Nomenclature 

To name a thing is to offer it up for a specific kind of public dissection. There is a particular, heavy pressure that comes with christening a sound, because once a label is applied, the sound no longer belongs exclusively to the hands that sculpted it. It becomes public infrastructure, subject to the arguments of archives and the rigid categorizations of digital town squares. 

Thabang Mathebula, known to the world as Thakzin, understands this weight with a weary intimacy. He removed a single kick drum from a four-four house bar, and named the resulting form "3-Step". The space left behind became the most contested piece of real estate in African electronic music immediately the genre exploded. The debates began immediately – about who invented it, who perfected it, who it truly belongs to. Thakzin, meanwhile, mostly watches from a careful distance.

He is a product of Ivory Park, a township on the north-east edge of Gauteng, shaped by a household that treated music as a primary necessity, by sangoma rhythms absorbed as ambient noise before he understood their weight, and by a formative production constraint that taught him to think in whole stories rather than loops. All of that predates 3-Step. 

"I remember when people started catching onto 3-Step. I was stressed, for real." 

He recalls approaching his management during that time, not with the typical swagger of a pioneer, but with a deep-seated anxiety about the future of his craft. The worry was the one every high-level creative dreads: sounding monotonous. For an artist whose practice is fundamentally rooted in the act of exploration, becoming synonymous with a single, repeatable sound felt like a trap rather than a triumph. He has spent the years since then clarifying that his artistic identity predates this specific rhythm. He insists that his ability to survive in sonic spaces unrelated to 3-Step is the real story, suggesting that the genre itself is merely a chapter in a much larger, ongoing volume.

Imprinting 

The Thakzin origin story is sometimes reduced to the standard narrative of a young DJ discovering a DAW, but the roots are far more archival. He was born in Ivory Park, a township situated on the north-east edge of Gauteng, in a household where music was treated as a primary necessity for survival. His father was a musician and a dedicated collector of sound, a man who possessed a hoard of CDs and instruments and an inability to throw anything away. In this environment, the household ran on a steady diet of music ranging from Stevie Wonder to Fela Kuti. Thakzin describes this as a "bug" that caught him early in life. Even when he was focused on soccer, he suggests there was a persistent internal pull toward music that felt innate, a biological imperative that he recognized from a very young age.

However, the sonic imprinting went deeper than the records playing on the stereo. Growing up in proximity to sangoma rhythms, the drumming and trance traditions of Southern African spiritual healers, Thabang Mathebula absorbed these patterns as ambient noise long before he understood their cultural or technical weight. When he first began recording music at home, the percussive elements of the sangoma tradition often felt like a disruption or an intrusion into whatever he was attempting to build. It was only after he moved out of his childhood home that distance produced a necessary clarity. He suggests that he eventually began to consciously incorporate those rhythms into his drum patterns, viewing it as a vital connection to home and a spiritual exploration of the meaning behind those specific frequencies

This is where the Thakzin narrative departs from the purely technical. For him, spirituality is not an aesthetic choice; it is structural. When he discusses production, his language is consistently centered on the idea of channeling rather than constructing. He argues that modern software is effectively a vessel for ancient rhythmic energies and that these energies are intrinsically connected to the nuances of human behaviour. In this framework, the notion of imperfection is actually the highest form of perfection. He actively resists the "quantize" button, viewing it not just as a tool but as a philosophical position he finds increasingly sterile. He reasons that because human beings are inherently imperfect, the most effective way to connect with them is through music that retains those same human flaws. Music that is too tightly locked to a digital grid loses the connective tissue that makes it feel alive.
"My hurdle of not being able to save made me learn how to tell a story from start to finish – you need to take people on a journey. We need to start from somewhere and end up somewhere."
Thakzin’s technical proficiency was forged in a period of significant production limitations. During his early years, he worked with software that could not save his sessions, a handicap that would have deterred a less disciplined artist. This meant that every track he worked on had to be built in real time, from start to finish, requiring him to hold the entire song's architecture in his head simultaneously. What should have been a crippling hurdle became a masterclass in narrative structure. He suggests that this forced him to learn how to tell a complete story from start to finish without the safety net of revisiting a project. It instilled in him a sense of narrative urgency, ensuring his music always feels like a journey that begins in one specific emotional place and ends in another.

This version of Thakzin is far more interesting than the simplified 3-Step pioneer narrative. The spirituality he describes is deeply rooted in the sangoma tradition of South Africa, where the practitioner acts not as the generator of healing energy, but as a conduit for it. When he claims that the music speaks to him, dictating the direction of an arrangement or revealing its own emotional needs, he is operating from that same ancestral ontology. He is effectively bridging the gap between the ancient and the modern within DAW interfaces.

The Manifesto And The Ensuing Debate.‍

His debut album, God's Window Pt. 1, serves as the most complete expression of this philosophy. Developed over an intense three-year period, the 18-track project is an exhaustive mapping of his influences. It draws on ancestral drum patterns, the string traditions of the uhadi and the house style of collaborators like Sun-El Musician and regular suspect Morda. During its listening session at Johannesburg's Kwa Mai Mai, a space thick with inner-city heritage and traditional medicine, Thakzin knelt before a bowl of burning impepho (ancestral incense) before a single note was played. The spiritual facet of this project was neither subtle nor meant to be.
As the music traveled, it inevitably sparked a conversation regarding the origins of 3-Step that took on a life of its own. High-profile artists like Heavy K and Prince Kaybee have publicly debated the sound's invention, while scene veterans and fans have spent years picking sides and contesting the timeline. Thakzin, however, has maintained a studied, almost monastic indifference to the entire conflict. 
"The focus on origin can sometimes turn into a distraction…for me, it's more important to stay grounded in the feeling, the innovation, and the cultural exchange, rather than just the title. I want the music to lead."

This indifference is not a form of false modesty; it tracks with how he describes 3-Step as a "disposition" rather than a rigid genre. He views it as a space of fusion, a way to survive amid the noise while remaining true to one's own cultural identity. He argues that the sound didn't just appear out of nowhere, but was adapted from the genesis of other sounds, bringing different worlds together through a focus on rhythm. He admits that there is no single, fixed description of 3-Step because the sound is still evolving and practitioners are still defining it.

Lagos

Thakzin headlined the February 2025 Monochroma edition at Shiro. His set coincided with a heavy downpour. In a city where the weather often dictates the end of an outdoor party, the crowd’s refusal to leave was a significant moment of connection. They stayed in the rain, dancing to unreleased material, and Thabang Mathebula responded by playing for hours. 
“...at first, when the rain started falling at Shiro, I wasn't thrilled when the rain started, but once I took a step back, I realized rain is often seen as a blessing. If ever there was a sign of spiritual presence, that was it.”
Courtesy of Group Therapy, Thakzin returned in October of the same year to headline the Spotify Greasy Tunes opening night at Fired & Iced, where dining culture and electronic music attempted a merger and succeeded. By his second visit, the Lagos scene had already built an entire vocabulary around his sound — 3-Step remixes of Afropop tracks, DJs like Blak Dave, Proton, and Naija House Mafia who had studied and extended the form, and a crowd that knew the unreleased IDs from the February rain set. Thakzin shared the Greasy Tunes stage with Aniko, WeAreAllChemicals, FaeM, and RVTDJ, and he recalls that set being another eureka moment for him. 
“...being in Nigerian life brought out three things for me: colors, pace, and rhythm – it took me back to something real, something from my childhood with my father and Fela Kuti."
Thakzin speaks about the potential this reconnection holds, these elements waiting for the right moment to crystallise into music. He also views the Nigerian embrace of 3-Step not as a market to be exploited but as a conversation between two cultures reimagining the sound in real time. Ultimately, he looks forward to this evolution spreading to other regions, where each place honours the sound's roots while redefining the genre in ways that remain alive and ever-evolving.

‍

Initial Weight, Going Concern.

From an A&R and management perspective, Thakzin is a unique case study in how to scale a subgenre without diluting its spiritual core. Most pioneers of a sound spend their careers guarding the borders of that sound, ensuring that they remain the primary authority on its definition. Thakzin does the opposite – he opens space, just as he removes a kick drum and waits to see what grows in the silence. He blends a sangoma pattern with a log drum and listens to the dialogue between them, and will gladly slide in a cheeky interpolation if it feels right. 

The industry will likely continue to argue over who invented the "missing kick." They will debate the lockdown timeline and the influence of early house veterans on the 3-Step structure. But while those debates rage in the comment sections and trade magazines, Thakzin will probably be in his studio, perhaps working on a system that now allows him to save his work, but still operating with the same narrative discipline he learned when he had no other choice. He will be looking for the next rhythmic energy to channel, the next cultural state to express, and the next silence to fill.

He has successfully turned a technical subversion into a global movement, but his sights are set on the broader cosmos. He reminds us that he has the whole universe to explore, and 3-Step was just the beginning of the journey. In his world, the music must always lead, and the vessel must always remain open to whatever frequency comes next. The weight of being first is a burden he carries lightly, because he knows that being first is irrelevant if you aren't also moving forward.

Looking ahead, the evolution of 3-Step seems inevitable, especially as it continues to engage with high-energy scenes in Lagos and London. But for Thakzin, the technical evolution remains secondary to the emotional resonance. He is an artist who understands that genres are ephemeral, but the feeling that music provides is permanent. This is why he is comfortable leaving the 3-Step label behind if it ever starts to feel limiting. He is not interested in building a monument to a single sound; he is interested in the continuous act of creation.

Thakzin is now widely supported by the titans of the industry, with figures like Black Coffee, Louie Vega, Keinemusik, and Laurent Garnier all offering their co-signs. His inclusion in the Beatport Next Class of 2025 and his appearances at festivals such as Montreux and Ultra South Africa have put his music on stages across four continents. In addition, he is already set to have a wonderful 2026, as he’s billed to play at Tomorrowland and Burgess Park — both in July!

His story serves as a reminder that the best music often comes from a place of limitation and necessity. The "no-save" era taught him how to think in terms of entire compositions rather than just loops. The Ivory Park township taught him how to find beauty in the noise. And the sangoma tradition taught him that music is a form of healing that requires the artist to be a conduit for something larger than themselves.

"3-Step is just a chapter, not the whole story, and my journey is vast; it's like a whole universe. 3-Step is just one planet in that cosmos, and I'm here to keep exploring and innovating far beyond it."

He remains a figure who is fundamentally bigger than the sound he made. 3-Step gave him the platform, but his vision is what will sustain him. As he navigates the complexities of global fame and the pressures of being a genre pioneer, he stays grounded in the simple truth that music is about connection. It is about the space between the notes, the rhythm of the rain, and the ancient energies that still speak to us through modern software. He has started a journey with no clear endpoint, and for an artist who survives amid the noise, that is exactly how it should be.

By Temple Egemasi
Photos by Arthur Dlamini

What feels like a worldwide obsession with animal print came up as quickly as all trends seem to nowadays. With a swipe of a feed or the use of a nostalgic sound, ‘the next big thing’ rears its head almost every week. Yet, despite the constant change, what remains the same is the cyclical supply and demand of brands and designers jumping on the trends with sudden enthusiasm. 

Louder than brand’s interest, though, is the sharp cha-ching that rings in ears and wallets as people “invest” in these trends yet again. The erasure of seasonal fashion cycles, the quicker exchange of information, and an increased global consciousness has changed the consumer cycle, prioritising consumption over quality and longevity. 

Not all trends are made the same, though. While the term ‘trend’ has lent itself to today’s expedited society, its previous alias of consistent patterns of popularity or demand over time is still very much alive. Much longer than the weeklong lifespan of microtrends and much more inclusive of society. 

Arguably the best of these is the rise, or perhaps return, of animal print and animal hide garments. Having not only proven their worth, but shone new light on the cultural zeitgeist. 

The origin of animal print and hide fashion can be traced back to Africa’s ancient civilisations, and for the simplest of reasons: necessity. At a time when options were as slim, humans did what humans do best. They survived. Albeit Flintstone style. 

Naturally, as humans evolved, so did the fabrics, the desires, and the sociopolitical climate. The demands of time, colonialism, and the expansion of global trade turned what was once the only option into a symbol of wealth, divinity, and status. And from there, the trend started. 

Like most things that originated from the communities of colour, the Western world didn’t regard the use of animal prints or hide as anything special until their own interest was piqued. The exclusivity, regality, and couture nature of the prints and their hides brought the earliest appeal as floor rugs and entertainment in the West. Throughout the Southern Hemisphere and Eastern countries, fur maintained its power and influence, regardless of cultural influence. 

From the flashy flappers and surrealist art in 1920s America, their rise to fame after Tarzan the Apeman in 1932,  to Christian Dior’s reintroduction of leopard print into high fashion in 1947, what looked like a trend from the top of society down became common. Industrialisation led to the ease of textile printing, which led to new audiences, like punk rockers and indie artists, redefining the look and feel of the prints, as well as the conversation around them.

As the saying goes, no press is bad press and, regardless of public opinion, the value of hide and print has consistently been in its malleability and accessibility. Its cross cultural resonance has allowed it to stand the test of time, ethics, and social pressures, like any true trend. From regal to tacky to sexual to chic, today’s trending patterns capture prints and hide at their very best. 

The subtle rise of Bambi prints incorporates the chic return of polka dots with the textural appeal and exclusivity of hide. Meanwhile, zebra and tiger prints’ luxe association are slowly turning the two into staples. Never mind 2025’s stars: cowhide, tortoise shell, and leopard print, all propelled by pop culture phenomena like Cowboy Carter, retro luxury, and “mob wife” aesthetics. 

Regardless of micro or mainstream trends, prints and hides sell no matter the connotation. Considering previous changes in market value and continued ethical debates, the use of hides, furs, and prints is as versatile as the society in which it exists. The modern-day return to authentic, unfiltered living, particularly in response to global right-wing ideology, climate and economic crises, has platformed prints and hides uniquely. 

