abandoning his musical roots. He fuses contemporary sounds, such as Jersey club and Afrobeats, with key Congolese elements, for example, Congolese popular singing cadence, to amplify them. Now, a whole world that only Congolese people and their diaspora could relate to opens up before an extended young and eager audience. Worlds are colliding, and it urges a cultural dialogue. The result? A sound that feels both familiar and refreshing at the same time. Take ‘Ebele’ for example, one of his biggest singles thus far, adored by anyone who enjoys fast dancing rhythms and a catchy hook. 

While perseverance is at the centre of African identity, pushing boundaries can contribute just as much greatness for the cause. Let’s take fashion, for example: although traditional clothing is still practised around the continent, the use of modernity, such as streetwear and online trends, not only is utilized to showcase wealth, but also makes African artists relatable to younger generations within and outside of the continent. Through carefully curated styles and visual aesthetic, it gets to target a larger pool of listeners, who perhaps wouldn’t have clicked on the song then, but now are more curious and willing to participate in a genre that wouldn’t have appealed to them otherwise.

As African music continues to gain international recognition, Pson plays a key role in pushing the movement to the world. In recent years, French Afropop, a diasporic subculture in France, has risen in popularity. As new listeners grow more and more curious about the Francophone African contribution, this also brings eyes to their country of origin, such as the Ivory Coast, Cameroon and Congo, where Pson is based. It is not about just participating in the global arena; it is about reshaping it. By effortlessly blending a Congolese essence with a modern soundscape, Pson is actively contributing to the conversation, making it possible for Africans to stand on the main stage. Although other regions, such as Nigeria and South Africa, have helped shed light on the continent, there’s still a long way to go. And we are confident that Pson Zubaboy is a key player in this phenomenon that is worth watching.

Kat Coiro’s “You, Me & Tuscany” premiered to controversy this weekend, alongside  pre-release Twitter debates and box office pressure which made it one of the most anticipated films this month. An original, Black, romantic comedy film, starring Bridgerton heart throb Regé-Jean Page and Disney princess Halle Bailey, produced by Will Packer, hitting the mainstream screens for the first time since 2012’s Think Like a Man?! Sign me up! But why have we had to wait so long for Black romance on the big screen when White mediocrity has remained a shoo-in?

Though it is certainly not the first of its kind, the film’s representation of the Black community in a light-hearted and romantic light has felt monumental. Amidst an attractive cast, picturesque views, and humorous, albeit cliché, lessons about life, love, and Italians, Page and Bailey give a flirty, vulnerable look at love. However, the pressure around the film, and others like it, almost tainted the experience for me and, it seems, for others.

Ahead of the film’s release, award-winning filmmaker Nina Lee took to X to share her recurring battle in the industry. 

Stuck in what she calls “post-production limbo,” her wrapped rom-com starring Coco Jones, Kountry Wayne, Emmy Raver-Lampman, and Loretta Devine waits on bated breath for public and critical response to “You, Me & Tuscany”.

Responsible for "Nappily Ever After" press for Netflix and short films like “ARTISTIC,” Lee’s growth from a student film at Spelman College to Hollywood has garnered her connections. But, to Hollywood executives, Lee and those who look like her clearly still have something to prove, particularly in the romance genre.

This comes in sharp contrast to A24’s buzzy new romance film, “The Drama", starring Robert Pattinson and Zendaya. The romantic drama starring two famous leads of fairer skin tones, one of whom is Black, has also been in conversation within the Black community, looking to support Black representation on screen.

At its premiere two weekends ago, the film’s three-day total grossed $8.7 million in the United States. Since then, it's grown to $30 million domestically over the last two weekends, showing signs of a well-received promise. ‘“You, Me, and Tuscany”’s three-day total rivals ‘“The Drama” at $8 million domestically, projected to best “Anyone But You”'s premiere and long-term performance, according to Screen Rant. 

The 2023 box-office hit starring Glen Powell and Sydney Sweeney blew projections out of the water, sparking dating rumours and the help of the holiday season as catalysts. Even without those aids, Page and Bailey are carrying their weight against tough competition. “Project Hail Mary”, “The Super Mario Galaxy”, and “The Drama” are ahead of the film in box office statistics, with the likes of “Michael” and “The Devil Wears Prada 2” to follow in the weekends ahead. All the while, projections for the film are set to beat out the rumours that Black romance films simply can’t compete.

With this in mind, it’s important to note that every other film on this list is dispelled from the same deck of cards that Coiro’s latest has been dealt. Talk around the industry about the film being a litmus test not only entertains the idea that Black people should only be seen in a certain light, but also enforces the systemic oppression Black people worldwide find themselves victims of. When the Black community creates, the Black community shares and shows up, without any onus on other communities to reinforce the importance of these stories. Ultimately, carrying the loaded success or failure of the creation.

The film’s producer, Will Packer, affirmed this in conversation with Variety, saying, “Hollywood watches and then they react. Hollywood will react to the audiences more so than audiences realize; they have the power to dictate what’s made in Hollywood.”

Films like “Michael” feature the infamous story of an icon and legend, with an intimate feel as Jaafar Jackson’s debut is not only personal to the Black community, but the world. “Anyone But You”’s unspoken excuse of Whiteness allows a predictably regular reenactment of Shakespeare’s “Much Ado About Nothing” that bears no leading questions about the next actor’s race or the next film’s plot. Even criticism of Zendaya’s performance in an unconventional, rom-com drama film has been subject to conversation about racial scrutiny, amidst its praise as the best role of her career.

Regardless of the noise, the power remains in showing up and letting the money do the talking. Until every role or storyline shifts the goal post in favour of Nina Lees and the Black community. 

In an interview with The British Blacklist, Page spoke about how the reflection of black men in love, confidently, empowers and allows others to do the same. Bailey echoed his enthusiasm in representing her community through joyous, fun roles and hopes to see more. 

So for those who need proof that these stories should be told, the proof is in the cinemas, the comments, and the discourse. ‍

Cover Credit: Essence Magazine via Giulia Parmigiani

Burna Boy, a Grammy-winning Nigerian artist and one of Afrobeats' biggest global names, and DJ Tunez, one of Africa's most influential DJs, came to blows at Obi's House, a popular celebrity gathering in Lagos, on April 6, 2026. The altercation has since triggered a nationwide ban on Burna Boy's music by the Nigerian DJ Association, sending shockwaves through the Afrobeats industry.

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According to multiple witness accounts, the altercation began when DJ Tunez performed his set without playing Burna Boy's music, despite the artist being present at the event. Tensions reportedly escalated when Burna Boy approached DJ Tunez to address the situation. What followed has been disputed. DJ Tunez alleged he was struck from behind, writing online: "YOU HIT ME IN THE BACK OF MY HEAD WITHOUT ME LOOKING." He also claimed he was outnumbered, describing the incident as "1 VS 10." Burna Boy's camp denied this account, with his associate Richie Richie dismissing the severity of the altercation and suggesting only a slap was involved.

The incident drew an immediate response from Wizkid, a long-time associate of DJ Tunez. In a post that never directly named Burna Boy, Wizkid's meaning was unmistakable, calling out whoever "jumped a DJ with 10 men." The Nigerian DJ Association moved swiftly as well, announcing the ban. "Burna Boy's music is temporarily out of any of our DJs' playlists till further notice," the association stated, pending an internal investigation into the incident.

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Burna Boy has not issued a formal apology. Instead, he appeared in a friend's Snapchat video dancing in a towel to DJ Tunez's own song "Money Constant" before dramatically falling to the ground, widely interpreted by fans as a mockery of the incident. In a conversation with Shallipopi on Instagram Live, he disputed DJ Tunez's account, claiming he acted alone.

The Nigerian DJ Association has confirmed that its investigation is still ongoing, and no timeline has been given for when the ban may be lifted. For Burna Boy, the consequences extend beyond the ban. The incident has reignited long-standing tensions between his camp and Wizkid's, a rivalry that has simmered for years through social media jabs and fan-driven narratives. What makes the timing particularly notable is that both artists are scheduled to perform at Afro Nation Portugal 2026, raising questions about how the industry will navigate what is becoming an increasingly public and physical feud. The altercation is the most visible flashpoint yet in a years-long rivalry between the Wizkid and Burna Boy camps, one that has largely played out through social media but has now spilt into real life. As of press time, no formal written statement has been issued by Burna Boy's team, and DJ Tunez has not confirmed whether legal action is being considered. In an industry built on rivalry and brotherhood in equal measure, the line between competition and chaos has never felt thinner.

