The reality is that politically charged music today struggles for mainstream oxygen because of the notion that the industry, dominated by commercial priorities, may not reward it.
By Abioye Damilare Samson
“An artiste’s duty, as far as I’m concerned, is to reflect the times. I think that is true of painters, sculptors, poets, musicians”. These words, famously declared by the legendary singer, pianist, and civil rights activist, Nina Simone, in 1969, hold an enduring truth that has long shaped the relationship between music and society.
Across different generations and regions, popular music has often been a mirror to the realities of the people it emerges from—documenting struggles, amplifying resistance, and serving as a protest against injustice.
For Nigerian music, however, this role has never been in question. Right from Fela Kuti’s incendiary Afrobeat anthems that tore into military dictatorships to Eedris Abdulkareem’s “Jaga Jaga” in 2004, which painted an unflattering portrait of an unraveling nation, and Asa’s “Fire on the Mountain” in 2007, a melancholic warning about Nigeria’s slow march toward destruction, the country’s musicians have long been witnesses and chroniclers of its crises.
Even in the early 2000s, when Pop music was shedding the rougher edges of the past, mainstream acts like African China, Sound Sultan, and Blackface still carved out space to address issues of governance, police brutality, and economic hardship.
For all the messages of love and the swaggering motifs on Tuface’s debut album, Face 2 Face, there’s a reflection of the period it was released in—2004, a time when Nigeria was grappling with a fragile democracy, economic turbulence, and a police force that had seamlessly transitioned from enforcing military decrees to extorting everyday citizens under the guise of law enforcement.
The skit-esque track, “Police (Skit)”, on the album captures the raw essence of that era, where an exchange between an officer and a civilian unravels the everyday duplicity of the police. In a few lines, Tuface lays bare the mechanics of power and the ease with which those tasked with protecting the people instead prey on them.
His sophomore album, Grass 2 Grace, released in 2006, continued in the same vein, offering a keen observation of the times beneath its romantic overtures. On “E Be Like Say”, Tuface wields his music as both a balm and a mirror, crooning about the betrayal of politicians whose promises evaporate once they clinch power.
Over a stripped-down, Hip-Hop-inflected instrumental, he embodies the frustration of the average Nigerian, pushing past the guarded optimism of his earlier work to directly call out the forces responsible for the country’s struggles
But in today’s Afrobeats-driven landscape—where Nigerian music is a global commodity, racking up billions of streams, filling out arenas in faraway lands, infiltrating high-fashion runways, and even securing Grammy nods—the urgency that once fueled conscious music appears to have taken a backseat.
Political and socially charged songs are increasingly drowned out by a flood of music designed to entertain, uplift, and provide an escape from the very issues that once fueled some of Nigeria’s most enduring records.
The transition didn’t happen overnight. The seeds were sown in the early 2010s, as Nigerian Pop began its transformation into a sleek, internationally palatable force. The anthems of that era—Wizkid’s 2014 track, “Ojuelegba”, Davido’s 2012 hit single, “Dami Duro”, and Olamide’s 2015 song, “Shakiti Bobo”—were more concerned with personal triumphs, hedonism, and revelry than with holding power to account. It was the natural next step for an industry that had spent much of the 2000s oscillating between aspiration and outrage.
By the time Afrobeats fully announced itself on the global stage—heralded by the slow-burning ubiquity of Wizkid’s “Come Closer” featuring Drake in 2017, and the crossover appeal of Davido’s pon-pon-tinged “Fall” in the same year—the genre’s sonic and thematic priorities had crystallised.
Afrobeats then morphed from being just Nigerian Pop to a global sound, and, inevitably, its biggest players had to cater to audiences that had no vested interest in Nigeria’s political dysfunction or its enduring struggles with governance. With this shift came an emphasis on the universally digestible themes: love, luxury, enjoyment, and self-aggrandisement.
This isn’t to say that all Nigerian artistes abandoned conscious music entirely. On the Kel-P produced “Collateral Damage”, Burna Boy lays bare the greed of Nigeria’s ruling elite. “Ambassador go dey chop/ And Governor go dey chop/ And President go dey chop/ When dem say make we jump, we go jump”, he sings over a bouncy yet ominous instrumental, pointing at how those in power continue to enrich themselves while the people suffer.