Where conservatism constricts, prints play. Where sustainability champions care, and intention, hide and print are a return to the simplest being and the roots of clothing in human civilisation. Where care is desired, and intention is required. Even its flair for controversy and public interest adds to the beauty of it - prints and hides survive.

Public desire for experiences today has driven not only consumerism but also human interest. Social media, marketing campaigns, influencers, and brands not only enthral their audiences, but they also invite them in, involve their senses, and appeal to their emotions. 

Hide tells a story. The journey to get it. The craftsmanship behind it. The very relationship between human and animal. It brings in texture, nuance, culture, and background. It asks questions and answers them. Art forecasting in 2026 indicates the same desire, with the progression of tactile art and design and the revaluation of artisan craft increased by 30 per cent year-by-year. A prediction of the kind of world that champions humanity, in all its complexity. 

From ethical bans, high fashion runways, and trending aesthetics, the impact is incomparable. Last year’s cow print may have evolved into zebra and tiger, but the influence remains the same. To put it simply, there’s nowhere in the world where humans cannot use animals for clothing. What could be more honest and authentic than that? 

 Instagram

Last year, in an interview with Justin Laboy, Ye (the artist formerly known as Kanye West) revealed that the title of his next album, ‘Bully,’ is inspired by his son, Saint West. Dressed in an all-white ensemble, and framed against the backdrop of an austere white screen projecting various merch, the 48-year-old artist shared an anecdote of his son kicking one of his peers. “This man is really a bully,” he said with a slight chuckle. On the 28th of March, one day behind its scheduled release date, Ye finally released the album to the public. 
Expectedly, ‘Bully’ arrives tainted by the shadow of Ye’s erratic past few years, which found him drifting into the furthest reaches of the far right movement, culminating in a salvo of anti-semitic statements and an ugly track entitled ‘Heil Hitler.’

In the months leading up to the album’s release, Ye began something of a slow walk towards redemption. He renounced his antisemitic statements, drove a wedge between himself and his former Hitler-sympathizing Ilk—a group including Nick Fuentes—and took out a page on the WSJ, apologizing for his unseemly conduct and expressing a desire to do better moving forward. The apology has no doubt sanded down much of the public indignation Ye has faced in recent years. Nonetheless, his latest album has split public opinion and sparked a litany of questions and conversations. In this installment of PopTakes, I share my candid thoughts on the flurry of dissonant opinions attending ‘Bully’s’ release. I also pull apart J Cole’s recent head-turning remarks and Druski’s “deeply hilarious but no less politically charged” latest skit. 

Ye’s New Album ‘Bully’ Raises New Questions About Cancel Culture

Of course, many of Ye’s critics remain steadfast and others remain skeptical of his putative transformation from the volatile and often distasteful persona he has espoused in the past few years. But it's almost surreal witnessing the outpouring of love and support Ye’s ‘Bully’ is receiving. While Pitchfork, which is increasingly being viewed as a holdout of liberal idealism, awarded the project a scathing 3.4/10—a lower score than Ye’s less coherent projects ‘Vultures II’ and ‘Donda II’—the project has found immense commercial success. It currently sits atop the US Apple Music Top Albums Chart, and is expected to make a strong overture on the Billboard Albums Charts next week. Meanwhile, ‘Father,’ a standout from the album featuring Travis Scott, has peaked atop the Global Apple Music Singles Charts. In a recent vox pop by Complex, many listeners rave about the quality of the project and award the project ratings in the neighborhood 8/10. Ye is also billed to headline the Wireless Festival for three days in July. If you told any pop culture enthusiasts a few months ago that the pendulum of the public’s opinion on Ye would swing in reverse, in such a short span, they probably would have dismissed the prediction as hallucinatory or naive. And yet, here we are. 

Amid all of these, questions regarding the efficacy and politics of cancel culture, have begun to arise. One tweet reads: “Kendrick was right about cancel culture,” referring to his ‘Mr Morale and The Big Steppers’ album where he variously calls out the hypocrisy of cancel culture: people publicly denouncing cancelled artists like R Kelly while listening to them in private. 

Cancel culture is often framed as a wholly new phenomenon, an expedient of the internet age. In reality, it’s at best a version of an ancient tradition. For millennia, humans have banished, ostracized, or sent seemingly irredeemably transgressive individuals into exile. Cancel culture feeds into this instinct; the goal is to exile certain erring individuals from society. But in place of physical estrangement, cancel culture advocates for digital pariahdom. Cancelled individuals are to be ignored except for the rare occasions when it becomes incumbent on us to denounce their actions. Crucially, in the case where the cancelled person is an artist, we similarly are expected to disengage with their art. 

Here is where the problem lies. It's one thing to publicly distance oneself from a transgressive individual and an entirely different thing to eschew their art, especially for someone like Ye, whose talent and influence on contemporary popular culture is singular. If Ye’s current ascendancy reveals anything, it’s that the latter is an almost herculean task. Despite Ye’s pariahdom on social media in the past few years, his listenership on streaming platforms remained strong, well into the neighborhood of 60 million monthly listeners on Spotify. His public apology and newfound conciliatory disposition have only given people the license to admit that their love for the music is stronger than whatever moral objections they might have. 

Druski Skewers Conservative Women in Latest Skit

In American comedian Druski’s latest skit, he plays the conservative white lady archetype. Wearing a white suit and a blonde wig, his face prosthetically altered to resemble a white lady, he prances around a stage adorned with the blue, white, and red of the American flag. The video, captioned “How Conservative Women in America act,” has now garnered a staggering 183 million views on X alone. As one would expect, it has also sparked a welter of criticism. Some have argued that Druski’s skit gives white people the pass to play white face. This argument however collapses when one considers that white face lacks the historical and political context that makes black face discriminatory. 

More interestingly, while Druski refrains from name-dropping anyone in the video, viewers have drawn comparisons between the character Druski plays in the video and Erica Kirk, the widow of late conservative activist Charlie Kirk. Earlier this week, there were reports that Erica Kirk had issued Druski a cease-and-desist letter. But this turned out to be false, Kirk has neither spoken on the matter nor sent any letter to Druski. What's real is the number of comments from conservative individuals calling for some kind of censorship of the video. It brings to mind the level of backlash Jimmy Kimmel garnered among conservatives after he made a joke about Charlie Kirk, which ultimately led to his suspension by ABC late last year. Conservatives often cast themselves as free speech hawks. This was a major part of Trump’s appeal in the last election cycle, a position that endeared him to other self-acclaimed free speech hawks like Elon Musk. Given their putative commitment to free speech, it strikes me as odd and hypocritical that they seem to have taken a liking for calling for the censorship of whatever strikes them the wrong way. 

J Cole Drops Major Bombshell In New Interview

To promote his latest album ‘The Fall Off,’  J Cole has been on something of an interview tour, sharing details about the album and his personal life. In the past few days, however, this has found him embroiled in a PR nightmare. In one interview, he revealed that he was poised to release a podcast episode about his mythologized brawl with Diddy but decided against it because at the time Diddy had just gotten arrested on multiple counts of sexual misconduct. “It felt like kicking a man when he’s down,” he says. “It would have given the news, and the world, more ammo to destroy this dude.” Hearing these comments from J Cole, who has for a long time advocated for social justice in his music, feels terribly jarring, and calls into question the persona we’ve fashioned for J Cole in our minds. We have all seen the video of Diddy brutally kicking his former partner Cassie Ventura even as she pleads and tries to escape him. So, it's beyond disappointing that  J Cole admitted to protecting a serial abuser. More disconcerting is Cole’s attempt at framing Diddy as a victim. Perhaps this is yet another reminder not to place celebrities on a pedestal, regardless of their manicured public personas of whatever politics they claim to subscribe to. 

Close your eyes and imagine the bass thumping in a Lagos club. The DJ drops a new track. Within 10 seconds before the lyrics even start, the whole room knows exactly who it is. That specific drum pattern, that choral backup, that particular "vibe” in your mind, you know that’s Asake. But before the song even finishes, someone in the corner is already scrolling through Twitter, typing out the same tired complaint: "He sounds the same. When is he going to give us something different?"

At first glance, that might seem like a fair critique. After all, shouldn’t artists evolve? But the reality is more nuanced. So what’s really going on here? The issue lies in how audiences often misunderstand what artistic growth looks like. There’s an expectation, especially in fast-moving digital spaces, that growth must be obvious, dramatic, and constant. Listeners want reinvention: a new sound, a new persona, a clear shift from what came before. But in practice, that’s not how most great artists evolve.

Take Asake. His music blends modern Afrobeats with traditional Fuji influences, rhythmic chants, and street-inspired flows. He dominated the charts for two years straight. But almost immediately, people started complaining that he was sounding the same. What that criticism missed is how evolution was already happening, just not in the loud, obvious way people expected.

Asake didn’t abandon his core sound, and that’s exactly why it worked. Instead, he refined it. His production became more layered, his vocal control improved, and his songwriting grew more intentional. The chants became tighter, the flows more deliberate, and the overall sound more polished. To a casual listener, it might still feel familiar. But to anyone paying attention, there’s a clear progression. And that’s the point: great artists don’t always evolve by changing direction completely. They evolve by going deeper into what makes them unique.

Now, even rising Nigerian artists like Fola are experiencing early criticism for sticking to a sound and theme despite still being in the process of defining their identity. Right now, he has a particular sound and a certain type of message he leans into, and yes, if you listen to a few of his songs, they might feel similar.

But that’s actually normal. When an artist is just starting, repeating a style isn’t a mistake; it's how they build identity. Think of it like this: if every song sounded completely different, you wouldn’t even know what makes him him. The “same sound” people complain about is often the exact thing helping listeners recognize him.

The same goes for his themes. Many artists, especially early in their careers, talk about similar things like love, hustle, lifestyle, and emotions because that’s what they’re currently connected to. Over time, as their lives change, their music naturally expands. The problem is that people are asking for change too early.

Fola is still in the stage of introducing himself. Expecting him to switch sounds or topics immediately is like asking someone to change their personality before you even understand who they are. Growth in music doesn’t happen overnight. First comes repetition, then mastery, then expansion. So instead of seeing it as “he sounds the same,” it’s more accurate to see it as: he’s still building his foundation. 
And it doesn’t stop with emerging artists. Someone like Wizkid, who has spent over a decade shaping the global sound of Afrobeats, still faces similar comments about his newer releases “sounding the same.” From a broader perspective, having a signature sound isn’t a weakness; it’s an advantage. It’s how audiences recognize an artist instantly. It’s what turns a song into a brand. In industries beyond music, consistency is often praised; in music, it’s strangely treated as a flaw.

Even experimentation, when it happens, works best when it’s natural. Rema’s shifts, for example, felt intentional because they stemmed from artistic curiosity rather than external pressure. There’s a difference between evolving and reacting. And for veterans like Wizkid, consistency often reflects mastery. After years of experimenting and influencing the soundscape, what remains is a refined identity, one that doesn’t need to prove itself through drastic change constantly.

The bigger takeaway here goes beyond Nigerian music. Across global music scenes, fans play a powerful role in shaping narratives around artists. But not every familiar sound is a sign of stagnation. Sometimes, it’s a sign that an artist has found their voice and is choosing to develop it rather than abandon it. Because real growth isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always come with a complete rebrand or a sudden shift in direction. Often, it’s quieter, more deliberate, and more sustainable. And sometimes, the best thing you can do for an artist is simple: let what works, breathe.

The truth is simple: if a sound works, it deserves time to breathe. Sometimes, the real artistry lies in going deeper, not wider, which means refining a sound until it becomes timeless. Because in the long run, it’s not constant change that builds careers. It’s clarity, identity, and patience.

Odeal’s sold-out show was another testament to the growth and musicality he has shown as an artist. Whilst most of the music industry was gathered in Manchester for the MOBO Awards, 5,000 people knew the place to be was Brixton’s O2 Academy. There, Odeal brought to life his 2025 EPs The Summer That Saved Me and The Fall That Saved Us.

As expected, the show was nothing short of an exceptional display of who Odeal is and where he is in his career. No doubt, this era will stand out as a strong moment in his career. The show blended his musicianship, as showcased by his band on stage, with his vocals, which came through amongst the Brixton crowd.

Opening the show with Free Me, he took the crowd on a journey through his discography, with fans hanging onto every word and flawlessly performed notes. Standout moments on the setlist included “Blame U,” “In The Chair,” “Soh-Soh,” “London Summers”, “Addicted,” "You're Stuck,” and the show closer, “Miami.” The hour-and-a-half set showcased the versatility he brings to his music, fusing rich R&B melodies with Afrobeats. Odeal appeared as the stylish man he is, rocking an all-black outfit, before changing into another outfit and returning to the stage later in the show.

As hometown shows go, he truly gave homage and thanks to the fans, making it feel like a celebration of one of their own. The crowd's energy was a reminder that there's no place like home and no love like the love from home.

Already cemented as an artist who has miles to go in terms of where his career is going, it's only from here, and in terms of what show he brings to the stage, we are looking forward to seeing him when he next takes the stage.

The UK’s music run is far from over. Video game-themed visuals, Jerk-era fashion, British slang and distorted beat productions are just the tip of a virtual iceberg. Ever since 2023, they have dominated youth conversations online, often the ones setting new trends and dictating the next soundscape. An angle that is currently left out of the equation is rising female artists. And how they contribute just as much to this phenomenon that is influencing youth culture on a global scale.

We have selected three starlets we believe are up next and are destined to cause all sorts of ruckus this year. They are talented, they are fresh, and their sounds represent Black British music at the highest calibre.