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For three years, the world has mostly looked at Bianca Censori’s outfits, her silence, and her proximity to one of the most discussed men alive. The photographs have been plentiful. The bylines have been scarce. So when the music video for Ye and Travis Scott's “Father” , the lead single off Ye's twelfth studio album ,”Bully” dropped on March 28th alongside the album, and the director credit read Bianca Censori, it was worth stopping to look more carefully. Not at her, but at what she created.

The video is a single continuous shot with no cuts, edits, or concessions to the conventions of the music video format. It’s set in a church rendered in muted earth tones and architectural in its design. Ye sits in the pews throughout, largely still, his thousand-mile stare aimed at something the camera never quite reveals. Around him, the scene populates with figures that feel simultaneously symbolic and completely unexplained. “You find” a Michael Jackson lookalike sitting quietly in the last row, unbothered; a knight in full plate armour arriving on horseback down the aisle; police officers arresting a nun mid-slumber; a pageant queen carried ceremonially toward the altar; a magician whose card tricks ignite into real flames. A UFO lands. Nobody particularly reacts. Travis Scott arrives for his verse and appears to be marrying two women at once. At one point, Ye and Scott pull down their masks to reveal alien faces beneath - celebrity and extraterrestrial already interchangeable, already the same thing. 

The film presents a church not as a real place, but as a surreal dreamlike environment, where time feels slowed, spatial logic is distorted, and reality becomes fantasy. Censori said, describing the single-shot decision "constructing a logic that could only exist within a dream, where unrelated characters, worlds and temporalities collide within one continuous space."

The word “architecturally” is the key to reading the video correctly. Censori holds a Bachelor's and Master's degree in architecture from the University of Melbourne and has served as Head of Architecture at Yeezy since 2020. As a student, she described architecture saying "the grandest artistic gesture that we can place onto the earth." The “Father” video is not a departure from that training. It is a direct application of it. The church is not dressed as a location  it is designed as a spatial argument. The simultaneous action in different areas of the frame, the deliberate use of depth and peripheral activity, the refusal to cut and therefore the refusal to direct the viewer's attention are architectural decisions focused onhow space produces meaning. The Hollywood Reporter compared the video's cinematography to Jacques Tati and its weight to Andrei Tarkovsky, two filmmakers whose works are fundamentally about what happens in the frame when you refuse to simplify it. 

The symbolism is dense and deliberately unresolved. The church is a site of collective belief and institutional power. The knight and the police are two versions of the same enforcement structure separated by centuries. The Michael Jackson lookalike as a figure of celebrity mythology - adored, consumed, isolated. Ye and Scott are men who wear their fame like a costume over something else entirely. What Censori is doing is not illustrating the song. She is building a parallel text - one that sits alongside Ye's music without being subordinate to it. The video could exist without the track. That is not a criticism. That is the point.

Which brings the second question that formal analysis alone cannot answer. Bianca Censori has spent most of her public life being looked at rather than listened to. She appeared on the cover of ‘Vultures 1’. She walked red carpets. She wore things that generated headlines. She was, in the language of the industry, a muse. In the December 2025 South Korea art show, she staged women in bondage presented as human furniture, and the line between her own artistic vision and Ye's aesthetic territory was contested and unclear. The 'Father' video is the first time she has signed her name as the sole author. "Directing is not a departure for me," she told Architectural Digest. "I'm still shaping space, bodies and emotion, it's just articulated through film." 

The question of independence, whether Censori is truly working from her own vision or extending Ye's, is one that the video itself raises and declines to answer. The church, the religious iconography, the masked figures, the performance art sensibility - these are all firmly within the aesthetic world Ye has occupied for years. Whether that represents collaboration or influence or something more complicated is not resolvable from the video alone. What is resolvable is the craft. The blocking is confident. The single-shot discipline holds. The spatial logic, distorted as she intends it to be, is coherent on its own terms.

For a directorial debut, 'Father' is not a tentative first step. It is an argument about space, about ritual, about the fog between reality and fantasy made with the precision of someone who has been thinking in built environments for a decade. Whether the next video is as good, and whether it arrives with her name more firmly in focus than his, is the more interesting question now.

IG: @ffeistyhuman

Everyone is talking about the HOMECOMING x Nike Air Max Plus collaboration. And they should be. Launching during the HOMECOMING festival between April 2–7, 2026, the shoe arrived not just as a limited drop but as a cultural landmark, one that landed differently than anything Nike has put into the world before. This is not just a big-time collaboration. This is something else entirely.
Grace Ladoja is the first African woman to collaborate with Nike. 
It is a headline that makes you stop and feel exactly how far and how fast culture is moving in Africa and in the diaspora. Nike collaborations have always been reserved for the most influential names in the world: Virgil Abloh, Michael Jordan, and Serena Williams. The fact that Grace Ladoja now sits in that same sentence, as the founder of HOMECOMING, as a cultural curator who built her platform from the ground up in Lagos, tells us the creative and cultural codes of the world has genuinely shifted.

HOMECOMING was always a stage for youth culture. A space built to give everyone, in music, fashion, art, and beyond, the chance to shine, and to see that the life they were imagining for themselves was not out of reach. But this collaboration elevated that mission to a new frequency. Grace is not simply a founder who partnered with a brand. She is someone who grew up dreaming about these very shoes. 

"I saved up my bus fare to buy the shoe when I was young. I walked to school for 60 days to buy this shoe, so it feels really special to have it be the first thing I've worked on with Nike,” Ladoja stated in an interview with Hypebae. “I'm a sneakerhead, and I interned at Crooked Tongues when I was younger. I've been in sneaker culture, and I know what the shoe represents. Sneakerheads love it. Roadmen love it. Future African creatives love it. The silhouette is amazing. It's a perfect shoe for me." -

For any young person in Africa who grew up saving coins, studying drops, understanding instinctively that the shoe on your foot was a statement about who you were and who you were becoming, this collaboration does something that goes beyond aesthetics. It says. someone who grew up exactly like you made this. That kind of visibility alters what young people believe to be possible for themselves. It dismantles the quiet, persistent lie that African creatives are supporting acts in the global cultural story rather than its authors. 

"One colorway is really about the African sunrise. When you're in Nigeria or anywhere in West Africa, the sunrise and the sunset is a deep orange,” Ladoja explains. “It feels quite magical. That color celebrates a kind of rebirth or restart… With the textures, the whole shoe is inspired by the weaving technique and texture that was around the African sponge." 

Every young person who learns the story behind this shoe, that a Nigerian woman built a festival, built a global creative community, and then sat down with Nike to design something loaded with Pan-African meaning, gives them permission to do more. For too long, Africa has been reduced to a single story often describing it as a place that contributes colour and rhythm to global culture while rarely receiving credit for either. African creativity has consistently been simplified, reshaped, and packaged to fit a Western narrative. This collaboration changes that. The creative energy pouring out of African cities, Lagos especially, has been dismantling that tag for years. But dismantling a narrative takes more than art. It takes infrastructure, institutions, and moments that cannot be ignored. This is one of those moments. When Africans are not just inspired by this collaboration but working on it, when the campaign involves African photographers, African creatives, and African magazines, the shift becomes structural. It becomes a new standard; one that the industry can see, and one that the next generation of African creatives can measure themselves against.

Grace Ladoja did not just make shoes. She made an argument. The argument is that African creativity is not regional, niche or alternative. It is central. It is what the world is moving towards, and it has been here all along. Through community, through consistency, through a refusal to shrink HOMECOMING into something more palatable, more portable, or more legible to audiences who were never the intended ones, Grace has built something that now has the whole world paying attention. This is not an ordinary collaboration. It may be one of the most significant moments in African youth culture of this generation, not because of the brand attached to it, but because of the story it tells about who gets to shape global culture.
The answer, finally, undeniably, is: us.

Maison Margiela has taken its Artisanal line out of the salon and placed it directly on the street. Artisanal: Our Creative Laboratory, staged in Huangpu District, Shanghai, brings together 58 couture looks spanning from 1989 to 2026, installed inside industrial shipping containers arranged in an open-air grid.

The setup is deliberate. The containers reference Shanghai’s port history and echo the brand’s recent runway, which Glenn Martens staged in a working shipyard. Instead of white gallery walls, garments sit against raw metal interiors, exposed to daylight, traffic noise, and footfall. The shift in setting changes how the work is read and makes it less insulated, more immediate, and harder to aestheticize from a distance.