“Another Story” takes a more historical approach, opening with the stark declaration, “To understand Nigeria, you need to appreciate where it came from”, before breaking down the country’s colonial past and the failures that followed. Both tracks, housed within his braggadocio-laced yet cohesive African Giant album released in 2019, show his ability to incorporate sharp social commentary into his music without losing its appeal.
When Nigeria reached a boiling point in October 2020, as the EndSARS protests surged and state violence reached its most harrowing peak at the Lekki Toll Gate massacre, Burna Boy stepped outside the margins of coded messaging with “20 10 20”, a solemn, grief-stricken tribute to the fallen and a piercing condemnation of the Nigerian government’s brutality.
But even Burna Boy, arguably the closest contemporary link to Fela’s activist spirit, has had to balance his messaging with the need to remain commercially viable. More recently, he has sought to distance himself from the activist tag, and in what felt like a pointed jab, he tweeted that he has handed over his self-proclaimed title of “African Giant” to Falz.
Falz, for his part, remains one of the few mainstream artistes steadfastly committed to chronicling Nigeria’s realities—not just through his music but also through direct activism. While the industry has, over time, shifted its gaze away from politically charged songs, Falz has positioned himself as a vocal critic of government failings, using both his platform and presence on the streets to amplify the frustrations of everyday Nigerians.
In early 2023, Falz released “Owa”, a blistering critique of Nigeria’s deteriorating conditions, featuring Tekno. Over a groovy beat produced by Chillz, Falz and Tekno lamented everything from police brutality to fuel scarcity, mass poverty, and a government that seemed entirely disconnected from the plight of the people.
Despite the fact that the song did not dominate airwaves, nor did it receive the same industry push as its feel-good counterparts. Still, Falz followed this up with “Mr Yakubu”, the song that openly criticised Nigeria’s Independent National Electoral Commission for its “inadequacies” during the 2023 elections. The track, featuring Vector, was a rare instance of direct political critique from a major Nigerian act.
The reality is that politically charged music today struggles for mainstream oxygen because of the notion that the industry, dominated by commercial priorities, may not reward it. Nigerian artistes, keenly aware of the risks that come with being outspoken, often avoid politically charged music to protect their careers, endorsements, and, perhaps most crucially, opportunities for government-sponsored gigs.
The Nigerian government remains one of the biggest patrons of entertainment, frequently booking artistes for state events, campaign rallies, and official concerts. Speaking against them comes at a cost that most mainstream artistes are unwilling to bear.
Even a star as established as Timaya faced backlash when he called for action against herdsmen destroying farms in Bayelsa, largely because he had performed at the current president’s inauguration concert in 2023.
Beyond the fear of backlash, there are structural barriers that make it difficult for socially charged music to thrive in the current Afrobeats ecosystem. The industry’s increasing dependence on streaming means that songs with infectious rhythms and easy choruses that perform well on global playlists and TikTok challenges are prioritised.
Conscious music, which is rarely designed for virality, struggles to compete with the infectious rhythms and easy choruses that dominate digital platforms. It’s telling that even in a time of economic nosedive, worsening insecurity, and viral moments of public frustration that recently saw a corps member pour out her frustrations on TikTok—sparking the viral #30DaysRantChallenge—not a single song has been released to reflect the current state of things.
And then there’s the global audience. With international labels and investors now key players in Nigerian music’s expansion, the incentive to push politically charged music is even lower. Nigeria’s biggest Pop stars, many of whom are signed to global deals, are caught in a balancing act—too much political commentary could create controversy and disrupt their ascent in markets where Nigerian struggles are, at best, a footnote.
As Afrobeats continues its global ascendancy, the absence of protest music today raises a question that cuts to the heart of Nigerian pop’s evolution: does a genre born from Fela’s Afrobeat of speaking truth to power risk losing its voice in the pursuit of global acceptance? Or has the industry simply evolved to mirror a generation that, exhausted by the unyielding failures of governance, now seeks escape rather than confrontation?
Whichever it is, the facts remain that the police still brutalise with impunity, the economy continues its downward spiral, elections still arrive with empty promises, but its most prominent artistes have chosen a different song that offers no reflection of these realities.
Abioye Damilare is a music journalist and culture writer focused on the African entertainment Industry. Reading new publications and listening to music are two of his favourite pastimes when he is not writing. Connect with him on Twitter and IG: @Dreyschronicle