Meduuulla

‍Meduuulla is a Zimbabwe-born Manchester rapper with the slickest lyrical plays you may find in the Hip-Hop scene right now. She was first introduced to us in The Rap Game UK in 2021. Following a couple of years of absence, Meduuulla released a well-received 2023 EP titled ‘Oblongata’, comforting our ears with jazzy instrumentals and soothing bars. Recently, she debuted her 2025 album, ‘Tabula Rasa’, in collaboration with producer Ethan Hill, proving this is Meduuulla’s world and we’re just roaming in it.

dexter in the newsagent

‍dexter in the newsagent, or dexter in short, is a South London singer-songwriter who had her big breakthrough in ‘dexters phone call’ by Jim Legxacy for his 2025 album ‘Black British Music’. Shortly after, she’s been catapulting in relevance. Her voice is soft, often accompanied by guitar rhythms. Her lyrics cut through one's heart, commemorating words to her late father, a central subject in her music.
Dexter’s universe feels deeply personal, and we’re lucky enough to be granted a glimpse into it. She wears her stories like armour.
Dexter’s 2025 mixtape ‘Time Flies’ was only a taster, and as her music grows, so will her influence.

Sade Olutola

‍Sade Olutola is a British-Nigerian baby joy that expresses Gen Z emotions in the most fun ways possible through her music. For example, her song ‘2099’ feels apocalyptic with a flair of just straight amusement. Sliding upon electronic productions and a vintage-like sound system, Sade is the perfect teenage heartthrob. Coupled with her Y2K look and ecstatic visuals, she naturally holds all of the elements of a 22-year-old born star in the making. 
Although her recent EP ‘Arrow Heart’, a 5-song selection of her greatest output, sent waves in the music sphere, it is still too early to state how her career may blossom for years to come.

What’s so special about today’s listeners is that they don’t care about sticking to the status quo, and as a result, young artists are now freer than ever. Rather than letting a specific genre define them, they encapsulate their own blend of sonic styles, letting their creativity and freedom of expression reinvent themselves. Whether it is in Hip-Hop, folk, or Pop anthems, the female imprint is boundless and travels across sonic grids. Just like their male counterparts, we can’t wait to see they will take this generation next.

Streetwear’s rise in Africa over the past couple of years has been louder than anyone could have dreamed. The skater-American subculture has filtered into the African fashion ecosystem and found its home in the wardrobes of the misfits and nonconformist youth. Now, every major fashion city on the continent has a streetwear brand leading the underground and sometimes mainstream scene. Streetwear on the continent is more diverse than ever, with designers from each region offering distinct takes on the subculture. 

Jerseys, for example, are a popular trend with streetwear brands since their resurgence in the 2020s. Practically every streetwear brand now produces jerseys, but each one feels uniquely suited to its brand rather than like a copy. Tracksuits that look straight out of the ’80s, prints with large texts, and cyberwave fonts: these elements have almost become

shorthand for what streetwear is supposed to look like. Still, some brands are pushing beyond this visual language and creating fresh designs that set them apart.

The brands mentioned here fall into that category. They have a clear creative direction tied to a distinct identity that has helped them cultivate loyal communities. Here are five streetwear brands in Africa that get it right:

BROKE

Back in 2016, when a group of 6 friends - Mzwandile Sithole aka International Pantsula, Sindiso Tshuma, Hlumelo Gosa aka Rosco Steazy, Akhona Beja aka IamSlolo, Simbongile Bino, and Andile Dlamini - started a project from their township in Cape Town, South Africa, the last thing they expected was to be leading streetwear in South Africa a decade later. 

BROKE began as an oath between six cash-strapped boys to create something that defied norms, regardless of their pockets. From day one, the brand has been built on a strong ethos of creation, one that continues to run through each collection. Even before their official debut as a fashion label, they were already using clothing as a vehicle for messaging: one of their earliest drops in 2018 was a campaign encouraging youth to take a stand against water waste.

Their first official streetwear collection arrived in 2020 with Andile Dlamini as lead creative director, and since then, BROKE has built a vast catalogue including their now-signature baseball cap stamped with a bold "B"
Over time and with success, the name BROKE has taken on new meaning, now standing for Being Rebellious Over Konforming to Expectations. 

Bola PSD

Bola PSD wants to be youth fashion personified. When the now-ubiquitous streetwear brand first launched in Nigeria in 2023, the original vision looked very different. Its founder, Bola Olaniyan, initially aimed for a rockstar image, but after the first drop failed, the brand’s direction pivoted to reference what Bola knew best—his own style. “The brand basically revolves around me as a person, and I wanted people to see and connect with that,” and it worked.

Bola PSD first gained traction in the streetwear commnity for its polos, belts, and beanies, but its breakout moment came when Rema wore one of its polos in the FUN video. Since then, the PSD name has carried a new kind of legitimacy, with more people gravitating toward the brand.

Wear Thirsty

Wear Thirsty is a Lagos streetwear brand that began as Shopstraffitti — a name pulled from the nickname of its founder, Olawale Olukolade, aka Straffitti. The brand has been in motion since 2016, starting in West Virginia before relocating to Nigeria, where the Lekki-based Wear Thirsty store became the anchor that cemented its cult influence within Lagos youth culture.

One cannot speak of Thirsty without mentioning its signature 999 merch, which became so popular that they’ve made it theirs by using it across other designs from caps, hockey jerseys, or graphic tees. Their recent drop - thirsty merch vest: a netted vest finished with a studded “T” - presents wearthirsty in a darker, more minimalist punk look, showing a brand that isn’t afraid to evolve while holding onto its core identity.

Mashaka (MSK)

Mashaka is a streetwear brand deeply rooted in Alexandra township, South Africa, the hometown of its founder, Percy Mufamadi. Its earliest collection in 2022 featured a nylon puffer jacket that has since become a signature, with the brand building its identity around it.

Through each release, the puffer is reworked, cropped, expanded, and reshaped into bags and vests. Different iterations of the nylon puffer have been seen on many South African celebrities, including Nasty C, K.O, and Muziqal, just to mention a few. Some of their other designs feature items like distressed denim, camo jackets and shorts, and cargo pants.

Nairobi Apparel District

“The heart of art and upcycling”: this is the mantra Nairobi Apparel District lives by. Founded in 2017 by Kenyan artist, designer, and creative director Junior Orina, NAD has carved out a unique space in Kenyan streetwear.

At its core, NAD is a sustainable, or “art-cycled,” brand focused on using recycled and eco-friendly fabrics to make timeless pieces that feel uniquely theirs. Each one of NAD’s catalogues is custom-tailored to avoid waste and overproduction while still speaking boldly to the streetwear market’s taste for flair and identity.
Some of NAD’s standout pieces feature political imagery, with figures like Nelson Mandela appearing alongside other political icons on tote bags, shirts, and hoodies.

As young people continue to embrace non-conformist culture, it’s almost certain that more streetwear brands will emerge onto the scene. But growth alone isn’t what the culture needs. If anything, this moment calls for more intention from brands to move beyond simply reproducing what streetwear is supposed to look like, and instead push toward what it can mean. The future of African streetwear can be anchored to unique ideas that reflect the lived experiences and fully realised creative worlds of African misfits. In the end, African streetwear brands are not just participating in skate culture; they’re defining a new generation.

Cover Credit:  Wear Thirsty Instagram

As the African continent is gaining more and more global recognition due to its entertainment industry, one aspect that is rarely discussed is content creators. For many diaspora communities and curious outsiders, their content becomes a gateway to glimpses of everyday life in Africa. Not only do they challenge the image that the rest of the world imposes on the continent, but they also provide access to the stories of locals, authorities or in certain instances, even celebrities.

Whereas foreigners are focused on displaying poverty, chaos, and underdeveloped areas of Africa, our storytellers depict the contrary. We have selected the top content creators who we believe are currently making an impact and deserve their flowers. This is years in the making, and despite whether one may agree with all of their content choice, they certainly have put in the work and grown organically in our hearts.

Wode Maya

Berthold Kobby Winkler Ackon, better known as Wode Maya, is the voice of Africa. A Ghanaian vlogger, YouTuber, storyteller, and Pan-Africanist who, since his early days in China, has made it his absolute mission to represent the best of Africa. Now a husband and father, Wode has visited approximately 38 of the 54 African countries, and with an African passport. To put it further into context, it is extremely difficult for an African to travel across the continent, let alone travel globally, which Wode does not shy away from displaying. 

However, this is one of the many reasons we adore him so much; Wode wants us to see the opportunities available as much as the potential our beautiful continent has to improve. To this day, he is the most followed content creator on our list, with an impressive 1,98 million subscribers on YouTube.

Steven Ndukwu

Stephen Anthony Ndukwu, or Stephen Ndukwu in short, is a Nigerian filmmaker and content creator. His videos explore Africa's diverse landscape as much as its people's drive for entrepreneurship and successful businesses. He recently began extending his reach by unpacking the lives of the diaspora in the Americas. Steven’s content comes across as an individual just like you and me who is trying to better understand the world around him, whilst uncovering a much-needed reality check of the unrealistic dreams some of the natives still believe in, for example, the perception that life in the Occident is all sweet.

Although Steven may not be the most popular or established YouTuber on our list, he certainly contributes in a unique manner that feels both amicable and relatable to the average viewer.

Tayo Aina

‍Tayo Aina has been perhaps Wode’s biggest competitor and rival throughout the years. A Nigerian documentarian and YouTuber who seemed to have the world in the palm of his hands, but when Africa needed him the most, he left. All jokes aside, Tayo just moved to Portugal; however, his content still embodies the spirit, mind and soul of the African man. Contrary to Wode, who focuses on the African world from an African lens, Tayo’s philosophy is rather about viewing the world, including our continent, from an African man’s perspective.

From Italy, Siberia, or the US, if there’s one Nigerian resident, Tayo will be the first to locate them and unveil their incredibly unique story. Some may say that the business-savvy (Lagos is evidently still within him) has the heart of an entrepreneur rather than a man behind a camera, and that is what drives him to the extent that he is willing to go to discover the rest of the world.

Korty Eo

Eniola Korty Olanrewaju, better known as Korty Eo, could be the girl next door. That is, if your neighbours were as cool as she is, following Wizkid around, setting up strangers on dates, and chilling with the most sought-after celebrities Nigeria has to offer. We are convinced that there is nothing Korty can not do, but in her free time, she mostly acts as an interviewer, YouTuber, and commentator. 

Korty’s content feels like exchanges shared in a friend group chat. Whereas online personalities want to display their best foot forward at all times and the highlights of their lives, Korty isn’t trying to sell you a dream. Au contraire, her content is raw, her settings are replicable; however, the magic lies in the way she can bring the human side of her subjects. In other words, Korty strips down the X-factor from your favourite artists, and suddenly, their dreams are attainable; they become a version of themselves we would never get to see unless it were for Korty and her content.

Shank Comics

Adesokan Adedeji Emmanuel, better known as Shank Comics, is a Nigerian comedian, streamer and content creator. For most, he has become a bridge for Nigerians and the diaspora to mingle, share laughs and connect through a lens we had never experienced before. Shank has organically put himself in the position of the go-to for American streamers like Kai Cenat and DDG, who want to visit and learn about Nigerian culture. Ever since, Shank has only grown in popularity, while his content mainly speaks to a young audience.

Shank’s content expands from comedy skits, food trials, to reality shows and more–to his core, he is an online personality who wants to make anyone laugh. Perhaps what was unintended is for Shank to play such a pivotal role in normalizing African beauty standards, Nigerian humour, and overall culture from the outside looking in. For long, the outside world had no idea about the African mind, and Shank’s skits not only make Africans feel relatable,  but also the content is refreshing to see.

Whereas music makes the world dance, our content creators are the guardians of culture. Africans have this unique ability to inform the mind and express themselves like nobody else. Their content feels personable, but also doesn’t shy away from showing their expertise, often looked down upon by outsiders. It no longer becomes a question of whether Africans can write their stories themselves, but how they can do so under not always the best conditions and yet still manage to overcome and succeed.

Related Stories: 
‍Gambian Boy Gone Mad - Says If President of Rwanda Kagame Can Invade His Neighbouring Country, He Should--Amidst Congo Genocide

Women's History Month shouldn't just be a single month on the calendar; it should be an ongoing, year-round celebration of the multifaceted roles we inhabit. Whether they lead with integrity and grace or revolutionize industries, these women prove that leadership is defined by empathy and expertise. I have the distinct privilege of knowing each of these women personally and can speak directly to their incredible character and impeccable reputations. Their work ethic is nothing short of inspiring, but it is their dedication to the community that truly sets them apart. By bringing a deep sense of professional "know-how" to their respective fields, they are raising the standard of what it means to lead. 

The Blueprint of Success: Strategic Authenticity and Discipline 

Throughout these interviews, a powerful recurring theme emerged: the importance of strategic authenticity and unwavering discipline. For these leaders, being "authentic" isn't a marketing tactic; it is the very foundation of their business infrastructure. They refuse to conform to a single mold, choosing instead to stay true to their unique belief systems and the standards they have set for themselves. Success in these high-pressure industries is rarely about being the loudest; it is about being the most prepared. The "invisible work" often involves restraint, choosing long-term alignment over immediate gratification. There is a shared respect for the "old-school" grind, showing up humbly, learning the craft, and putting in the work until you've earned your seat at the table. 

Pillar I: The Foundation of Care & Advocacy

Gloria for Deeds Magazine: When you first entered spaces like Jacobi Medical Center and Montefiore, what was the 'missing piece' you identified in how we treated children in crisis? 

Troy Pinkney: "When I was on the floors, I often saw children being given medical information that was either too vague or deliberately obscured by well-meaning staff. The missing piece was a formalized, systematic approach to age-appropriate, truthful communication and emotional preparation. Trust that children can understand more than we give them credit for". 

How did you ensure that the 'humanity' and 'progressive pedagogy' of child development remained intact when you founded the online 'Master’s in Child Life' at Bank Street College? 

Our program was known for the relationships we built with our students and for creating a community. I wanted to create this in the virtual space. Virtual instruction is here to stay. It is up to instructors to ensure that students feel connected to them and that students voices are heard and appreciated. 