The selection begins with one of the house’s earliest Artisanal pieces, a porcelain plate waistcoat from Autumn/Winter 1989 which was created under Martin Margiela, and moves through to recent runway work, including a Edwardian-style gown, which was treated with beeswax, from the Fall/Winter 2026 collection. Seen together, the pieces map a consistent approach. Materials change, but the Margiela methods hold, taking familiar objects and reworking them until their original function becomes secondary.

Throughout the exhibition, that method is made visible. Garments built from combs or wigs sit alongside tailored pieces that have been pulled apart and reconstructed, their internal structures exposed. Elsewhere, surfaces mimic other materials entirely, with porcelain effects achieved through scanning and airbrushing, or finishes that read as aged and cracked through wax treatments. The emphasis stays on how things are made and what they are made from.

Several of the more recent runway pieces hold substance. A dress constructed from porcelain shards bound with organza reveals the various layers between fragility and structure. A beeswax-coated gown appears preserved and deteriorating at once, its surface catching light unevenly. Another look, built from 150,000 miniature star stickers, flattens into a single texture from afar but becomes dense and almost excessive when viewed at close range. A five-meter painted canvas, sourced from a Paris flea market, has been cut and reassembled into a column dress, its original imagery still partially legible across the body.

Martens keeps one of the house’s core ideas intact: that material hierarchy is flexible. As he noted during the Shanghai presentations, the starting point for Margiela was often the thrift store. What matters is how something is seen and reworked. That approach carries through here, where upholstery, plastic, paper, and wax are treated with the same attention as traditional couture fabrics.

The exhibition extends beyond the physical installation through a public digital folder where the house uploads process images, fittings, and documentation as the project unfolds. It offers a partial look into the making of the work without fully demystifying it. Shanghai marks the first stop in a four-city project titled Maison Margiela/Folders, with subsequent chapters set to focus on anonymity and masking in Beijing, the Tabi shoe in Chengdu, and the house’s white paint technique in Shenzhen.

What holds the Shanghai exhibition together is its focus on construction. The labor behind each piece becomes more legible in this setting. A taffeta gown shaped through hundreds of hand-sculpted points, requiring close to 200 hours of work, reads as both controlled and excessive. Tailored jackets incorporate stretch jersey as internal structure, replacing traditional darts and subtly reshaping the body. Even the subtler pieces carry layered processes, printing, coating, binding, that only fully register at close range. When placed directly on the street, these details land differently. Visitors move through the containers without the usual cues of a fashion show or gallery, taking in the garments at their own pace. The result is material presence, pushed to its limit and held there.

“Ntaba Ya Kin” is Next Up in Africa’s Rap World

In the midst of the vibrant streets of Kinshasa, the Democratic Republic of Congo, there hides a reality, often met with terror, poverty, and hardship, that finds a way to rise from the ashes. It comes as no surprise that an American genre like Trap music would find a place in this Congolese community, reimagined and authentized into its own Congo Trap movement by local rappers like Kevin, better known as Bogo Thegoat, or Ntaba Ya Kin. The lyrical content and aesthetic both mirror the sound that dominated North America in the past years, but while it may have fallen off across oceans, it is because of Kevin’s storytelling that we choose to pay attention.

Like many young African boys, Kevin began his journey in the studies of Communication. For a long time, society has had everyone believing that the higher the level of education, the better the occupation you may land in the future. However, this concept, brought from the Occident through colonization, dismisses the reality that young Africans often face on the continent, from higher-ups' corruption to monthly payment rates as low as 50 dollars, which is currently the average that Kinshasa’s residents make. This idea that education is elite fails to recognize the lack of infrastructure in many African cities, actively preventing innovation and alternative ways of revenue from taking shape, where young Africans could thrive and keep up with the entrepreneurship of the world.

Kevin is no different to this harsh reality, and after his grandfather’s death, he decided to drop out of school and focus on music solely. In only 3 years, he has managed to garner an audience who not only sees themselves in his lyrics but also can find an escape in his music. Similarly to how Trap music in the US has given young black boys an alternative to the inescapable firm grip of gang violence and poverty, Kevin’s rap influences a generation long scattered and silenced. It obliges authorities to rethink their involvement in destabilizing the population and its chances of aspiring to a better life.

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When you ought to try something new, it comes with its setbacks. Although Rap music is a thriving genre in Congo, it is nothing compared to its dominant sounds, such as Rumba or Soukous. Thus, it is up to Kevin’s persistence and ambition to keep this momentum alive. While Bogo Thegoat mostly raps in Lingala, which would target a smaller group than, let’s say, musicians who speak in French or English, his sound is so well-curated that it surpasses language barriers and has been met with millions of views across social media.

When you observe his fashion sense, it screams modernity and in-the-know of what young people, even outside of Congo, currently consume. When you listen to his interviews, he speaks in a sophisticated manner, in which you understand every thought process and what has ultimately brought him to pursue music and his plans for the future. It goes without saying, Kevin is Congolese through and through; he mingles with Trap music and its essence because he thinks more about having a global impact rather than just regionally. Which sets him apart.

In that sense, Kevin is radical in his approach, daring to branch out not only from a society that looks down on freedom of expression but also from a sonic culture that has seen little to no evolution from its Congolese origins. You see, the thing about Congolese people is that they are naturally very patriotic. Congolese music is made for Congolese people, and therefore, they have little interest in urbanisation or even making it more accessible with mixtures of languages or aesthetics, for example. For this reason, the music scene has seen little change, and that’s where Bogo Thegoat comes in. He challenges the status quo, showing how far one can go with just determination and a desire to push their music to the world.

It is hard to predict whether Bogo Thegoat will manage to take his music out of the Congo, or even stay true to his roots once he does. Kevin’s message is pivotal in shedding light on a generation completely set aside and in need of a leading voice, similarly to how Trap music has impacted young people in the States. Unlike what most may think, Kevin’s music doesn’t glorify the hardship of Kinshasa, but unleashes reality in a way that can not be folded away and ignored. We are confident Bogo Thegoat can reignite Trap music, while showing everyone a piece of the world that we often close our eyes to.

There is a specific kind of ambition in placing yourself on top of the world and asking seventy thousand people to watch. On April 1, Ye, the artist formerly known as Kanye West, opened the first of two sold-out nights at SoFi Stadium in Inglewood, California, performing atop a massive rotating globe structure that dominated the stadium floor, shifting between resembling Earth and something far lonelier - what one observer called "a lonely planet of one." It was his first US concert since 2021. It was also, more than anything else, a visual argument.

The set design - the result of a collaboration between Ye and Aus Taylor, with lighting by See You Later and Trask House's John McGuire is the clearest statement of intent the show produced. Taylor, a Baltimore-born filmmaker who has worked alongside Ye since the Donda era, has described his creative philosophy simply stating "Art isn't meant to be understood, it's meant to be felt." In his first-ever interview, published by 032c in 2024, he outlined a career built on deep creative relationships rather than commissions and a refusal to work for money rather than mutual admiration. When credited as the set designer on Instagram following the show, Taylor corrected the framing: "Ye & Aus. I'm just a vessel." 

That sense of shared authorship is legible in the production itself. The globe is not a neutral stage prop. It is a deliberate visual language. Ye elevated, solitary, presiding over a structure that contains the whole world and simultaneously reflects his own psychological isolation. He performed in a black mask throughout all the while obscured from the audience even as the crowd responded to his presence. Fog swallowed the stage repeatedly. The backing track frequently overpowered his vocals, making it difficult at times to confirm he was rapping live. None of this felt incidental. It felt like a condition. The terms under which this particular return was being offered. 

The production had its rough edges, and Ye did not attempt to hide them. He stopped “Good Life three times to correct his lighting director yelling, "stop doing the vibrating Vegas lights, bro. We went over this in rehearsal." He restarted 'King' and 'This a Must' after mic and sound failures. The famous perfectionism that produced ‘My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy’ was on display not in a flawless show but in the live, visible negotiation between an artist and his own vision. In another context, this would read as chaos. Here, it read as consistency - the same man who delayed ‘Donda’ for months over sound mixing was stopping a 70,000-capacity stadium show because the lights were wrong. 

For two hours, Ye moved through his catalogue - Bully cuts giving way to ‘College Dropout’, ‘Graduation’, ‘Watch the Throne’, ‘Yeezus’, ‘The Life of Pablo’ with Don Toliver joining for 'Moon' and 'E85', and North West appearing for their collaboration 'Miss Westie'. The generational range of the crowd was its own kind of testament. Elder millennials mouthing every word of 'Can't Tell Me Nothing' alongside Gen Z fans discovering ‘Bully’ in real time, all of them standing beneath the same rotating globe, all of them watching the same masked figure trace the same lonely orbit at the top of the world.

Ye's comeback is complicated by things that do not disappear simply because the music is good -  and the music is good. The catalogue is enormous and undeniable. The Wall Street Journal's apology of January 2026, in which he addressed his antisemitism and his bipolar disorder, was an acknowledgement rather than a resolution. The globe does not solve any of that. What it does is frame it. Aus Taylor's philosophy -  that art should be felt rather than understood - is doing real work here, because the clearest thing the SoFi show communicated was not redemption or explanation but a specific visual feeling: a man, a world, a great deal of distance between the two.

That the production occasionally broke down, that the vocals were sometimes swallowed by the fog, that the lights needed correcting three times, none of it disrupted the central image. If anything, it reinforced it. The globe kept turning regardless.

Setlist - Night 1, SoFi Stadium, April 1 2026 King / This a Must / Father / All the Love / Father Stretch My Hands Pt. 1 / Can't Tell Me Nothing / N-s in Paris / Mercy / Praise God / Black Skinhead / On Sight / Blood on the Leaves / Carnival / Power / Bound 2 / Say You Will / Heartless / Moon (with Don Toliver) / E85 (Don Toliver) / Miss Westie (with North West) / Good Life / Through the Wire / All Falls Down / Runaway

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Four years after 'Boy Alone' made vulnerability sound like a genre, Omah Lay returns with twelve tracks and a quieter and firmer claim. 'Clarity of Mind' is not trying to move you. It asks only for your curiosity, once more, to follow Omah Lay through his carefully curated and fragile interior landscape. A landscape that extends from the pastures of 'Boy Alone', only now woven intricately with themes of acceptance and submission to higher understanding.

Twelve tracks. Thirty-three minutes. Released on the third day of April, 2026. Whether by intentional curation or spiritual accident, Omah Lay somehow arranged his sophomore album around the geometry of the sacred and holy — twelve apostles, and a runtime that mirrors the age at which Christ was said to have completed his ministry on Earth, dropped on a date signifying the resurrection of Christ — signaling a sort of personal messianic rebirth. You could dismiss this as a coincidence. But Stanley Omah Didia has never made a careless gesture in his life, and 'Clarity of Mind' is anything but.

Unironically, He arrives here the hard way. From claims of scrapping the original project after publicly accusing a fellow Afrobeats artist of appropriating his unreleased sound to admitting to trying everything and anything in his search for peace, the album presents a man who continues to make the case for his own daily survival, with each track serving as evidence. 

Sonically, the album is quiet by design. Tempoe, his long-standing collaborator, heartily imprints himself on the project, producing seven of the twelve tracks, and the result is a mid-tempo bed of Afro-fusion built for introspection rather than the dance floor. For featuring acts, there is only one: Elmah on "Coping Mechanism," whose vocals arrive like rain on a corrugated roof, soft and structural at once, melding perfectly into an almost spiritual rendition. From listening, the element of restraint is obviously recurring. However, the restraint is a choice, as this is an album where a single voice argues with itself, and the absence of outside noise is the argument.

Throughout the album, the voice contains contradictions that Omah Lay neither resolves nor is interested in resolving. On "Holy Ghost," the Spirit is his cocaine and his confidence; on "Waist," he blames Samson's fall not on betrayal but on the nearness of desire, describing his own relationship with pleasure. On "Amen," he asks God for peace of mind and enough money to buy anything he wants, in that order. Succinctly put, 'Clarity of Mind' is an album in which the spiritual and the erotic occupy the same register, and neither apologizes for the other. And against the backdrop of both, Omah Lay wraps his mortality. In the Nigerian musical landscape, where faith and flesh are routinely kept in separate rooms, such particular honesty is its own kind of radical act.

Still, the project's lingering critique is that at thirty-three minutes, 'Clarity of Mind' occasionally mistakes brevity for resolution. The themes of 'Boy Alone': survivor's guilt, the weed-coping tendencies, the slow violence of fame, recur here with less excavation and more acceptance. Some listeners will call that growth. Others will call it a shorter distance traveled. Regardless, both readings are available, which is perhaps the most Omah Lay thing about the project.

The star has urged listeners to play the album upside down for better cohesion. So, play it upside down or play it right-side up. Either way, you feel a man still mid-crossing; not lost, but also not yet arrived. A man in motion who sees himself clearly enough to know that true clarity comes from the full acceptance of self.

Clarity of Mind Cover - KeyQaad / Warner Records Inc.

‘By an Immigrant', the tagline embraced by British-Sierra Leonean designer Foday Dumbuya for his menswear brand, Labrum London was punctuated in March with his Autumn/Winter 2026 collection, Threads of Osmosis. Under the gilded ceilings of Westminster's The Great Hall, meters away from the House of Parliament, Dumbuya’s Threads of Osmosis opened with a monologue by British-Nigerian poet, Yomi Sode speaking on how migration should be appreciated as new cultures enrich a place. As the monologue ended, ’70s Ghanaian music selected by British-Ghanaian producer Juls filled the room. Models followed clad in clothes inspired by British tailoring and traditional African fashion. Accordion-shaped hats from Agadez culture of Niger, cowries threaded in their hair and tailored suits made with passport-printed textile littered the runway. Explaining to Fashion Roadman Dumbuya stated it is about “[The collection is about]family.. travels. My first time arriving in Sierra Leone, my first passport…all of that is a journey that (Labrum London) tries to record."

At a time of shifting UK immigration policies, this interplay of British tailoring and West African culture staged at London Fashion Week in the building where anti-immigration laws are passed is Dumbuya’s way of utilising fashion as a means of making a bold statement. Through his designs for Labrum London, Dumbuya archives memory and cross-culture mix that happens when people move across borders. In doing so, he also questions why immigrants aren't treated as contributors to a culture  and openly challenges the negative connotations associated with migrants—a stance made strong by ‘By an Immigrant’ the tagline.

“When people look at a brand, they assume it's just fashion, just clothes, but it’s deeper than that because all our stories are intertwined with our culture and community,” he said on conceiving Labrum in 2014.

Dumbuya was born in Sierra Leone and lived in Cyprus till he was 12 years old before his family migrated to London. Though he often credits his first association with fashion to his policeman father, who wore tailored military uniforms, and his classically African-dressed mom—references that can be seen in Labrum collections today—it is his experience of different cultures that often reflects in his designs. Yet, this same migrant identity that sparked his fashion interest also constrained it; “My parents were determined I chose a more stable career,” he told Dazed. ‘.as immigrants themselves, they recognised we faced an uphill battle as it was.’

After graduating with a degree in Information Systems Design, Dumbuya entered fashion first at the ground floor, working at DKNY, then at Nike, before eventually taking courses on pattern making and menswear at London College of Fashion. This training in menswear and sportswear would come to underpin the type of designs Dumbuya built Labrum on—a mix of menswear and activewear. The same year Dumbuya started at the London College of Fashion, he launched Labrum London. 

Dumbuya’s meaning in clothes often comes through in subtle details. St. Giles Blackbirds, for instance, the Spring/Summer 2021 collection for Labrum London, draws on the histories of Black figures in the West, using details like ruffles and African motifs. The collection, which pays tribute to enslaved people, sailors, and soldiers from Sierra Leone who settled in St. Giles’ Fields in London and died in poverty, reimagines their ending by placing them in the clothes of the class that once oppressed them. It now sits in the halls of the London Museum of Art.

Over the years, Labrum London has become known not only for its community-driven ethos but also for its collaborations. Drawing from its sportswear roots, the brand has partnered with Adidas on several occasions to create sneakers and activewear. One notable project collaboration saw them design new jerseys for the Sierra Leone Olympic team.

In 2023, Dumbuya was honored with the Queen Elizabeth II Award for British Design, an award that spotlights young designers making a difference to society. Not only did it reinforce his work at Labrum, but it also threw his name in the international market. “Places like Australia, the USA, and Japan, people that never really knew who I was, now know who I am and know the brand, the aesthetic, and the story that we tell,” Dumbuya told the London College of Fashion. 

Although culturally rooted in African influences, Dumbuya’s work also reflects the other cultures he has encountered as he moved across borders. His AW26 collection uses multiple textures and references garments from different parts of the world. For example, the textile with passport motifs that appears throughout is done on chinese silk.  

As a brand, Labrum is dedicated to presenting Blackness in ways that are rarely seen—tailored, intentional, and expansive. Through British tailoring, it tells West African stories of both past and present, bridging worlds that, as Dumbuya suggests, once felt impossible. In doing so, the brand moves beyond fashion as aesthetics to instead be seen as archive, memory, and resistance, where every stitch carries the weight of movement, identity, and belonging.