How do you describe the unique 'magic' and necessity of a Child Life Specialist? 

I believe childhood is the best of many worlds. We use developmentally appropriate language to teach youth and families what is happening to them in the healthcare environment and to advocate for them with members of the multidisciplinary team. We support the entire family during their most challenging times". 

Why is it impossible to provide true Child Life care without an intersectional lens on race and equity?

If we are to truly support the healthcare needs of all patients, we must understand their lived experience and the systems that impact care. For example, there is still a belief that Black children need less pain medicine than do white children. Some of the old stereotypes about Black people still exist in the field of medicine. 

Pillar II: The Design of Brand & Identity

Gloria for Deeds Magazine: What was the specific moment you realized that a person's brand isn't just about image, but the business infrastructure? 

NeeJay Sherman: There wasn't one defining moment; it was a realization over time. Studying Visual Studies and Business at LIM College taught me that perception is intentional and constructed. Every detail shapes how people feel; branding at its core is psychological. When I began working with talent, I saw the real gap: visibility without infrastructure. Many have attention and image, but not long-term positioning. A brand isn't what you post; it's the framework you construct around it. 

How do you balance immediate demands with the need to build a legacy? 

There are always two timelines running at once, the present and the future. The present demands visibility: press, campaigns, and cultural moments. The future demands positioning. Every decision goes through one filter: does this serve the long arc of the career? Buzz is temporary. Identity is lasting. Legacy isn't built in loud moments; it's built through disciplined, intentional choices. 

What does 'culture-first' leadership mean to you in practice? 

Culture-first means we don't chase relevance; we build it. In practice, culture-first leadership means understanding the community before monetizing it. It means protecting identity over chasing hype. It means asking a simple question before every partnership: does this expand the narrative, or does it dilute it? Temporary noise looks exciting. Cultural shifts feel inevitable. 

What is the 'invisible' work that goes into being a brand strategist?

The invisible work is discipline. People see the deals and milestones, but they don't see the preparation, the strategic 'no's,' the long-term thinking, or the constant refinement behind it all. If there's one trait that has sustained me throughout my journey, it's discipline. Success isn't about being the loudest in the room. It's about being the most prepared. 

Pillar III: Creative Production & Gatekeeping

Gloria for Deeds Magazine: What was the 'catalyst moment' when you realized you needed to build Tunnel Media Group (TMG)? 

Danielle Hawkins: As a market editor, my role was focused on discovering hidden brands and emerging talent, giving the underdog a platform to shine. With TMG, my motivation came from growing tired of the 'Glassdoor and gatekeeping' effect that often defines how the industry operates. I wanted to create a more level playing field where creatives have a fair opportunity to showcase their abilities and be recognized. 

How does your agency provide a 'creative safe haven' for your roster? 

It's no secret that being a woman, especially a woman of color in the fashion industry can come with its challenges. I believe it's important not to overpromise and to consistently deliver excellent work. For our artists at TMG, we work hard to create opportunities that they genuinely want to be part of and to place them with teams that truly appreciate their creative perspective. Our goal is never to put an artist in an uncomfortable position.

What is the one intangible quality you look for when deciding who is 'Tunnel' material? Energy rarely misleads. We're far more interested in a person's character and moral compass first, and their creativity second. We don't rush to sign every artist who wants to be represented by us. We prefer to spend time working together first, understanding the dynamic. No one wants to work with a jerk, no matter how gifted they are". 

How are you intentionally 'breaking the tunnel' open for the next generation? 

I come from an old-school mindset where you learn the craft, show up humbly, and put in the time. Today, it's common for someone to immediately feel entitled to a seat at the table. In my view, it doesn't work that way. I believe in seeing proof of consistency, dedication, and growth over time before someone is truly ready for that opportunity. That process builds character. 

Pillar IV: The Bridge to Cultural Impact 

Gloria for Deeds Magazine: How do you learn to trust that inner compass over the external noise when leading marketing campaigns? 

Janelle Gibbs: The best judgment of self is yourself. The relationship you build with yourself will guide you on the path meant for you. When you stay grounded in what you truly want, it will always set you apart. A lot of the outside noise is just a distraction meant to trick you out of your spot. If I had let that noise consume me, I wouldn't be where I am today. 

How do you protect the authenticity of an artist's narrative when the industry demands faster content? 

I make sure the artist's narrative stays authentic to who they are, their voice never gets lost, and people connect with something real, not just something quick. We all love a good trend, but authenticity lasts.

How do you manage the emotional labor of holding the 'bridge' up for others through initiatives like therapy and health resources? 

We Black women are often superheroes without capes. Lately, I've been realizing that underneath it all, we're just human, far from perfect. My boss, Rayna Bass, reminded me that I can't put so much pressure on myself. I've been prioritizing uninterrupted 'me time' to protect my peace of mind. 

How have you evolved your definition of 'success' from being reachable to being a strategist? 

Early in my career, success in PR literally looked like having 3 phones. I still believe accessibility matters. As I've grown into the marketing space, I've realized it's not about being on all the time, it's about showing up smarter and more intentionally. These days I'm down to 2 phones, but I still always take my artists' calls. 

Pillar V: Sound, Style & Heritage

Gloria for Deeds Magazine: How does your Liberian heritage fuel the energy you bring to the decks in NYC as 'The Biggest Jue'? 

Mohogany: My Liberian heritage is central to who I am. My parents came to America and built a life rooted in excellence and tenacity. In Liberia, 'Jue' refers to a beautiful, independent, boss woman, and that's exactly what I represent. I'm intentional about representing my people with pride and authenticity. 

How do modeling and DJing help you express yourself beyond music? 

I've never seen myself as just a DJ; I've always wanted to merge all my interests—fashion, fitness, and even my love for politics. It humanizes me. Social media often presents perfection, but I value showing that I'm a real person with depth, curiosity, and individuality. 

What was the hardest moment you had to turn into a breakthrough? 

In 2022, I lost an opportunity to DJ a Met Gala afterparty after a difficult set. I left feeling defeated—I even cried behind the booth. But that moment pushed me to grow. Two years later, I DJed at Burberry's Met Gala afterparty. I believe in turning setbacks into glory; you can always rise again.

What do you want the next generation to understand about building a brand like The House of Jue? 

It's not easy, and it didn't happen overnight. It takes consistency, practice, and the willingness to fail publicly. Most importantly, it takes community. With humility and a commitment to your craft, not virality, you can build something real and lasting. 

Final Reflections 

As I look back on these conversations, the common thread is a profound commitment to purpose and calling. Each of these women, Troy, NeeJay, Danielle, Janelle, and Mohgany, stands as a testament to what happens when you follow your heart with an unshakeable sense of dedication. They have shown us that being a creator of your own path means constructing a legacy that creates space for others to thrive. Their work proves that thinking outside the box isn't just a business strategy—it is a way to create a better world for those who follow in their footsteps. 

To close, I am reminded of the words of the incomparable Maya Angelou: "I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel".

Cover Credit: Izeyah Narvaez

As is now tradition, International Women’s Month this year has occasioned a welter of women-centered efforts. In the first week of March, the women of Deeds Magazine shared profound and poignant musings on what it feels like to be a woman in this age, when AI, divisive political rhetoric, and fraught socio-cultural dynamics steer us into truly unprecedented times. Elsewhere, there has been no shortage of talks and workshops catering to the growing female creative class. Nonetheless, we’d be remiss if we closed out this month without shining a light on female creatives making exceptional strides and refusing to shrink themselves in a world where defiance often comes at a cost. It’s with this understanding that we have curated a selection of four exceptional women we think you should have on your radar.

Indi

22-year-old Indi is one of the most exciting voices within Nigeria’s rapidly exploding underground music scene. Her ethereal, romance-sodden music beautifully marries Y2K-nostalgia with a contemporary sonic sensibility, resulting in a sound that feels timeless and deeply enrapturing. Indi’s interest in music stretches all the way back to her childhood, when she’d regale herself and those around her by singing and playing the piano. But in 2021, she found herself with a gnawing desire to make music professionally. “I think I had an awakening. I became more intentional with what I was listening to. I think I watched a documentary about how Pharrell (Williams) used to produce, and I was like: ‘maybe I should start producing,’” Indi tells Deeds Magazine. She started out producing for her brother Luwa.mp4, also an explosive presence within Nigeria’s burgeoning underground music scene. Around 2023, she began recording to beats she produced, and by July of 2024, she would release her first two-pack—‘Nova/Be Like’—officially launching her career as a music artist. 

Essel Ekuban

To observe the work of Ghanaian photographer and filmmaker Essel Ekuban is to be steeped in a newfound appreciation for the magic ensconced within everyday life. In their hands, the camera becomes a tool for transposing the mundane into something of a transcendental experience. Their placid, compositionally austere stills and films mostly interrogate queerness in Ghana, familial relationships, and cultural histories. Based in Accra, Ekuban’s practice homes in on deploying photography as a bridge between personal family narratives and broader community histories. Ekuban’s photography journey began in 2020. As the pandemic stirred a global reckoning, they increasingly sank deeper into the clutches of a depressive episode. It was at this period that Ekuban discovered photography’s restorative powers. “It (photography) became a way to process what I was feeling. Over the years, that initial spark has evolved from a private practice into a deeply communal one. I’ve moved from simply capturing moments to becoming a researcher and a storyteller,” they tell Deeds Magazine.
—Chibuzo E.

Hameedah Aminu

Hameedah moves between Form and Freedom. With a background in law and law enforcement, but instinctively drawn to creation. As the founder and creative director of Mulawwan, she channels both worlds into a unique design language. Mulawwan derived from the Arabic word  “colorful” is more of a declaration than a name. A refusal to be boxed in. A commitment to exploring identity, contrast, and the full spectrum of expression through fashion. Her entry into fashion was organic. A birthday outfit she made for herself sparked unexpected attention, with people drawn to its originality and asking for more. That moment became a quiet turning point, setting the foundation for a brand built on instinct, individuality, and originality.
Through Wan Clan, she extends her world beyond fashion… building a community rooted in art, books, charity, and shared experience. It’s less about audiences, more about connection. Her design process is far from  rigid. It begins with a feeling, sometimes unclear, sometimes disruptive. Interestingly, some of her strongest pieces have come from mistakes, reinforcing her belief that imperfection isn’t a flaw, but a catalyst. Through Mulawwan, her legal background, and Wan Clan, Hameedah Aminu is carving out space, unapologetically…for creativity, growth, and impact. On her own terms.‍

‍Khadija Dikko 

Textiles is not just clothes; it mirrors people, their lives, heritage, experience, and legacy.
Deeds had the opportunity to speak to Khadija Dikko, a textile artist who is all about creating intentional and culturally inspired textiles, the process behind them, and the craft itself.
Khadija Dikko is a consultant at This Is Us. She studied Textile Design, specializing in Woven textiles, at Falmouth University, and later pursued a Master’s degree at the Royal College of Art to further her knowledge in textile design.
Khadija’s passion for textiles began in an art class, a passion her teacher noticed and encouraged, and that became the starting point of her journey into textiles.
Her designs have always been inspired by her culture, heritage, and personal experiences. This is seen in one of her works at the Royal College of Art, Tsuntsuwa Che — She is a Bird, which explored the concept of “home”—something she never really connected with, shaped by her nomadic upbringing across Kano, Abuja, Kaduna, Lagos, and the United Kingdom.
The project brought together indigo dyeing, woven shibori, and film photography, showing how she translates her experiences into textiles. This also reflects in another project from her first degree, where she explored food and its relationship with women, which helped deepen her understanding of texture in textiles.  
Her creative process depends on the kind of textile she is working with. She usually starts with visual research, which helps her approach different types of textiles. Her work continues to reflect her experiences, drawing from memory, movement, and the different places she has called home.
—Ruqayyah S.

We had a lovely time speaking with some of the exceptional women shaping today’s creative landscape, gaining a glimpse into their artistry and the passion driving their contributions to African culture.

Pullquote: “From Dior’s flower earmuffs to sculpted blooms across the runway, these Spring 2026 makes florals feel deliberate again”

Florals for spring are supposed to be easy. Predictable, even. The kind of visual shorthand fashion reaches for when it wants to gesture toward renewal without having to say much at all. It’s a language so overused it’s almost invisible. You see a flower, and you understand the assignment. For years, the “spring florals” motif has operated on autopilot through printed dresses, soft palettes, and an easy return to femininity that rarely asks to be interrogated. Spring 2026, however, slows that instinct down.

Across the Spring 2026 runways, flowers are not quite performing the way they used to. Rather than dissolving into dresses or romanticising the body into soft and palatable silhouettes, it sits awkwardly. It feels estranged entirely from the idea of nature itself. Many designers approached spring florals much more grounded and made you actually look again.

At Christian Dior, Jonathan Anderson’s haute couture debut set the tone early in the season. He reoriented the house’s longstanding relationship with flowers away from surface-level romanticism and toward process. 

Inspired in part by a bouquet of cyclamen, Anderson translated botanical forms into sculptural silhouettes. The collection did not rely on floral prints. Instead, flowers appeared as constructed elements through sculptural petals layered into skirts, stems translated into accessories, and most notably, flower-shaped earmuffs that framed the face in a way that felt both playful and slightly surreal. It’s the most obvious extract from nature to fixate on, but that’s exactly why it worked. It pulled florals away from the expected (dresses, embroidery, softness) and placed them somewhere colder, more deliberate. The intentional placements were almost architectural in how they framed the body.

The Spring-Summer 2026 collection made it clear that Anderson was not interested in florals as background decoration. He treated them as standalone forms capable of being repositioned on the body. Even the silhouettes followed that logic and successfully created a controlled version of “blooming” that felt engineered.