@radgalrabi

There is a scene in almost every Funke Akindele film where the audience erupts before the dialogue even ends. Not because they didn't see it coming – but because they did. Because the joke lands in Yoruba. Because the character's problem is also their mother's problem, their neighbour's problem, or what everyone was arguing about at a family dinner last week. That loud, collective and deeply local recognition is what made ‘Behind The Scenes’ cross ₦2 billion at the Nigerian box office, becoming the first Nollywood film in history to do so. It is also, ironically, what makes the global conversation about Nollywood so complicated.

The question the industry has been wrestling with is this: If the stories that perform best are the ones that are most unmistakably Nigerian, what exactly is being pursued in the name of “going global”?

The numbers do not lie. Funke Akindele has delivered three consecutive ₦1 billion-plus films – ‘A Tribe Called Judah’, ‘Everybody Loves Jenifa’, and now, ‘Behind The Scenes’. Each one of those films is built on hyper-local storytelling: the pressures of black tax, the chaos of extended family, the very specific social weight of being a successful Nigerian woman. These are not universally legible stories. They are deliberately local, and they are breaking records.

‘Behind The Scenes’, for instance, is headed to Netflix on April 3, which means the same film that packed Lagos cinemas will soon sit in the same catalogue as global productions with eight times its budget. This is not a contradiction. It might, in fact, be the whole point.

Not an identity problem, an infrastructure problem. In March 2026, a debate broke out when actor Kunle Remi compared Nollywood's award practices unfavourably to Hollywood's. Filmmaker Sunny Okonkwo pushed back, and his response was: "Comparing Nollywood to Hollywood directly is like comparing two stories written in completely different languages and expecting them to sound the same." He described Nollywood as "a survival-driven storytelling machine" – built without institutional luxury, and yet one of the most prolific film industries in the world by volume.

What Okonkwo was arguing is a distinction the industry keeps dancing around: Nollywood does not have a storytelling problem, or an audience problem. It produces an estimated 2,500 films annually, and its stars command millions of viewers across Africa and the diaspora. Nollywood’s problem is rather structural. The pipelines that carry great stories to the stages where they get global recognition – the financing networks, the distribution access, the institutional relationships – are missing.

That gap became impossible to ignore when Nigeria's Official Selection Committee declined to submit any film for the 2026 Oscar International Feature category, not because there was nothing worthy, but because the campaign infrastructure to compete at that level simply isn't there. Days later, the UK submitted ‘My Father's Shadow’ – a film shot in Lagos, written by Nigerians, about a Nigerian family –  as its own Oscar entry. A Nigerian story, travelling the world under a British flag, because access to BBC Film and BFI funding is what opened the doors that Nollywood's own structures could not.

This is not a failure of Nigerian storytelling. It is a failure of the Nigerian storytelling infrastructure, and the difference matters enormously. What does "Global" actually cost? There is a version of globalisation that Nollywood has already navigated beautifully. International distribution deals are expanding Nigerian titles into European, North American, and Asian markets. Netflix acquisitions have given films like ‘Lionheart’ a reach that no domestic release could match. Streaming has raised technical standards across the board.

But there is also another version. The one where a classic like ‘Things Fall Apart’ gets adapted with a cast that has no relationship to Umuofia, because international investors need names that travel. The one where a filmmaker softens a story's edges to fit a global format, and somewhere in that softening, the yams lose their smell and the market scene loses its noise. 

The highest-grossing Nigerian film of all time has made $853,000.  When combined, the country’s top five films have brought in roughly $2.2 million. This is not because the stories aren't worth more, but because the financing pipelines and distribution systems that convert great cinema into global revenue are still being built. Nollywood still doesn't fully have them, and this means the decision to "go global" often means giving up more than just a distribution deal. It means the story pays the price of the ticket. 

The answer that holds both? The best conclusion in this conversation keeps returning to the fact that local and global are not opposites. A film can be deeply Nigerian and internationally resonant in the same breath. ‘My Father's Shadow’ proved it – selected as the UK's Oscar entry, 97% on Rotten Tomatoes, built entirely on Nigerian vision and voice, without trading away its specificity for palatability. It showed that a deeply Nigerian story does not need to become less Nigerian to be globally resonant – it just needs access to the right infrastructure. 

Akindele's own trajectory makes the same argument from a different direction. ‘Behind The Scenes' went to Netflix not despite its local roots, but because of how well those roots translated into a story that crossed ₦2 billion.  The synergy between theatrical success and streaming distribution is becoming critical – and the most effective path to “going global” is proving, with evidence, that home already loves you.

The crossroads are real. But the choice isn't between going global and staying home. The choice is between going global on Nollywood’s own terms – with the story intact, the voice preserved, and the infrastructure finally built to match the ambition – or being absorbed into someone else's idea of what Nigerian culture should look like on export. Nollywood knows how to tell the story. The infrastructure to carry it everywhere is what still needs to be built.

Social media: Substack

Twenty-five years after the tragic death of Damilola Taylor, the BBC have announced a documentary detailing the final twenty-four hours of the ten-year old boy’s life, featuring Star Wars and They Cloned Tyrone actor John Boyega. 

The film will look back at the year 2000, when Taylor was stabbed and left to die just metres away from his home by two boys, aged 12 and 13, in south-east London.  At the time, the rate of knife crime in London, specifically in the South, was believed to be lowering. Unfortunately, those beliefs died the night of November 27th, alongside Taylor.

Only a few months after moving to the UK with his mother, Gloria, his sister, Gbemi, and his brother, Tunde, Taylor found himself walking home from Oliver Goldsmith Primary School around 4:45 PM. Despite living in one of Peckham’s notoriously tough neighbourhoods, Taylor’s family had come to the UK in search of better opportunities for the children. Tragically, Taylor’s new life was ended when two children slashed his leg with a broken glass bottle and left him to bleed out.

His death would become known as one of the most high-profile killings in London, leading to an eventual manslaughter charge for the two boys, later identified as the Preddie brothers. 

Boyega, who was eight at the time, was one of the last people to see Taylor alive. Having befriended Taylor during his time in London, he offered a private testimony during the investigation, but had since refrained from public commentary on the death of his childhood mate. 

His parents, Richard & Gloria Taylor, founded the Damilola Taylor Trust in 2001, seeking justice and progress for their son and raising awareness about the violence of knife crime. The two openly campaigned against knife crime until their respective deaths, prompting Boyega to continue their legacy swiftly.

Purposely keeping his involvement and impact from the incident private, the programme will continue Boyega’s recent decision to speak out and keep Taylor’s memory alive. In an interview with the BBC in 2024, he said, “Now that [Richard Taylor is] gone, if I don't speak up now, when am I ever going to speak up?” He, alongside other family and friends, will speak about Taylor, his death, its impact, and the current state of knife crime in the UK. 

Knife crime in the United Kingdom has continued to rise in the last 10 years, with a 54 per cent increase in police-recorded offences involving a knife or sharp instrument. Since Taylor’s death, other notable killings have made their mark on the country’s fight against knife-related violence, particularly among the youth. Recent statistics have found that 83 per cent of teenage homicides are caused by sharp instruments, and London is the top UK city by knife crime rate. 

The programme, currently titled Damilola Taylor: The Last 24 Hours, will be directed by Alex Thomas, whose goal is to continue raising awareness about the dangers of knife-related violence and to keep the memory of Damilola Taylor alive.

Confidence is not an unusual virtue in the music industry. Nigerian singer, songwriter and producer, Omah Lay “born Stanley Omah Didia, in Port Harcourt” initially began his career working behind the scenes as a music producer before transitioning fully into recording under his own name. Now that name, has found itself  at the center of conversations across the Afrobeats scene following a recent interview with http:NandoLeaks.In.  In the interview, where  he made a bold statement about his place in the Nigerian music industry. 

Omah Lay came into the limelight in 2020 with the release of his debut EP ‘GET LAYD’, which featured songs like ‘Bad Influence’ and ‘You’. The project quickly gained popularity across streaming platforms and introduced listeners to his emotionally driven songwriting style. He has collaborated with several artists within and outside Nigeria, with appearances on projects connected to figures like Davido, Wizkid and the international pop-star artist, Justin Bieber. These collaborations contributed to his reach to an audience beyond the African continent. 

“When it comes to the art and making music, I’m the best for the last 20 years”, he said during the interview, a remark that many fans and music commentators interpreted as a confident assertion of his artistic ability. The interview also generated debates after Omah Lay commented on the structure of the Afrobeats industry. 

According to him, the genre’s cultural and commercial power is vested in Lagos, which is believed to be Nigeria’s entertainment capital. He went on to suggest that the sound and direction of Afrobeats is shaped historically by the Yoruba cultural influence, a statement that sparked mixed reactions. 

As clips from the interview continue to circulate online, reactions remain polarizing. Some commentators interpret the statement as an example of artistic confidence and an honest observation on his part while others question how the claim fits within the broader history of Nigerian music as well as  the oversimplification of the diversity of voices that have contributed to Afrobeats evolution. 
The conversation arrives at a time when Afrobeats continues to expand globally with artists like Davido, Wizkid and Burna Boy being widely recognized for pushing the genre into the international space in the past decade.

Within this landscape, his comment about being the best artist of the past two decades has drawn comparisons with established figures who built global fan bases and long-standing careers within the industry. 
The singer’s remarks have added a new layer to the ongoing conversations about identity, influence and recognition within Afrobeats, a discussion that shows no sign of slowing down. The Afrobeats conversation has once again proven one thing: in music, everyone would have an opinion, but history would decide the legacy. 

With his latest release, “CLARITY OF MIND,” now making its way to listeners, the conversation around Omah Lay shows no signs of slowing down. Whether his remarks are seen as confidence or controversy, the conversation reverts to music and whether it lives up to his claim.

(Ig: anuhola_)

South African Menswear Week (SAMW) has officially evolved into The Week of Fashion South Africa, signaling a major shift in the country’s fashion calendar. The platform, once focused exclusively on menswear, now embraces a full-spectrum approach including womenswear, retail showrooms, and industry talks.

Over the past three years, South African Menswear Week has gradually grown beyond just menswear, bringing in womenswear, expanding its cultural influence, and adapting to the changing needs of designers in a fast-moving global industry. What we’re seeing now is the official version of that growth: a more unified platform that brings different sides of South African fashion together under one clear structure.

The decision to pivot was largely fueled by persistent designer demand. For years, designers on the platform inquired about showcasing womenswear, a need that became critical during the pandemic. When SAMW became the only South African fashion week able to return to physical programming during that period, it naturally evolved into a broader umbrella for the industry. This experience provided the foundation to authentically introduce the Womenswear Collections to the catwalk while ensuring SA Menswear Week remains the cornerstone of the event, protected, preserved, and elevated within the new structure.

According to founder and creative director Simon Deiner, on the evolution, “The expectations of designers have changed. Fashion weeks must now work alongside designers’ marketing efforts, integrate with their direct-to-consumer strategies, and adapt to a changing media landscape. The decline of traditional fashion media and shifting front rows has reshaped the value platforms must deliver. The Week of Fashion South Africa responds to this shift with a smarter, more aligned ecosystem.”

The platform will maintain its biannual rhythm to provide a consistent schedule for designers, media, and buyers. The Autumn/Winter 26 Collections are set for April 23 through 25, 2026, followed by the Spring/Summer 27 Collections from October 12 to 17, 2026.

This pivot seeks to position South African fashion as a self-sustaining industry. By providing a unified platform for both emerging and established talent, the event aims to foster better connections with global buyers while addressing the modern marketing needs of local designers.

The first dual-season showcase under the new branding is set to begin this April, marking a definitive new chapter for the South African fashion scene.

The Week of Fashion South Africa has really been shaped around a clear, bigger-picture idea. It’s not just about showcasing one side of fashion anymore, it’s about creating space for both menswear and womenswear, while opening the door for the entire industry to be part of the seasonal conversation.

At its core, the goal is straightforward: bring everyone onto one unified platform. When that happens, people start to see just how rich, diverse, and accessible South African design really is. And in doing so, it doesn’t just elevate creativity, it also strengthens the business side of the industry.

There are moments we rarely pay attention to, the seconds just before sleep, when thoughts loosen their grip, and the mind just wanders without direction. It is in these quiet spaces without boundaries that memories and imaginations start to overlap. They are referred to as hallucinations and can appear in the form of sight,  sounds, or even feelings of movement. 

This moment is sometimes diagnosed as a medical condition. But Blossom Oyeyipo builds her work from this space, bringing viewers into an introspective state. Inviting them to ask the questions that matter and also exploring their depths, which is the gateway to becoming. At the opening of “Hypnagogia,” her solo exhibition at Wunika Mukan Gallery on April 4, 2026, Oyeyipo invites viewers into a meditative state through her paintings, drawing them into her reality. “Art is an awakening,” literary scholar Domnica Radulescu once said in an interview with Works (of Fiction) in Progress (WIP). And what Oyeyipo is doing with her body of work is the real awakening.

Blossom Oyeyipo, born in 1998 in Lagos, Nigeria, is a Lagos-based visual artist. Her work explores the liminal space between wakefulness and dreams, where intuition, memory, and the subconscious begin to surface. Through her paintings, she navigates the journey of becoming, shaped by the inner world and shifting landscapes.  Her practice also engages deeply with culture, weaving elements of identity, heritage, and lived experience into her visual language. She has participated in several group exhibitions, including “The Noire Art Exhibition” (2020), Art at Ouidah (2022), Kleinformate (2025), and the Irudika Illustration Festival (2023), among others, both in Nigeria and the diaspora.

Oyeyipo’s mind is a space to wander—an invitation to witness the beauty of her process through her lens. Her exhibition with the Wunika Mukan Gallery is her first solo show. The exhibition space itself mirrors this quiet introspection. Soft tones, layered textures, and recurring figures create an atmosphere that feels both intimate and deep. Each piece makes viewers take a pause, inviting them to linger, reflect, and confront their inner world.

Stepping into Wunika Mukan Gallery, one cannot help but see it beyond being an exhibition. It’s an immersive experience that captures the viewer's attention before it is even fully understood. For many viewers, the impact is immediate. Alabi Boluwatife, an art enthusiast who attended the exhibition, said, “It was a new experience and so encouraging. It’s my first time seeing such a body of work, and those pieces are gorgeous”. 

It is this first emotional drag, followed by a subtle unfolding of meaning, that defines Hypnagogia. From the blend of colors and the strokes, the works have a dreamy atmosphere. The figures also appear in pairs and suspended as though in a quiet conversation, blurring the boundary between the physical and non-physical. There is a sense of movement, yet stillness. This liminal quality is central to Oyeyipo’s practice. Drawing from Yoruba philosophy, particularly the concept of Ori as an inner guide, the works become the link between self and spirit, memory and becoming. In our interview with her, here is what she has to say.

Can you tell us about your background and what influenced your style of art and the themes you work with?

I wrote a narrative. It follows a protagonist named Irin through a conversation with her Ori, her inner head, that takes place entirely within her subconscious. That story is the spine of everything in this exhibition. My work is rooted in Yoruba philosophy and how it intersects with dream logic and magical realism, specifically this idea of a living, dynamic relationship between the corporeal self and the incorporeal self. I'm drawn to what I think of as mythical consciousness: the belief that this relationship can be made visible, that you can walk someone through it. My practice leans toward the surreal because myth doesn't operate by the rules of waking reality. It operates by feeling, by symbol, by the logic of dreams. Literarily, I was looking at Ben Okri's The Famished Road for the way the seen and unseen leak into each other, Amos Tutuola's The Palm-Wine Drinkard for his non-linear dream logic and the sheer originality of his interior world, and Alice in Wonderland as perhaps the oldest blueprint for the subconscious journey and the necessary return from it. These weren't references so much as permissions.

You spent four months in residency with Nchedo Art Residency before your first solo exhibition with Wunika Mukan Gallery. What was the most intriguing thing you discovered about yourself while working on this body of work?

Nchedo was a defining moment in my practice. What it gave me most was real, substantive conversation, about how to shape my visual language and draw clear lines through the layered thought processes that go into world-building and myth-making. My mentors were incredibly generous with suggestions and critiques at every stage, and I was encouraged to do deep research that fed directly into the work. Nchedo was founded by the artist Chidinma Nnoli and opened its doors in August 2025. I was the first resident, working through to January 2026, and I was surrounded by visiting artists genuinely invested in what I was building. The residency is dedicated to radical care for the artist, and I felt that in everything. What I discovered most intriguingly about myself was how much my environment dictates the pace of my internal world. Nchedo gave the work room to breathe, and in doing so, gave me room to fully inhabit it.

You use the idea of "Ori" as a guide in your art. How does this spiritual belief actually show up in your work, in the colors you pick, the way you layer your paint, the textures you choose?