What’s compelling here is not just the final look, but the insistence on process. Each element was meticulously assembled through couture techniques: silk petals cut individually, shaped using moulds, dyed to achieve tonal variation, embroidered and reconstructed into their individual pieces. You can visibly see the work in them. Dior’s florals do not attempt to replicate the spontaneity of nature; instead, they foreground the effort required to approximate it. Flowers in this context are a demonstration of craft, discipline, and control. In doing so, Anderson situates florals within the logic of couture itself, slow, deliberate, and resistant to the speed of contemporary fashion production.

There’s a similar thread at Alexander McQueen, though it manifests differently. Here, the bloom is undone. Petals are distressed and intricately layered into garments. If florals once symbolised growth, McQueen leans into the opposite by focusing on decay, erosion, and the slow collapse of something that was once considered beautiful. It’s not exactly nihilistic, but it refuses the optimism traditionally embedded in spring dressing. With Simone Rocha, the florals feel preserved, pressed into sheer fabrics, suspended beneath tulle, as though trapped between states of being. There’s an archival quality to it, like these flowers are no longer part of the natural world but relics of it. Even Valentino, so often synonymous with overt romance, pulled back for S/S26. The florals are sparse, almost reluctant. A single bloom interrupts an otherwise restrained silhouette. The effect is less about indulgence and more about control, suggesting that the excess historically associated with femininity is being reconsidered, perhaps even rejected.

Taken together, these collections show a shift in florals through fashion. What connects these collections is a refusal to let florals fade into the background. Designers are thinking about placement, where a flower sits and why, and considering scale. Whether it overwhelms or barely interrupts. And most importantly, they’re thinking about texture. You see this clearly in recent ready-to-wear drops as well. Across brands, florals are moving off the surface and into three-dimensional space: rosettes that protrude from tops, sculpted appliqués that sit on skirts, fabric flowers that function as accessories rather than embellishments. Even when prints do appear, they’re often enlarged, abstracted, or distorted, less about prettiness and more about impact.

It’s a subtle shift, but necessary. For a long time, florals have been doing very little. They’ve been safe and an easy way to signal femininity without challenging it. But Spring 2026 asks more of them. By stripping back the excess and focusing on construction, designers force the spring floral motif to feel deliberate once again.

There’s also something slightly ironic in how “natural” all of this feels. These are not spontaneous, carefree flowers. They are highly controlled, cut, placed, and fixed in position. Nothing about them is accidental. And maybe that’s the point.

Fashion’s version of nature has never really been natural. It’s always been mediated through fabric, through print, through the designer’s hand. What feels different now is the refusal to hide that mediation. And in that sense, florals this spring feel less like a return to tradition and predictability, and more like a critique of it, which stirs us in a different direction almost entirely.

A thin line between the thunder of traditional Yoruba percussion and the mesmerizing pulse of South Africa’s log drum, a new sound is finding its footing. Fujipiano, the unlikely marriage between Fuji music and Amapiano sounds, which feels less like a passing experiment and more like a cultural conversation unfolding on the dance floor. 

In a region where music is constantly reinventing itself, trying out every and any genre; Fujipiano happens to be the latest reminder that African sound has never been about abandoning its roots. Instead, it is reshaping tradition in a way that it speaks fluently to the present. 

Nigerian music is known for  reinvention as genres rarely disappear. Instead, they evolve, adapt and find new audiences in unexpected places. Ghanaian gave birth to Afrobeats, street-openers form the fusion of Hip-Hop, Fuji cadence and everyday Nigerian storytelling, and now, another hybrid is slowly carving out its identity; Fujipiano. 

At its simplest, Fujipiano is the fusion between Fuji music, which is a widely accepted genre within the Yorubas and the globally popular Amapiano sound that emerged from South Africa. But reducing Fujipiano to a simple genre mashup misses the deeper story behind it. What we are experiencing now is not just a sonic experimentation, but it is a cultural bridge between two generations, a negotiation between heritage and modernity and a reflection of how Nigerian youths are interpreting the sounds they inherited. 

 To understand why Fujipiano matters, one must first understand the concept of Fuji itself. The genre dates back to the late 1960s through the world of  Sir Sikiru Ayinde  Barrister of blessed memory, who was widely regarded as the father of Fuji music. Having drawn his inspiration from Islamic devotional songs performed during Ramadan, Barrister transformed traditional chants into a rhythmic, percussion-driven style that resonates across the Yoruba communities quickly. 

Fuji was more than entertainment; it was storytelling, social commentary and celebration wrapped in one aspect. In the years that followed, artists like Kind Wasiu Ayinde Marshal and Saheed Osupa expanded the genre’s influence as they started filling halls and street festivals with drums, layered percussion, and call-and-response vocals that somehow turned their audience into participants.

Fuji carried the weight of memory as it echoed through wedding celebrations, Ramadan gatherings and late-night street parties where the music felt inseparable from the community's social life. Yet for years, Fuji seemed to occupy a generational niche as younger generations gravitated towards Afrobeats, hip-hop and other globally oriented sounds, leaving Fuji to be largely associated with the older audience and traditional settings because it belonged to a world that moved at a different pace, one where music was experienced physically, collectively and often locally.

Then Amapiano arrived. Originating in South Africa in the early 2010s, it gradually transformed into one of Africa's most influential musical exports. Amapiano did not just enter in Lagos nightlife; it was absorbed into it. DJs reworked it, producers localized it, and the audience embraced it. During the time of absorption, Fujipiano was brewing quietly, less importantly but more culturally significant.
Fuji started to reappear. 

But not in its original form, rather in fragments; in vocal cadences, lyrical patterns and unmistakable rise and fall of Yoruba chants embedded in contemporary production. It surfaced in  Asake’s “Peace Be Unto You” and then his “Sunmomi”, after which it was noticed in Seyi Vibez, Fujimoto, which demonstrates that Fuji’s essence can exist within modern and  digitized soundscape without losing its identity. 

Fujipiano is the next step in that evolution. Or at least, it is trying to be. 
At its best, Fujipiano is a meeting point between two rhythmic philosophies that share a surprising comparability as both rely on repetition, build atmosphere through rhythm and create immersive listening experiences that are more about feeling than they are about sound. But comparability does not guarantee cohesion. And this is where Fujipiano reveals its promise and limitations as a genre. 

Presently, much of what is labeled as Fujipiano feels incomplete; it feels more like an aesthetic overlay than a fully realized genre. Amapiano beats feel like it carries the  Fuji’s vocals. And street-pop structure borrows Fuji inflexions. The elements coexist, but they do not always integrate. Which raises an uncomfortable but necessary question: is this evolution, or is it appropriation of form without depth? 

The distinction matters because cultural evolution requires more than proximity; it requires intention. It demands that artists do more than just reference tradition; it requires that they engage with it, understand it and reshape it in ways that preserve its essence while allowing it to grow. Without the depth, fusion risks becoming surface-level, something that looks like culture without fully carrying it, more like a caricature.

To dismiss Fujipiano entirely would be equally shortsighted. What it represents, even in its unfinished state, is still significant. It symbolizes that a generation raised in a hyper-globalized world is not entirely detached from its roots and culture. Instead, it is negotiating with them, translating and reframing them within the contexts of its own experiences.  

This is not unique to the sound, but participating artists do it with no particular intensity. Its music has always thrived on collisions of genres, influence and histories. From Afrobeat’s fusion of jazz and Yoruba rhythms to Afrobeat’s fusion of dancehall, pop and hip-hop, the country’s most defining sounds have emerged not from purity but from hybridity. 

Fujipiano fits within that lineage, but it also exposes a tension that feels distinctly contemporary, the balance between reinvention and preservation. For the older generation, Fuji represents continuity and a direct line to cultural memory. For the younger generation of listeners, it feels distant, tied to contexts and spaces that no longer define the everyday lives of people. However, Fujipiano tends to bridge the gap, but by doing so, it inevitably transforms what it touches. The question at hand now is whether that transformation deepens the culture or dilutes it. 

There is no easy answer, but it is clear that Fujipiano reflects a broader truth on modern identity as it is layered, fluid and constantly in negotiation. Today, a young artist can move seamlessly between local and global influence, between tradition and trend, between heritage and innovation. Their music must reflect complexity. Fujipiano, in this sense, is less about sound and more about self-definition. It is what happens when a generation refuses to choose where it comes from and where it is going. 

Whether it becomes a fully realized genre or it fades into the background of Migeria’s ever-evolving music scene is almost beside the point. Its existence alone reveals something essential; culture is not preserved by keeping it unchanged. Its existence alone survives by allowing it to be reimagined. But reimagination comes with responsibility. If Fujipiano is to become more than a passing moment, it is expected to move beyond experimentation and into intention. It must find a way to carry the depth of Fuji, not just its aesthetic, into new soundscapes. Until then, it remains what it has always been: Not a genre. Not a movement. Not yet. But a question, which perhaps is its most honest form. 

Because in a world where culture is constantly sampled, remixed and redistributed at speed, the real challenge is not about creating something new, it is about ensuring that in the process of reinventing, nothing essential is lost.

 IG: anuhola_

Every March, the world celebrates women. Corporations turn their logos pink/purple. Governments issue statements. Social media is filled with the language of progress -  empowerment, equality, sisterhood. And underneath all of it, a quieter and more urgent story continues: the organised, global rollback of the rights being celebrated. This piece is not about whether progress has happened. It is about why progress, every time it happens, produces a counter-movement determined to reverse it and why the African feminist tradition, more than any other, has understood this dynamic longest and fought it hardest.

The pattern begins in 1848. Women gathered at Seneca Falls to demand the vote and basic civil rights. The backlash began before the convention was over; newspaper editors attacked the Declaration of Sentiments with such vitriol that many attendees withdrew their signatures in embarrassment. The movement was one day old, and the counter-movement had already begun. Women eventually won the vote in most Western countries by the 1920s. What followed was not expansion but erosion: coalitions splintered, anti-communist politics were weaponised against Progressive women, and the social welfare gains fought for alongside suffrage were quietly dismantled. The pattern repeated so consistently through the 1980s that Susan Faludi named and documented it in her 1991 book Backlash: The Undeclared War Against Women - the systematic reaction of patriarchal structures to feminist progress, dressed up as common sense, tradition, or protection. She was writing about the 1980s. She could have been writing about now.

African feminism understood this backlash structure long before Faludi named it, because African women were navigating two systems of oppression simultaneously, patriarchy and colonialism, from the very beginning. The movement did not emerge from academic theory. It emerged from the liberation struggle. In Algeria, Mozambique, Guinea, Angola and Kenya, women fought alongside their male counterparts for state autonomy and women's rights at the same time, building a feminism rooted in the specific and the urgent rather than the abstract. Figures like Funmilayo Anikulapo-Kuti, Lilian Ngoyi and Wambui Otieno were not responding to Western feminist frameworks. They were building their own, and they were doing it under conditions of colonial violence that Western feminism has rarely had to reckon with directly. All strands of African feminism are informed not only by patriarchy but by colonisation, imperialism, heteronormativity, ethnicity, race and class, making it one of the most intersectional feminist traditions in the world. 

That tradition is alive and urgent in the present. In January 2024, Kenyan women took to the streets in the largest protest against sexual and gender-based violence in the country's history, demanding President Ruto declare femicide a national crisis. In Nigeria, the Feminist Coalition mobilised legal support, food and medical aid during the 2020 EndSARS protests, proving that when women organise, they organise for the whole of society. FemCo opened feminist conversations in a country that had long treated the word as an insult. In Ghana, the Affirmative Action (Gender Equality) Act 2024 was passed after more than a decade of activist lobbying. The African feminist movement does not wait to be included in the global conversation. It has been having it.

What is different in 2026 is not that the backlash exists. It is that it is everywhere at once, operating across vastly different political systems with the same directional logic. In Afghanistan, the Taliban has banned women from reading, speaking in public, or looking directly at men who are not their husbands or blood relatives - a system of female erasure so total that it has largely disappeared from international headlines, absorbed into the background noise of a world that has moved on. The women have not. In the United States, the overturning of Roe v. Wade removed a constitutional right held for nearly fifty years, and the political machinery that achieved it is still moving. In Iraq, a bloc of 25 female MPs tried to stop the child marriage bill from reaching a second vote. They failed. It passed in January 2025.

Backlash does not arrive randomly. It arrives when power feels threatened and reaches for the most available instrument of control, which has always been the bodies, freedoms and labour of women. Economic instability makes traditional gender roles a political argument for order. Authoritarian politics requires hierarchy by design, and women's equality is structurally incompatible with that hierarchy. And in 2026, there is a third accelerant that previous generations of feminists did not face: the digital infrastructure of regression. The manosphere has given misogyny a global distribution network. Algorithms surface anti-feminist content to men who were not looking for it. For some people on the continent, feminism has been successfully mischaracterised as anti-male, anti-culture and anti-religion - a deliberate and documented strategy of discrediting the movement by severing it from the communities it serves. In 2024, women, girls and gender diverse people bore the brunt of the polycrisis armed conflict, climate change, and economic hardship, while anti-gender movements grew bolder and better funded. 

No country in the world has yet reached full legal equality for women and girls. At the current rate of progress, it will take another 131 years. One hundred and thirty-one years. Set that number down and do not rush past it. And yet since 1995 alone, 1,531 legal reforms advancing gender equality have been enacted across 189 countries. Maternal mortality has dropped by a third. Women's representation in parliaments has more than doubled. These two sets of facts are not in contradiction. They are the same story - the story of a movement that advances under fire, that builds even while being dismantled, that has never once had the luxury of believing the work was done.

That is what the African feminist tradition has always known. Progress is not a gift. It is a negotiation that never ends, conducted under conditions that are rarely fair, by women who rarely have the institutional power of the forces they are negotiating against. The fight does not pause for celebrations. It does not recognise the calendar.

Backlash is not proof that progress is failing. It is proof that progress is threatening something. And threatened things fight back. Women's Month gives the world one month to remember that. The fight does not take the other eleven off.