I think of my core practice as drawing, because that is where the work's essential quality lives. My pastel works are fully realized in their own right, rich with a dusty, dreamy quality that sits somewhere between atmosphere and memory, and that sensibility is what informs everything else, including the paintings. Ori manifests in the work in several ways simultaneously. As a character, a mirror being, the incorporeal self made present. As a place, the liminal space that exists between the material and the non-material is the territory the entire body of work inhabits. And as a material logic. The choice of pastels is deliberate; the medium itself is porous, dusty, never fully fixed, which mirrors the threshold state I am trying to evoke. The process of constant layering enacts the same idea: each layer is a conversation, something added, something partially obscured, meaning accumulated through repetition. Even the semi-abstracted forms in the painting backgrounds operate this way, reminding us that we are not quite in waking reality.

You often paint figures that look like reflections of each other. What is the thought process behind that?

The figures are in constant conversation, sharing space, sometimes holding one another, other times simply watching. There is often a grieving quality to the compositions, a tenderness that coexists with the weight of transition. In Held(2025), the painting directly references the Pietà: the corporeal self, Irin, is caught by her Ori in the aftermath of a fall. It isn't a literal reflection so much as a relationship, two versions of a self in negotiation, neither fully resolved, both necessary. The narrative gave these figures their emotional logic. They are not symbols of duality in the abstract; they are characters with a shared history, moving through a subconscious landscape together. The space between them is where the work really lives.

How do you feel this body of work speaks to young persons navigating their own "liminal" identities today?

We are living in an age of constant, frantic transition, where technology and the relentless speed of the world are in a permanent battle for our attention. This has led to what Joseph Campbell described as a crisis: the erosion of threshold points. Historically, indigenous cultures acknowledged life's great transitions through milestone rites, the passage from girlhood to womanhood, for instance, that signaled a necessary pause before entering a new stage of life. Today, those thresholds are being actively eroded, leaving many in a state of perpetual, ungrounded motion. My work serves as a reminder to sit with the discomfort of the in-between, to appreciate a multi-layered existence that doesn't require immediate resolution. I hope it validates the liminal state as a vital, creative space to be inhabited and not merely a corridor to rush through on the way to somewhere else.

Your first solo exhibition— “Hypnagogia”—with Wunika Mukan Gallery explores the state between wakefulness and sleep. What specifically about this "in-between" state fascinates you?

For me,the hypnagogic state is less an abstraction than a feeling, one that can be triggered by very specific things: sheer fabric, corridors, verandas, spaces that signal temporary occupancy within a larger whole. I am drawn to places that don't fully belong to any one moment. The hypnagogic state is the same: it is where the logic of the waking world dissolves, and the surrealism of sleep takes over, where biomorphic forms surface and deep atmospheric tones feel most at home. It doesn't require permission from reality. My palette of dark blues, greens and occasional reds exists to put you there, in that specific quality of light that feels familiar and untraceable at once.

If someone leaves your exhibition with only one feeling or one thought, what do you want that to be?

Dream work, in its oldest sense, is not passive. You enter, you wrestle, and you return changed. I want the viewer to feel that. To walk out not just moved but subtly different, asking questions of themselves they weren't asking before. I want them to feel as though they have just stepped out of a dream they weren't quite ready to leave, held in quiet immersion but sitting with a slight discomfort. That discomfort is an invitation. If they leave, turning their gaze inward, toward their own inner world and whatever messages may be waiting there, then I have succeeded in sharing my world with them.

‍@adedoyinadeoye
Image: Wunika Mukan Gallery.

With My Ego Told Me To, Leigh-Anne invites listeners into an exhilarating era of self-discovery and artistic reinvention. Emerging from her celebrated journey with Little Mix, she steps boldly into the spotlight—fearless, authentic, and ready to share her unfiltered story. This album is more than a debut; it is a declaration of independence, a celebration of heritage, and a testament to the power of trusting your own voice. As Leigh-Anne uncovers new layers of herself, she promises not just to introduce us to who she is, but to inspire us to embrace our own evolution.

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Could you describe when and how your inspiration for this new chapter as a solo artist first began?

It's been a journey. I went solo three years ago, always knowing I wanted to make music inspired by the genres I love—R&B, Reggae, Danchell, and Afrobeats. I thought about how to incorporate those influences and add my pop stamp to create something that's truly mine—who is Leigh-Anne. When I launched my label, there was so much expectation. Given our group's success, people expected me to achieve the same numbers on my own. It's so unrealistic, and that pressure was overwhelming.

I needed time to figure out who I was and what I wanted, and taking time for myself was necessary. Going independent felt right—I needed to do things my way and make music true to my soul, not to what others wanted —and I’m not compromising my sound anymore. Everything that happened brought me to this album, and I feel so proud to have found my sound, my thing, and my lane—I love it. I'm so happy and excited for people to hear it. Now, I'm no longer thinking about what others say I need to sound like or who I should be. I'm going to be me, and this album represents that—this is who Leigh-Anne is.

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How did your approach to creativity change when you began making independent artistic decisions?

At the time, it was scary. I started my solo journey, released two singles and a strong EP, then leaped to go independent. I was scared and uncertain, but the moment I committed, telling myself and my manager, 'That's it, we're going independent,' my inner confidence returned—my younger self telling me to stand up for myself. I didn’t hesitate. I embraced the decision and felt a wave of confidence. Eliminating doubts has been necessary on this journey.

You created parts of the album in Jamaica, so how did being there influence the creative process you had for the album?

The first writing camp  I did was in Jamaica; it was unbelievable, it was such a special experience. Being home, writing music that resonates with me and is honest, was an amazing experience. There was something about being in that environment, which is my second home, that allowed me to write from the heart. I got some great songs from that trip, some of which are already on my EP and others on the album. Being out there and writing was truly special.

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The album is very much rooted in multiple genres, from R&B, pop,  reggae, and dancehall, all of which you bring together in your own way. How did you bring all of these sounds together in a way that felt really spoke to what you wanted this sound to be?

I’m proud of the way in which I was able to blend these genres into a cohesive album. For me, it is the perfect blend of these genres with my pop style, and I’ve carved my own lane. This is my representation of pop—I don’t want to be boxed in or labelled. I wanted to show my Jamaican and Bajan heritage and my many layers. There is real versatility, and I’m excited for people to hear it and understand who I am. Even things like having my grandparents on the album, I hope people understand why the album is rooted in Reggae and how that is really a part of who I am as a person and see who Leigh-Anne is.

Opening up the way you have, I know there's a difference between being in a group and speaking your own truth. How did you find that process when sharing your personal experiences and vulnerability in your solo work?

Being in a group, you write music together, and it isn't always personal to you, per se. So, having this independence, I can write whatever I want, pouring my heart out honestly. I’ve always wanted to do that with my songwriting, and for me, it feels like therapy, and also, I want my fans to know me and relate if they’ve had similar experiences. Being open felt natural since I wear my heart on my sleeve. Still, I sometimes wonder if I’m being too honest. I trust my fans; they support me, and I want to support them in return. I’ve enjoyed having creative control, doing what I want, and going independent. Every creative decision—the visuals, track list, writing—comes from me. I feel proud to have finished this album on my own terms and in my own way.

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Can you walk us through your process for choosing the album title and creating its overall theme?

I wanted a strong, creative concept for this next era. I kind of thought about an ego some years ago, or maybe like a year ago or something, but I think she really came to life in my sessions. When I did “Dead and Gone”, “Revival”, and “Look Into My Eyes”. I was working with Coffee and Owen Cutts right after I was going through all that label drama, and I felt so frustrated. It felt like I was running into a wall and not getting anywhere with them, and I just wanted to go into the studio and do what I wanted, with no brief, no opinions, nothing. Those sessions produced my best music and felt true to me. “Dead and Gone” is about letting go of the part of me that wouldn’t stand up for herself. You need thick skin in this industry, and I feel like I did have this version of myself, which was my younger self, who was this bold, fearless and determined girl. I kept thinking about her and asking myself, 'Where did she go?' Why have I hidden the bold side of myself? That people don't know.

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With all of the struggles from last year, I wanted to revive her. I wanted to bring her back, and almost add to my protection, and take over. With the title "My Ego Told Me To," I guess she is a bit of an ego, because she feels like a force. She told me to make an album that I'm 100% proud of. She told me to get the hell out of that old label, go independent, and do her thing. I think it's just such a relatable concept as well. You could be in any situation where you wish you'd said something to someone or stood up for yourself. Everyone's got that side to them, the fire that they can bring out when they need to, and sometimes, like, we're made to feel like we can't be loud or take up space. And I feel like no, that's not the case at all. Let us be confident. Let us express ourselves and be who we want to be. So I think that it's just such a relatable thing.