IG- @ffeistyhuman
Cover Credit: Al Jazeera

Close your eyes, and it’s 2005. The air in the club is thick, and the opening harmonies of Styl-Plus’s ‘Olufunmi’ glide through the speakers. For a moment, it wasn’t just about the voice of one man. It was about the synchronized magic of three distinct voices creating harmonies that capture true love. From the R&B smoothness of Styl-Plus to the infectious energy of P-Square, the early 2000s belonged to the collective.

But walk into a studio in Lagos today, and the room is built for one act. The "tribe" has been traded for the "titan". While Afrobeats conquers the world, it is doing so with solo superstars at the centre, which normally includes Wizkid, Rema, Tems, Burna Boy, and Davido. Boy bands are no longer just rare; they are functionally extinct. This is a structural weakening of the genre’s soul, not merely a shift in style.

To understand what we have lost, we need to start from the beginning. Long before the polished R&B of the 2000s, there was The Remedies. Formed in 1997, Eedris Abdulkareem, Tony Tetuila, and Tony Montana were among the first to "Nigerianize" Hip-Hop, taking American beats and layering them with Yoruba slang.

When their hit ‘Sakomo’ dropped, it wasn't just a song; it changed things. It proved that young Nigerians didn't have to sound like American rappers to be relevant. They were the engine of Kennis Music, the label that effectively built the modern industry. But their story also provided the first blueprint for the “Band Curse”. Their success was massive, yet their split was equally monumental and messy. The moment they went solo, the industry learned that three individual paychecks were more profitable for labels than one.

Emerging from Enugu were the Plantashun Boiz, made up of 2Face (now 2Baba), Blackface, and Faze. They didn't just sing; they lived together, forging a brotherhood that felt like a family. Their success was built on tracks like ‘Knock Me Off’, which proved that Nigerian boys could deliver international-standard vocals. According to Pulse Africa, their debut album ‘Body and Soul’ released in 2000, supposedly sold over 600,000 physical copies. Their dominance earned them numerous accolades just before their split. 2Face’s rise post-split became the dangerous precedent that haunted every group thereafter, proving a solo career could lead you to be a legend.

Another band was Styl-Plus; they brought elegance to the scene. Their debut album, ‘Expressions’ was a masterclass in vocal arrangement. Their emotional love songs, especially ‘Olufunmi’, made them one of the most recognizable voices in Nigerian R&B at the time. Their music was played at weddings, parties, and on radio stations across the country. Their impact was undeniable, sweeping the Channel O Music Video Awards and multiple award nominations at The Headies. Although they didn't break up with a bang, they faded into the background as the industry moved toward solo acts.

Another band from Enugu was Bracket, with ‘Yori Yori’ in 2009; they became the face of ‘Soft Afrobeats’. Their success was validated when they won Artistes of the Year at the 2012 Headies Award and two NET Awards nominations. Their success showed that sweetness and melody could win, but they were eventually pushed to the background. While they never had a messy breakup, they struggled as the industry changed. 

P-Square was the only act that truly challenged solo dominance. Peter and Paul Okoye were a bloodline, turning music into a visual spectacle. They were the highest-paid act in Africa for a decade, winning a total of nine Headies and the MTV Africa Music Award (MAMA) for Group of the Year in 2008, 2009 and 2010. However, their public fallout was the final nail in the coffin. If even identical twins couldn't navigate the pressures of shared money and individual egos, the industry decided the collective model was simply too high-maintenance.
P-Square’s success showed that duos still had a place in Afrobeats. But it also marked one of the last moments where that band format felt central to the industry. Because after that, things began to change.
We can say one of the major reasons boy bands and duos struggle to last is creative disagreement. When more than one artist shares the same platform, they must constantly agree on important decisions. This includes the direction of their music and how they want their careers to grow. Over time, these decisions can lead to tension.

For example, problems within Plantashun Boiz eventually led to the group breaking apart. Each member later pursued a solo career. Something similar happened with P-Square. Even though they were extremely successful, disagreements between the brothers eventually led to their separation.
When these kinds of breakups happen, it reinforces the idea that working alone may be easier.

Money has also been a major factor in the decline of boy bands and duos. In a band or duo, income from concerts, endorsements, and music sales has to be shared between multiple members. As success grows, disagreements about money can become more common. In the early 2000s, physical CD sales and live bookings were the primary revenue streams. Today, the industry is fueled by Streaming Revenue, and the math simply doesn't favor boy bands. For example, on a solo track, the artist takes the entire "artist share" of a stream (roughly $0.003 to $0.005 per play). In a trio like Plantashun Boiz, that fraction of a cent is split three ways before it even reaches their personal bank accounts. This means a group has to work three times as hard to achieve the same individual "take-home" pay as a solo act.

Also, you might think this format works in K-POP, so why is it not thriving in Afrobeats? Groups like BTS or EXO are not accidents. They are built through structured systems, training, management, branding, and long-term planning.
Afrobeats doesn’t have that system.
It is more organic; although that freedom is part of its strength,  it also makes it harder to sustain groups. K-pop builds groups from the ground up. Afrobeats lets artists build themselves.
The structure of the Afrobeats industry has also changed.
Today, the industry is built around the idea of a solo star. Artists are not just musicians anymore. They are brands. Artists like Wizkid, Burna Boy, and Rema have built global careers based on their individual identities. Their music, fashion, and personality all contribute to how they are marketed.

In boy bands or duos, attention has to be shared. This makes it harder for one person to fully dominate the spotlight. As Afrobeats expanded globally, the solo artist model became easier to promote.
Interestingly, while permanent boy bands and duos have become rare, collaboration is now more common than ever.
Instead of forming long-term partnerships, artists now work together on individual songs or even short joint runs that feel like temporary duos. We are also seeing more joint moments and creative pairings that go beyond just one song. Artists link up for multiple tracks, shared sounds, or even short project runs that feel like mini partnerships. Think of the synergy between Wizkid and Asake; creatively, this partnership works because it pairs two fully realized distinct voices. A group requires a "merged identity"; the voices must blend into a singular brand. But in ‘Real’, the power lies in the friction of two separate solo artists. They aren't trying to sound like one unit; they are two kings sharing an EP for ten minutes.

These collaborations give artists the best parts of a duo or group's creative exchange without the long-term pressure that usually comes with staying together.
In today’s Afrobeats, artists don’t need to form boy bands or duos anymore. They can simply recreate that experience when they want, and walk away when they’re done.

So, if you’re waiting for the next P-Square or Styl-Plus to walk through the door, don't hold your breath. Under the current regime of Afrobeats, the "group" as we know it is a dead model. It has been replaced by collaborations that offer the variety of a group without the commitment of a marriage.

For boy bands to actually return, the industry requires more than just "new talent"; it requires a structural change. We need labels to start investing in group development and not just individuals. Fans must also move away from main character worship, where they pick a favorite and pit them against the others. Until then, the system will keep producing solo stars.
What comes next depends on whether Afrobeats is willing to build a system that allows it to happen again.
Because the truth is simple, boy bands and duos didn’t stop working. The industry stopped working for them.

IG- @justcallmetobii

The international reach of Afrobeats is undeniable. Over the last five years, the likes of Rema, Tems, and Ayra Starr have become household names, marking the ushering in of a new guard. Even with its global expansion, Afrobeats has mostly appealed to Africans and their diaspora, only slowly making its way to the Caribbean and the Western world. 
Through social media and the genre’s continued growth, its music and its artists have now reached the East, where new life has been breathed into the music, the events, and the sound - offering a surge of stardom that’s ripe for the taking. 

First coined in the 1970’s, Fela Kuti and drummer Tony Allen’s original ‘Afrobeat’ sound took highlife tunes, American jazz, funk, and traditional Yoruba music and merged them into what became a score for many protests against corruption and human rights abuse. As the years went on Kuti’s band maintained the sound as new artists created different fusions. 

Upon Kuti’s death in 1997, Afrobeats—with the s, a genre more synonymous with Nigerian Pop—  was planted in the 2000s, only sprouting and blossoming into what we now know in the 2010s. With young artists mixing original sounds with global hip hop, R&B, and dancehall in shorter, studio-produced beats, the use of digital technology brought connections around the world. It’s these same techniques that have led to expansion today, as well as the new flavours of Asian influence.

Today’s sounds, though distinct, have changed from Kuti’s smoother fusion. Kuti’s original mixes were featured in legendary Chinese rockstar Wu Bai’s 2016 album Ding Zi Hua (《钉子花》), making him the first mainstream Chinese artist to use the sounds overtly. As the pop and rap scenes have grown across the continent, Bai’s ingenuity spread to wider Asia, alongside the solidification of Asia’s own rap and hip-hop sounds.  

While the pop phenomenon is no stranger to Asia. Afrobeats, Hip-hop, and Rap symbolise a different shift in the culture's taste and, perhaps, its acceptance of outside norms. The current industries, while somewhat established, are still new to Western influence, as major record labels like Def Jam Records have begun to expand their reach globally. African labels, like Sony Music Africa (South Africa), Universal Music Africa, and other independent artists and collectives, like the Hong Kong-based AfroSeas, have made headway on the continent as well, signifying the noticeable gap. 

Like Afrobeat, much of the Rap and Hip-hop throughout Asian countries has lent itself to political commentary and national unity amongst the youth in the continent, advocating against gender inequality, corruption, and more. In the same ethos, the combination of Afrobeats unique sounds and the current identity of Asian hip-hop music play off each other - creating an understanding that’s building its home in the Asian market.  
Since 2020, Indonesia, India, the Philippines, and Thailand have seen the highest growth in Afrobeats listening, according to Spotify. 

Afrobeats Asia, a Bali-based Afrobeats and Amapiano event planner, organises and promotes weekly events across South East Asia, welcoming artists and DJs from Nigeria, South Africa, France and more. Accelerating the engagement and societal investment in the genre’s rise.

Similarly, AfroDesi is a movement centred around Amapiano, Afrobeats, and Bollywood rhythms performed by South Asian and South East Asian artists and DJ’s, on the continent and in major metropolitan cities like London - welcoming a new demographic and its sounds to the conversation. 

South Eastern and Eastern nations have also leveraged the trend bringing Chrisway, Salin in Thailand, Filipino J-Tajor, Sudanese-Japanese group Makki, and Singapore’s Yung Raja to the stage, domestically and worldwide.

And while the youth’s wish has been the industry’s command, an element of exploitation and cultural appropriation could be noted in the nature of the genre’s sudden and exponential acceptance. In a continent where racism and colourism hold deep roots, capitalising on the rise of Afrobeats should not  be misunderstood as an acceptance of its artists, culture, or core beliefs. Basic business principles, like supply and demand, have often been the core of strategic moves that appear inclusive and multicultural, while lacking any true reverence for the craft or its creators.

In another light, in Asia and abroad, social media has exposed Africa and its music to artists, events, media, and style in keeping with the global connectivity made possible through increased exposure, media networking, and rich diasporic communities in the Western world. The opportunity for representation and new narratives is the core of the movement for some, as well as the prelude to many deeper societal investigations - domestically and abroad..

Where mainstream Asian media in the West has often featured one facet of the continent’s creative, professional, or even fashion profiles, new wave artists throughout the nations  offer multilingual and multicultural, social commentary that have created ties to the original Afrobeat movement, capitalised on the current trend, and created a global symbiosis through sound. 
Just enough to, perhaps, add Asia to Afrobeats shining crown.

Cover Credit: @themesabali on Instagram

IG: clungaho

When you think of French black music? What are the first songs to come to mind? ‘Premier Gaou’? Maybe ‘Papaouti’? Surely, there must be more classics you have heard about… No, in actuality, that is a very realistic first experience for many Anglophone music listeners outside of the French world. That said, there are several noteworthy artists yet to discover, and an entire beaming world of sounds for those who dare. At the forefront? We have selected 5 key artists who we wholeheartedly believe, if not their names already ingrained, will be the bridge that transcends languages, continents and sonic landscapes.

Tayc 

Julien Franck Bouadjie Kamgang, better known to the music world as Tayc is a 29-year-old French Afropop / R&B artist of Cameroonian roots. As one of his most famous lyrics declares, “They will tell you that Tayc only talks about love,” not that it is far from the truth; however, there is more to the harmonizing singer than meets the eye. Take ‘Carry Me’ for example, and you will find that Tayc is a multilingual genius. Singles such as ‘Love Me’ and ‘Forévà’ show how truly versatile he is, ranging from topics about love, heartbreak, to loss and grief.

Dadju

It would be impossible to mention Tayc without his birthday twin–the prince of France, French-Congolese singer Dadju. They are truly two sides of the same coin, although Gims’ half-brother makes truth to his married-family man status and appears less Playboy-ish than his ‘Héritage’ collaborator. Let’s revisit one of his breakout hits, ‘Jaloux’, for example, it’s the epiphany of the good guy done wrong. Dadju doesn’t challenge himself in music; he sticks to what he knows.
And perhaps that could best explain his longevity in the game, but also, how he manages to never be dethroned.

Damso

There are a lot of words that could best describe Belgian-Congolese rapper-singer Damso, one of which is eccentric. Another would be sombre, melancholic, unafraid to speak of his deep flaws. And perhaps that is why black men from the French diaspora relate to him most; Damso exposes the ugly in man and turns it into something beautiful. Darkness never leaves him, even in his song ‘Limbisa ngai’, where he makes use of his rap lyricism to glide on an Afro-rhythmic instrumental. On the other hand, ‘Pa Pa Paw’ is a testimony of a true versatile talent, showing us his singing side, which almost acts like the other half of his personality. 

Tiakola 

Our first French cover star and French-Congolese mélo rapper, Tiakola is a name that keeps echoing to the masses as time flies. If our exclusive interview with the boy did not persuade you to add him to your rotation, we don’t know what else would. Tiakola naturally has all the elements of a star, and his charisma, coupled with his talent, makes him a natural component of the music world. Songs such as ‘Meuda’ and ‘BADMAN GANGSTA’ are an immediate click whenever they cross our playlist.

Stromae

You didn’t really think we would make up a list without the Belgian artist Stromae, did you? Despite what the recent surge of AI-generated versions of ‘Papaoutai’ may make you think, the singer-producer has one of the most solid music catalogues in the Francophone sphere of all time. Previously introduced to us as the party anthem ‘Alors en Danse’ in a distant past, Maestro is an artist of layers both lyrically and sonically. It would be very hard to pin him to a genre; Stromae pretty much does what he pleases. 

Relatable stories:
A Sonic Guide to French Music: 5 Black Female Artists You Should Be Listening To
Tiakola: No Borders, No Limits
Everything You Need to Know About the New French Music Sub-Genre Mélomane
Breaking Boundaries: Dadju and Tayc's Héritage Album: Bridging Francophone and Anglophone Markets with Diverse Genres

Tucked away in Pasadena is a retreat that feels completely disconnected from the city’s high-speed energy. Behind the gates of a massive modern estate, the Hollywood noise trades off for the stillness of a lush, green hideaway. We took full advantage of the beautiful garden location; the hidden trees and secluded corners felt like a genuine oasis. The architecture is sharp, the vibe is serene, and the atmosphere feels effortlessly tropical. This isn't just a high-end backdrop; it’s a reflection of the man himself. During the shoot, Armanii was locked in, showing a level of creative involvement that most artists find years into their careers. He moved with a quiet yet humble confidence, clearly understanding his angles and exactly what he liked. At times, he even gently guided the photographer to the specific perspectives that looked the best, never losing that grounded spirit. He genuinely loved the moodiness of the space and the touches of elegance that defined the day.

The Kingston native has already moved past the "rising star" label, backed by a massive 107 million global streams and a debut album, THE IMPACT, that’s currently shaking up the Billboard charts. He moves with a calculated calm, like someone who knows that when you’re really holding the power, you don’t have to shout to be heard.

The Evolution of the Sound

For anyone who only knows him for the high-energy grit of his early singles like "HAAD (Fiesta)" or "POUNDS," THE IMPACT is a total pivot. It’s a 15-track journey released via UnitedMasters that chooses soul over hype, mixing the heavy heartbeat of Reggae with the smooth, late-night textures of R&B. This is music as an experience something that sticks with you long after the track ends. The moodiness of the album mirrors the sleek, minimal aesthetic of our Pasadena set; there’s a balance here that keeps everything grounded.

As the legend Bob Marley once said:
"Music is the instrument of unity... The people must come together, and music is the way."
Armanii’s new sound lives in that space of unity. He’s bridging the gap between the raw, street-level stories of Kingston and the polished, global appeal of modern soul. Talking about this shift, he was real about where his head is at:

"I feel like R&B inspires my music 75% because I listen to the Summer Walkers, the Giveons, the Drakes, the SZAs... that sound gravitates towards me more. You can hear it whether it's a sample or a beat it just has that R&B feel to it."

This melodic evolution shows a level of vulnerability that’s rare. While his look leans into the high-fashion luxury of Balenciaga, Gucci, and Louis Vuitton, his core is still anchored in the honest stories of his life.

A Superpower Rooted in Reality

Armanii’s mission is all about a universal connection. He doesn't see his Jamaican heritage as just a style; it’s his core, the thing that lets him slide into any genre and still sound authentic.

"Using my roots, and then also getting a beat from somewhere like New York and having Jamaican lyrics on it is perfect... staying true to just who I am as a Jamaican is my superpower."

Even with the global wins like being named Billboard’s Rookie of the Month this February and taking home the Dancehall Impact Award at the 2025 Caribbean Music Awards Armanii stays incredibly tapped in. He speaks on the "default Jamaican story" the path from the ghetto to the global stage with a clarity that hits different. That reality is the anchor that makes his music feel like a real conversation instead of just a performance. He’s been there, he’s seen it, and he’s representing a community that sees their own potential in his wins.

Vision and Community

The title of his album, THE IMPACT, wasn't an accident. He wanted a word that held weight without needing extra hype. His vision goes way beyond the numbers; it’s about building a bridge for the next generation of Kingston artists, proving you can go global without losing your soul.

"Choosing the tracks was the hardest part... I made sure I picked something where people would go, 'Okay, wow. Okay, Armanii,' instead of just what they’re used to hearing from me. I wanted to show that versatility."

The Final Word

Watching the light fade over the trees in Pasadena, it's easy to see that Armanii isn't just playing the game he’s genuinely changing how it’s done. By mixing that raw Kingston grit with a smoother, R&B-heavy vibe, he’s created a space for everyone who wants music that actually means something. He is that essential link between the legends we grew up on and the high-fashion, high-speed future of the Caribbean sound.

With a four-city Canadian tour coming up in May 2026 and the rest of the world finally catching his drift, this moment feels less like he’s reached the top and more like he’s just getting started on shifting the culture. In an era where everything is a 15-second clip, Armanii is focused on the long game. THE IMPACT is more than a title; it’s the only way to describe the wake he’s leaving behind.
Keep an eye out the Armanii era has officially moved in.

Credits

Publication: Deeds Magazine @deedsmagazine
Talent: Armanii @armaniimusiq
Photographer/Producer: Pablo Flores Perez @shootervisualz
Lighting Director: Rudolf Bekker @rudolfbekker
1st Photo Assist: Denver Nelson @denvernelson_
Prod. Assistant: Carrington Smith @directorcarrington
Prod. Designer: Steve Ashby @steveflaneurs
Creative Director: Miguel Garcia @miguelhbz
Art Director: Victor Holt @vicknows_
Cover Design: Shalem Alone @Shalemalone
Fashion Director: Gloria Johnson @Styledbyglo_2
Stylist: Amiah Joy @amiah.joy
Styling Assistant: Micheal Washington @9.to.5
Interviewer: Debra Orols @debraorols
Marketing: Nadyahtaj @Nadyahtaj
Distribution: @unitedmasters
Location Rep: Andy Ta

Ayra Starr recently dropped a new song, ‘Where Do We Go?’, that speaks to the confusion that comes with an undefined love. Unlike her usual Afropop sound, the track is submerged with electronic undertones, a new sonic direction that hints at a new era for the pop star. Some welcomed ‘Where Do We Go?’ with anticipation for how this sonic direction would unfold in her upcoming projects; a majority were consumed with something else entirely: her outfit. The Grammy nominee dons a mini black sequined dress paired with purple tights in the visualizer and the song cover art. This style has since angered many fans, who are now not so quietly questioning the direction of her career.

This reaction has long been brewing. Ayra’s fanbase began criticizing her style since the yellow and black cape and peplum three-piece from Luar she wore for a performance in Ghana. Most reactions that followed that look were a mix of displeasure or concern, and sometimes both. As with most fandoms, Ayra’s fanbase turned their criticisms towards the person behind the change, her new stylist, Elly Karamoh.

Karamoh, who only began working with Ayra a few months ago, has so far leaned into a more opulent, high-glam direction with playful twists. Fur, structured pieces, and heavier styling choices take center stage with occasional pulls from 2010s trends; think peplums and pumps. In many ways, his interpretation of Ayra’s image feels bolder in contrast to the look Ayra had been known for.

This change has not landed well for fans. Among hundreds of comments, the most echoed has been that Ayra looks older. For an artist whose style repertoire has been placed at the center of Gen Z fashion, and curated a following from this base, fur coats and peplums, to some fans, felt prematurely aged and out of place for her image as an African pop star. 

This displeasure feels familiar. It’s the same reaction that reverberates when teen stars transition into adulthood and move away from the image that made them popular. Culturally, as Ayra is one of the newest teen-to-adult star transitions Nigeria has witnessed, the reaction may be subconscious; still, it mirrors the same patterns of scrutiny young female stars elsewhere have long faced.

Fans nonetheless express their thoughts as concern for her pop star status. Some worry she will lose her pop star appeal with this new style change, while others interpret the new look as a lack of direction.

But with the changes in Ayra’s personal life, her style choices like wearing fur feels natural. The artist recently moved to New York, and in a Substack post from December, she briefly reflected on the city’s climate and how it has influenced her mood. While she didn’t directly link this to her style, she included a photo of herself in fur. In the “Where Do We Go?” visualizer, she is also framed against skyscrapers, a setting that mirrors her current surroundings and also subtly positions her within a more American landscape.

It's unclear whether this style is simply personal or signalling a new era. One thing is certain: ‘Where Do We Go’ is sonically different, and speculations that she’s trying her hand at American pop have followed. When viewed through this lens, her recent looks make sense.

Still, fans' attachment to Ayra’s earlier image remains strong. Early visual framing of her identity through style, cover art, and music videos has set a precedent for how they read her as an artist. This type of fan attachment is often a result of great branding and building eras. Thanks to the modern pop economy, rollouts are elaborate and tease hidden meanings. Now audiences have been conditioned to read styling, hair, and overall presentation as a signal of what the music might sound or feel like. So when the visual language changes, it can create uncertainty around the music itself for some.

Within that context, the reaction to Ayra Starr’s evolving style begins to make more sense. To understand why this shift feels so jarring to fans, it helps to look at how Ayra Starr’s image was first constructed and how closely it became tied to her sound.

Ayra Starr was introduced to audiences in 2021 through her self-title EP, which wasn’t much of an era in the grand pop sense as it was an introduction phase and a testing ground. The sound was fun and fierce, and that, in conjunction with colorful graphic liner, playful makeup, and cropped shirts, positioned Ayra as the girl next door. Even without a defined era, this first introduction set her up as a girl’s pop star, and that image continued.

Much of that image was later sharpened under the direction of stylist Pat Ada Eze, whose approach to fashion was rooted in reflecting the core audience. “To truly be a star and inspire that level of adoration, you need to excite people, and one of the best ways to do that is through fashion,” she explained in an interview.

With 19 & Dangerous, the girl-next-door image was “baddified”: soft and youthful, but sharper and more self-assured. Through elements like graphic liners, cropped silhouettes, and Y2K references, Ayra sat at the intersection of trendy and alternative, becoming both reflective of and influential within her audience. Mini skirts, cropped shirts, and high boots became the Ayra look, a familiar image that audiences grew attached to. Through color, textures, or overall styling, there was always a thread of softness and youthfulness tying it all together as she experimented across different releases.

But outside of the machinery of branding and rollout strategies, Ayra’s style has never been a fixed image entirely dictated by her sound. She has said in interviews that she dresses for fun, moving between looks and refusing to be boxed into one version of herself. 

So while her previous style has become iconic, it was also distinctly tied to Nigerian youth culture, rooted in a Gen Z-coded style that shaped how audiences first understood her. There is, however, another layer to this reaction—one that doesn’t apply equally across pop

The misogyny of it all

When male artists experiment with their image, the conversation rarely extends to their music in the same way. Criticisms of male artists’ styles are rarely tied to how their music is received.

For example, Rema’s backpack, high tops, and wife-beater combo in the 'FUN' video was critiqued for looking Black-American, with some arguing saying it didn’t fit with his act as an Afrobeats artist. Despite the backlash, the criticism of his clothes barely crossed into how people perceived the music itself or whether they would listen to it.

Asake, in the last few months, has appeared with a different look almost every market day, to the point where constant transformation has become part of his identity. The office shirts and pixie cut hair, among many other looks, have at best earned him praise for his nonconformity and at worst been ridiculed, but not once was his artistry questioned. Meanwhile, each outfit change from Ayra Starr feels, to some fans, like a test of her loyalty to the image they first embraced.

Women in pop are judged more harshly for stylistic changes because their image is often treated as their primary currency, while male artists are still allowed to center their music and persona first. In other words, male artists can have style without being defined by it, while female artists are often defined by their style, whether they want to be or not. You can see this in the early conversations around Tems. 

When Tems first arrived on the scene, she played into the Billie Eilish handbook of purposefully wearing oversized shirts and baggy bottoms to avoid being objectified and taking attention from her voice. Still, her body would remain a point of discussion almost as much as her voice. And when she eventually moved away from baggy clothes to the soul singer look, that too became another talking point.
Even when they aren’t seeking attention for their image, female artists often find that their appearance becomes inseparable from the way their music is interpreted.

As Ayra steps into what may be a new era, the question becomes less about whether the image works and more about how much weight fans allow it to carry. In this age where branding is central to a pop star's image, can we judge the merit of their sound outside of the fashion style they present with it? ‘Where Do We Go’ is a chance to engage with Ayra’s art as she chooses to present it, understanding that her image functions as supplementary context or a continuation of the narratives within her music rather than the full picture itself. 

@radgalrabi

There’s a particular kind of magic that happens when Afrobeats enter a room. 

Picture a club somewhere in East London, 2019. The DJ has been playing the usual — UK drill, some R&B, and the occasional throwback. Then, without announcement, the opening notes of Burna Boy's “Ye” drop into the air. And something shifts. The crowd — Nigerian, British, second-generation everything — starts to move differently. There's a recognition that passes through the room like electricity. By the time Wizkid's “Soco” follows, it’s no longer a matter of who knows the words. Everyone moves.

That feeling of universal arrival is what Afrobeats achieved. It won hearts all over the globe musically, culturally, diplomatically and even commercially. It walked into rooms that had never made space for African sound and made itself at home. Afrobeats won, convincingly, and on its own terms, too. 
But the thing about a sound that conquers the world is that it tends to conquer the story too. 

The Coronation 

Afrobeats didn’t just break through — it reached a magnificent level of global success that is impossible to ignore. 
In 2021, Wizkid's “Essence” — a song recorded in Lagos, sung partly in Yoruba, and built on a distinctly West African beat- became a global phenomenon. It peaked at number nine on the Billboard Hot 100. It went platinum in multiple countries and made Tems a household name overnight. A year later, Burna Boy became the first African artist to headline Madison Square Garden — and sold it out. In 2023, Afrobeats became an official Grammy category. The continent not only arrived, but it also restructured the room and expanded the conversation.‍

Afrobeats won for several interconnected reasons. The African diaspora — millions of Nigerians, Ghanaians, and other Africans living across the UK, US, and Europe — created a ready-made global audience that already knew the music and carried it into new spaces. The sound itself is architecturally brilliant for export: rhythmic, danceable, and melodically accessible across language barriers. 