How do you feel now, compared to when you first started creating the album?

I'm in the best place I could imagine, happy and relieved from pressure. I’ve loved all my music, but this feels like a body of work without compromise, which is amazing. I feel much more fearless. I can feel my ego filling me with confidence, assurance, and stability. That comes from being proud of my work. This is so freeing—even if it’s been scary, it’s the best thing that could have happened.

What has been the most fulfilling moment so far in making this album?

Just finishing the album. I think that was the most satisfying part. But I know the most satisfying part will be when it's out.  I already know, in my heart, that my fans are going to love it. I know they will, because I love it. And they're with me. My fans are with me. I hope this album opens more doors for me, grows my fan base, and achieves big things.

As somebody who has been in this industry for a long time, with all that you have been through and experienced. How have you been able to maintain your excitement and joy whilst also protecting your boundaries as an artist?

I'm someone who throws myself into everything, so I'm probably not actually that good at protecting my boundaries sometimes. Like, if I'm feeling like exhausted, or if I'm not feeling great, or whatever it is, I'll probably still push myself to do something, but I think that's like the grafter in me, like I'm just, I've just, all I've ever known is to work hard.

I think having really good people around you is really important, just in general, not having yes people, because yes people like, I think that's when it just all goes downhill. being just humble and normal, and I think just having people around you to bring you back to Earth sometimes, or to keep your feet on the floor, and that's so important.

I am very much a family person, so like, in terms of protecting my boundaries, if I feel like I've been online too much, because social media can be so intense. I think protecting myself is often as simple as putting my phone down, and then I'm with my family. I'm, like, in the living, in the present, like, some people love me and know me.

We've spoken about your heritage and how it's shown in this album. In terms of how that has formed you as a person and just formed you as a creative, talk to me a bit about that. How has that impacted you and your life's journey, even in becoming a singer and getting to this point?

Being able to go to Jamaica every year and see my granddad, knowing my heritage, was always something. Both my parents are mixed race; my mom's dad is of Middle Eastern descent, and my dad's dad is Jamaican. So being in a household, rich in culture and knowing what my heritage is, and knowing who I am, in that sense, I think, has really shaped me for sure, and I feel very grateful that, like, I have such a strong sense of identity in that sense. Being Able to go to Jamaica, be with all my cousins, and, like, be in my culture was just amazing and important in terms of shaping me as a person.
Even in terms of bringing it into my music, that is why it's so important to me. My heritage means everything to me, and even when people like me might not understand, because they just know me as Leigh-Anne from Little Mix and think I should just do pop, it's like, but why? I've poured so many more layers and so much of myself into this album. It's me. And that is where it comes from: actually going, spending time with my grandparents, my Bajan granddad, all our Sundays, and always going up to London, having proper Bajan food as well. And just being in my culture, yeah. And like, like, down to music, just everything. I feel so proud of the strong connection I have to my heritage, and how could I not want to incorporate that into my career and what I'm doing?

If you told me, like, I could only listen to one song, what would that song be?

Regarding the message, I really hope people resonate with Best Version of Me. I think it's, yes, it's such a relatable concept. It's not running from yourself anymore, facing up to who you are, stepping into who you are, and not being afraid to be who you are. And blocking out opinions and just again expectations and whatever else people throw at you, it's like just, do you be you, and the best version of yourself is the most authentic version of yourself.​

Finally, ​what do you think this album says about Chapter right now?

This album is all about following my gut, trusting my instincts, and reclaiming the power I might have lost a little along the way. Stepping into myself, unapologetically, taking up space, being me. It is all about being me, going back to the ego and my younger self, and just bringing back that fearlessness, like not being afraid to be bold. And I think there's just such an amazing message in that. It's an album where you can listen to it and really understand who the artist is and their point of view, like where I'm coming from. There are different things that I would like people to take away from this album. I really want people to feel inspired. Like, things aren't always plain sailing, like journeys that can be rocky up and down, but ultimately, you're always going to find yourself where you need to be. Never give up on anything. Never give up on your dream. Just keep going, literally keep going.

Credits
Photographer: Maya Wanelik
Creative Direction: Kwamena
Producer: Seneo Mwamba
Creative Producer: Whitney Sanni
Styling: Kwamena
Assistant Stylist: Khalifa Antwi
Hair Stylist: Gaia_maua
Makeup Artist: Taisha Sherwood
Nail Tech: Sasha Walters
BTS videographer: Shirin
BTS: Michael Sonaike
Design: @margokatesmith & @shalemalone
Studio: @stu22.io
PR: @satellite414

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At the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, Schiaparelli: Fashion Becomes Art stages a confrontation between fashion as adornment and fashion as disturbance, assembling over 400 objects into a retrospective that feels, at first glance, almost too coherent. The exhibition proposes Elsa Schiaparelli as the definitive bridge between couture and avant-garde practice. Moving through it, a more complicated question emerges: what does it mean to canonize a designer whose work was built on resisting coherence altogether?

The galleries open with familiar anchors — the 1938 Skeleton Dress, its raised ribs pressing outward through black crepe with a grotesqueness; the Tears Dress, printed and slashed into illusionistic wounds; the Lobster Dress, developed with Salvador Dalí, placed in dialogue with his Lobster Telephone. These works are framed as surrealist artefacts, evidence of Schiaparelli’s proximity to the avant-garde. But reading them only through surrealism softens their impact. The skeleton dress does much more than reveal. It imposes, reorganizing the body into surface, flattening interiority into something visible, stylized and strangely controlled.

That tension between exposure and construction threads through the exhibition. Trompe l’oeil knitwear mimics bows and tailored details that don’t exist, embedding illusion into the everyday. The Shoe Hat collapses function into absurdity with unsettling precision. Even the smallest details, buttons shaped like insects, peanuts, and miniature objects, interrupt the visual continuity of garments, forcing attention onto elements typically designed to disappear.

As the exhibition expands, so does Schiaparelli’s world. Evening jackets sprout gilded sculptural forms; jewellery mimics body parts and symbolic relics; archival letters and sketches trace her exchanges with collaborators like Jean Cocteau. Artworks by Man Ray and the portrait of Nusch Éluard by Pablo Picasso position her firmly within a surrealist network, while also risking a certain stabilization.

There is a subtle, more revealing narrative embedded in the exhibition’s margins. Garments produced for her London salon in the 1930s speak to a transnational practice spanning Paris, London, and New York. Photographs of her in the Place Vendôme studio construct a persona as deliberate as her designs. Costume work for performers like Marlene Dietrich and Mae West extends her reach into cinema, where clothing serves as a narrative device filled with character. Across these contexts, Schiaparelli emerges not just as a designer, but as a strategist of image and someone deeply attuned to visibility and circulation.

The exhibition occasionally leans toward coherence, smoothing over the contradictions that make her work most vital. The messiness of collaboration, the asymmetry of influence, the calculated construction of her own myth — these are present, but not interrogated as much. What gets lost is the sense of Schiaparelli as fundamentally unstable. 

This instability feels especially charged in the final section, where the house’s present-day evolution under Daniel Roseberry is framed as a continuation. His couture, worn by figures like Dua Lipa and Ariana Grande, translates Schiaparelli’s surrealist vocabulary into sculptural, highly controlled forms. With gold lungs, anatomical corsetry, and face-shaped jewellery, each piece is engineered with precision, designed to register instantly and to circulate seamlessly within a contemporary image economy.

When placed in proximity to Schiaparelli’s original work, the differences are sharpened. Where her garments feel unruly and almost accidental in their strangeness, Roseberry’s appear exacting, almost fully aware of their reception.

This is the exhibition’s most compelling tension, and also where it pulls back. It gestures toward the question without fully inhabiting it: when surrealism becomes a house code, what happens to its capacity to unsettle? And when disruption is institutionalized, can it still function as critique?

Schiaparelli: Fashion Becomes Art ultimately positions the house as an ongoing project, a lineage that stretches cleanly from past to present. But the more interesting reading resists that smooth continuity. It lingers instead in the fractures, between object and body, art and fashion, disruption and spectacle.

Schiaparelli’s legacy was never just about merging fashion and art solely. It was about making that boundary unstable, difficult to locate and impossible to fix. Her garments don’t resolve into meaning. Instead they hover, unsettled and unresolved. That is precisely where the exhibition is most successful, in the moments where it falters and where coherence slips.