It doesn’t demand cultural fluency to enjoy; it invites people in through the body first. TikTok's algorithm also rewards sounds that make people move, and combining this with the influence of major label partnerships – that gave artists like Davido and Wizkid global distribution — Afrobeats success was almost inevitable. 

This is Afrobeats' genius. It is the most exportable version of African music ever produced. It is clean, danceable, streaming-ready, and culturally resonant without being culturally exclusive.
The problem is not the victory, but what the victory has come to mean. 

Somewhere between Burna Boy’s Grammy speech and Tems performing at the Super Bowl halftime show, "African music" quietly became a synonym for “Afrobeats.” It was not in every room and with every listener — but it was enough. Enough that when a Western journalist writes about African music, they mean Afrobeats. Enough that when a global playlist is labelled "African," it is overwhelmingly Afrobeats. Enough that artists making music on the same continent, in the same cities, sometimes in the same studios — but not in that particular sound — find themselves outside the frame of what counts as African music.

A continent of 54 countries, over 2,000 languages, and more distinct ethnic groups than most of the world combined, has been handed a single genre as its cultural passport. The result of this is that a lot of other very African sounds get left at the border for not being Afrobeats. 

The Sounds & Culture Left Behind

Alté:

Alté (pronounced ul-tey, reclaimed by Nigerian youth culture to mean something "alternative" or "other") emerged from Lagos in the mid-2010s as a direct response to the dominance of mainstream Afrobeats. This is not simply a music genre; it is an attitude. It is a culture built on deliberately rejecting conventional expectations. Where Afrobeats is polished and globally legible, Alté is deliberately messy, genre-fluid, and stubbornly local. It pulls from jazz, soul, psychedelia, funk, and traditional Yoruba sound. It drapes itself in thrift-store fashion, speaks in code-switched Pidgin and English, and refuses the kind of streamlined production that makes a song easy to market internationally.

Artists like Cruel Santino, Odunsi The Engine, and Lady Donli built this world almost entirely outside the mainstream industry's attention. Cruel Santino's 2019 project Mandy & The Jungle is perhaps the defining Alté document: a swirling, maximalist, deeply personal record that sounded like nothing else coming out of Lagos at the time. Not only did it receive critical acclaim, but it also did not chart globally. But that gap — between artistic achievement and commercial visibility — is precisely what Alté is.

What makes Alté significant is not just the sound. It is what the sound represents. In a country where success is often defined by how much money you make and how mainstream your taste is, Alté carves out a different definition of cool. ‘Cool’ here is rooted in self-expression, fluidity, and a rejection of the idea that African music must translate easily to be valid. The Alté community listens differently, dresses differently, thinks differently, and occupies public space differently. It is a subculture in the fullest sense — and it has been almost entirely invisible to the global gaze that has been fixed so intently on Afrobeats.

Amapiano

Amapiano is Afrobeats' closest rival for global attention, and its story reveals a different kind of erasure.
Born in the townships of South Africa — particularly in Pretoria and Johannesburg — sometime around 2012, Amapiano is built around a distinctive log drum pattern, soulful piano melodies, and a tempo that is slower and more hypnotic than Afrobeats. It is the sound of South African township life, of Sunday afternoons and late nights, of a specific joy that is inseparable from a specific geography and a specific history.

By 2022, it had gone global. Amapiano-influenced tracks were appearing on UK charts. International DJs were also incorporating its elements. The log drum — the calling card of underground South African parties — was showing up in pop productions worldwide. In 2023, Shallipopi's “Cast” brought Amapiano into Nigerian street culture, and the fusion was infectious.

But the world largely received the rhythm. It vibed with the log drum and the danceable surface. What it did not receive — or did not bother to look for — was the context. It did not receive the South African township culture that birthed Amapiano. The language, the references, and the specific social world the music was made to soundtrack. The artists who built the sound from the ground up — DJ Maphorisa, Kabza De Small, Focalistic — have found some international attention, but the genre is increasingly being reproduced by people with no relationship to its origins. It has been stripped of its meaning and retained for its marketability.

Street-Hop and Indigenous Sound 

Portable's “Zazoo Zehh” — a chaotic, profane, brilliantly unhinged record — took over Lagos in 2022 in a way that made very little sense to anyone who wasn't living inside that particular moment. The slang was hyper-local, the production was deliberately rough, and the references were invisible to anyone outside a specific Lagos street context. It was, by every measure of the global filter, unexportable. And it was a phenomenon.

This is the same tradition that runs through Fela Kuti's political Afrobeat and Olamide's early YBNL run, which built an empire on the dignity of the Lagos street voice. It runs through Seun Kuti, who still carries his father's fire, and through a generation of artists making music in indigenous languages — Yoruba, Igbo, Hausa, Twi, Zulu — for audiences who don't need a translation because they are the intended listeners.

This music is the most honest document of African everyday life that exists. It does not flatten itself for palatability or negotiate with the global filter. It asks for nothing except that the listener belongs to the world it was made for. Because of this, the world largely doesn't hear it.

African Indie

Before "Free Mind" made Tems a global name, she was making music for a smaller, more intimate audience. Soft music, searching, and deeply personal in a way that her later work, brilliant as it is, sometimes traded for scale.

That earlier mode — introspective, quiet, and unbothered by marketability — is what African indie represents. It is the Moonchild Sanellys, the Msakis, and the Asa's of the continent. Artists who make music that prioritises feeling over function, storytelling over danceability, and the interior world over the communal floor.

African indie rarely travels. Many times, it is dismissed for not "sounding African enough," — as if Africa is only allowed one emotional register, one volume setting, or one relationship to music. As if the soft, the searching, and the interior are Western inventions that Africans should leave alone. This is the invisible gatekeeping that no one names but is enforced on a global scale. 

The Global Filter 

None of this happens by accident. There is a filter, and it decides what is palatable for global consumption and what remains local.
Streaming platforms are built on engagement metrics — plays, skips, saves, shares. Afrobeats, with its rhythmic accessibility and high replayability, performs excellently by these measures. Music that is more challenging, more contextual, or more reliant on cultural fluency tends to perform worse. This is not because it is inferior, but because the algorithm was not designed with it in mind. Spotify's African playlist curators have improved significantly, but the structural logic of the platform still rewards the most immediately accessible version of any sound.

Record labels also compound this. When Western labels began signing African artists in earnest — Universal's partnership with Davido, Sony's investment in Afrobeats infrastructure — they were investing in what they already understood would translate. The pipeline that was built moved Afrobeats artists onto global stages. Artists outside that sound found that the pipeline didn't quite reach them.

The diaspora, too, plays a complicated role. African communities abroad have been the greatest ambassadors for their home cultures — but they are also, inevitably, performing those cultures for non-African audiences. In that performance, simplification sometimes happens. The most legible version of home gets amplified. The more complex, the more local, and the more untranslatable parts get set aside for a later time that never arrives.

The filter is not intentionally malicious. It is structural, and is the accumulated result of thousands of small decisions — what to sign, what to playlist, what to promote, and what to stream. Each small decision seems individually reasonable, but are collectively devastating to cultural complexity.

‍The Cultural Cost - Music is never just Music 

When Afrobeats becomes the world's primary reference point for African identity, it carries with it an implied story about who Africans are, how they live, what they feel, what they celebrate, and what they mourn. That story is not false — but it is radically incomplete.

A continent of 1.4 billion people, spread across climates ranging from Saharan desert to equatorial rainforest to Mediterranean coast, speaking more languages than any other landmass on earth, producing art across every conceivable tradition — that continent, in the global imagination, increasingly fits inside a single Spotify playlist.

The psychological cost of this falls on African artists first. When the only viable model for global recognition runs through Afrobeats, artists who make different sounds face a choice: adapt toward the dominant sound and gain access to the global machine, or stay true to their artistic identity and accept relative invisibility. This is not a free choice. It is a subtle, structural and relentless pressure.

The cultural cost falls on audiences everywhere. A world that only knows one version of Africa is a world that makes the worst decisions about Africa — in policy, in investment, in solidarity, and in simple human understanding. Culture is the software that runs our empathy. When the software only has one African reference, the empathy that runs on it is limited accordingly.
This is bigger than music. It is a question about who gets to be complex.

The Shift

But recently, there’s been progress. Though slow and uneven, it is unmistakable. Cruel Santino's Mandy & The Jungle has found a second life in international critical circles. Amapiano has forced global audiences to reckon with the fact that Africa's musical landscape has more than one address. Streaming platforms are beginning to develop more granular African playlists that distinguish between regions, sounds, and traditions. Publications like Pitchfork and The Guardian have begun covering African artists who don't fit the Afrobeats mould with more seriousness and more nuance than they did five years ago.

More importantly, a generation of young African listeners is growing up with a more sophisticated relationship to their own music. They know the difference between Alte and Afrobeats. They know Amapiano's origins. They can tell you who Msaki is and why she matters without needing a Western co-sign to validate the claim. The knowledge is being kept alive, even if the global spotlight hasn't caught up.

But the shift is fragile. Every time a Western artist samples Afrobeats and wins a Grammy, the global centre of gravity moves slightly further toward the one sound. Every time an African artist softens their edges to fit the global playlist, a little more complexity leaves the building. 
The music industry — and the audiences that sustain it — must learn to hold more than one story at a time because Africa does not sound like one thing.

Africa sounds like Cruel Santino building a psychedelic mythology in Lagos. It sounds like Amapiano's log drum echoing through a Soweto living room on a Sunday afternoon. It sounds like Portable's unhinged genius making something out of nothing on a street corner. It sounds like Msaki singing something so quiet and so true that you have to lean in to hear it. It sounds like 2,000 languages finding 2,000 different ways to say: I was here. I felt this. This is what it meant to be alive in this place, at this time.

Afrobeats is Africa's greatest introduction. But an introduction is not the full conversation. And the world — if it is serious about actually knowing this continent, and not just dancing to it — has to be willing to stay in the room long enough to hear the rest of what it has to say.
The continent is not a playlist; it is an archive. Africa is more than Afrobeats. 

Social media: Substack

‍

A Blend Between Soukous and Afrobeats World Was Born

When Nigerian Afropop singer Ayra Starr first released ‘Sability’ in 2023, it received mixed reviews. The public seemingly adored the song, with it charting no. 1 in Nigeria’s TurnTable Top 100 and no. 2 in the UK Afrobeats Singles; however, the press saw things otherwise. Ramblings of ‘a miscalculated production choice’, and a flat chorus filled social media blogs. And what could have been a moment of recognizing an African cross-genre blend between the Congolese power hold of Soukous and the newer Nigerian dominant genre of Afrobeats ended up falling short. Little did they know that Ayra Starr’s sample by legend Awilo Longomba was once renowned for its influence on the continent & beyond, respected for pushing boundaries and forever changed the soundscape of African music.

Soukous is a Congolese dancing genre that was first popularized in the 60s, deriving from Rumba. The main aspect that differentiates both sounds is that Soukous has a fast-rhythmic pace, accompanied by guitar improvisations and is often danced to ndombolo, whilst Rumba is a slow ballad and usually enchants lyrical themes of love. Historically, both genres have always gone hand in hand, where Congolese legendary artists such as Koffi Olomide, Fally Ipupa, or the late Papa Wemba and Franco Luambo would dabble back and forth between them, depending on the trajectory of the song they wanted to produce.

When Awilo Longomba released his second album, ‘Coupé Bibamba’ in 1998, it really shook things up. You see, Awilo was born into this, hailing from a musical father, Vicky Longomba, the lead vocalist and founder of the Rumba pioneering band TPOK Jazz. Some would say that music was in his blood; however, it is him revolutionizing Soukous with Electronic elements that really set him apart. The term techno-Soukous was then coined, bringing worlds together that had never been seen in the same category, let alone in the same room. The lead single that shares the title and 2023 sample made waves, encouraging the continent to dance along. The whole project was so popular that it even made noise in Europe & America through the diaspora.

It is 2023, and Thisizlondon, or London in short, is in the studio with Ayra Starr (At least that’s how we imagine it). We presume London showcased the original song to the team, and Ayra fell in love with it first listen, which prompted its immediate release. All jokes aside, ‘Sability’ was surely a brand risk, just for the mere fact of its unusual melodies, eclectic rhythms and still very evident Soukous influences. As Afrofusion is often known for wanting to try new blends, which were received pretty well by fans. That is, until critics shared their questionable point of view, and the try-out came to an end.

What ‘Sability’ showcased at the time is the lack of cultural context within foreign entities, but also in its continental limitations. This is because the lyrics that were met with perplexity are the same elements that make a Soukous song. Lyrics are simplified, often just shouting out names, or in this case, “Awilo” at the refrain, which is the name of the artist himself. This is a key attribute incorporated into Soukous music as its purpose is to make you dance, and not dwell on the meaning behind words. Surely, one could argue that Ayra’s remake wasn’t as convincing as Awilo, and a feature would have made the hook justice. However, when Burna Boy and Wizkid borrow famous Fela Kuti’s lyrics and melodies to fuse them in their sound without its initial message, why doesn’t anybody bat an eye and just dance along?

Let’s take Rema’s 2025 single ‘Kelebu’, for example, which also fell into the same fate. A song mainly heavily influenced by Ivorian Coupé-Décalé, yet failed to resonate with commentators. It’s not that the song lacked substance or didn’t serve its purpose, which was to make us dance; it is that the lack of awareness of the historical agenda behind regional sounds makes Nigerian artists’ attempt to fuse them with Afrobeats ultimately flop.