A cursory survey of the most popular love songs from the past decade reveals a troubling pattern: a diminished yearning for love, replaced by lyrics heavy on materialism and sexualised imagery.
By Abioye Damilare Samson
Love and music have always been inseparable. Throughout history, countless songs have been written about love, not only because it’s a universal feeling, but because it’s one of the most powerful emotions we experience. Human beings are governed by emotion, and the yearning to love and be loved drives much of what we do. Music translates this feeling into melodies, rhythms, and lyrics that resonate across generations.
When we trace the lineage of Nigerian Pop music, love has consistently been one of its greatest inspirations. It’s profoundly fitting that one of the genre’s most influential songs is “African Queen”—2face Idibia’s iconic love song released in 2004, which is a classic in every sense of the word. The love songs of that era carried a palpable sense of depth and vulnerability.
Consider Paul Play’s “Angel of My Life” from 1999, or P-Square’s quintessential catalogue that houses heartfelt love songs like “No One Like U” and “Ifunanya”, both released in 2007, alongside “Beautiful Onyinye” and “Forever” from their 2011 album The Invasion. Each of these tracks radiated affection and emotional investment in ways that felt personal and universal.
In the hook of “Angel Of My Life”, Paul Play croons softly: “Girl, wanna let you know you mean the world to me/ Girl, never felt the way I feel with you before/ Girl, don’t ever leave me lonely/ Without you girl, my life is incomplete/ You are the angel of my life”. The vulnerability is striking as he openly declares that his life would be incomplete without her. Similarly, P-Square’s classic “No One Like You” showers the lover with praise and admiration in a way that makes the listener yearn for the same connection. There was something magnetic about these songs, more like a certain emotional gravity that drew people in.
Yet that magnetism appears to have diminished. This is not to say that authentic love songs have ceased to exist; they do, but they no longer saturate the mainstream as they did in the 2000s. A cursory survey of the most popular love songs from the past decade reveals a troubling pattern: a diminished yearning for love, replaced by lyrics heavy on materialism and sexualised imagery.
For instance, in Rema’s 2022 global hit “Calm Down”, he delivers a romantic performance and sings about his crush despite his hesitancy to approach her. Over the harmonious rhythm of the song, Rema sings in the chorus “Baby calm down, this your body dey put my heart for lockdown”, encouraging his crush to give in to his advances with a charming boyish vocal.
But if you listen closely to the song beyond the catchy rhythm and the production brilliantly engineered by Andre Vibez, you will realise that it is actually suggestive of sexual contact in the song’s lyrics, where he sings in the first verse: “Who you come dey form for? (Mm-hm)/ Why you no wan conform? (Mm-hm)/ Then I start to feel her bum-bum, warm (mm-hm)/ But she dey gimme small-small/ I know say she sabi pass that one (mm-hm)/ But she feeling insecure”. A similar example appears in “Charm”, released in 2023, in which he sings in a derogatory manner: “Come here, wetin dey worry you?/ Bring body, make I rock am, yeah-yeah/ I know you senior me/ I get money pass your papa”.
Of all the artistes who use offensive lines in what is supposedly a love song, Kizz Daniel is perhaps the most prominent example. His discography is full of songs with sexualised and derogatory lyrics. In his 2017 track, “Yeba”, for instance, a female voice says, “Uncle, stop touching me”, followed by “Sorry, madam”, which depicts a situation of a man touching a woman inappropriately. Such lyrics are enough to raise questions about consent and the way sexual boundaries are represented in contemporary Nigerian Pop music.
Perhaps most egregious is Odumodublvck’s contribution to the 2024 reimagined version of “Olufunmi”, originally by the boy band Styl-Plus—one of Nigerian music’s most beloved love songs, and, if you will indulge me, one of the best Nigerian love songs ever made.
The original version is built on melancholic keys and heartfelt vocals, with each artiste declaring complete devotion to a girl named Olufunmi. The new version features Fireboy DML, Joeboy, and BOJ alongside Odumodublvck, and one might expect at least some declaration of love to honour the yearning spirit of the original. Odumodublvck instead spits hypermasculine rhymes that veer into gangsta pose and even suggest reproductive coercion: “Showcase her bunda, commot my rubber, secure my woman”. The casual reference to removing a condom, or stealthing, is not only deeply problematic but fundamentally at odds with the emotional sincerity the song’s legacy requires.
These examples are not outliers; they reflect a broader trend in the love-and-romance-themed catalogue of Nigerian musicians today. But to understand why this shift has occurred, we need to look beyond individual artistic choices and examine the audience these songs are made for, and what that audience now expects from love itself.
According to Spotify’s 2025 data, the average listening age in Nigeria is 25, cementing Gen Z as the primary demographic driving streaming consumption. It is this generation that has adopted a largely nonchalant attitude toward love, with terms like ‘situationship’ and ‘talking stage’ now governing how affection and intimacy are navigated.
In 2025, conversations about ‘the death of yearning’ revealed how emotional depth has become an afterthought, displaced by fleeting moments of passion and spontaneity. This shift has been accelerated by dating apps and hookup culture, which have commodified intimacy and rendered love almost disposable.
Nigerian artistes, keenly aware of what resonates with this audience, actively serve what listeners want to hear, calibrating their lyrics to reflect and amplify these values. But this is not to absolve artistes of responsibility; at the end of the day, they have a choice in what they promote.
We are also living in a society that celebrates wealth, particularly as Nigeria’s economy has struggled and worsened in recent years. Inflation has made basic necessities far more expensive, creating widespread economic pressure. This desperation has seeped into the culture, and since art often imitates life, many Nigerian artistes continue to reflect these societal realities at the expense of emotional depth. The celebration of money and success has become so central that the emotional honesty of Nigerian love songs is increasingly overshadowed by materialism.
It’s easy to say, “But there are other artistes who are writing real love songs with real messages that aren’t sexualising or trying to make it all about money”. It is true and worth acknowledging. Artistes like Kotrel, whose introspective approach to romance emphasises emotional connection over fleeting passion, and DOTTi The Deity, who crafts love songs with poetic vulnerability, represent a counter-current to the mainstream trend. Dwin The Stoic similarly offers thoughtful explorations of intimacy that prioritise depth over virality. These young, talented artistes prove that the capacity for genuine emotional expression hasn’t disappeared from Nigerian music.
But the more pressing question is: Why are these songs not as mainstream as they used to be? Why are shallow, materialistic, or problematic love songs so prevalent in the charts and emotionally deep love songs so fringe? The answer is in the intersection of industry incentives and cultural shifts. Social media algorithms incentivise virality over vulnerability. And perhaps most problematically, a generation that has been conditioned to swipe, skip, and move on has less tolerance for songs that require emotional engagement.
The loss of yearning, vulnerability, and genuine emotional depth in Nigerian Pop love songs is not unique; it is a symptom of broader cultural and economic anxiety. But if we are to reclaim the soul of our music, we must first ask ourselves what kind of love we want to celebrate, what kind of intimacy we want to build, and if we are ready to demand more from the artistes who provide the soundtrack to our lives. The answer, ultimately, is up to us.
Abioye Damilare Samson is a music journalist and culture writer focused on the African entertainment industry. His works have appeared in Afrocritik, Republic NG, NATIVE Mag, Newlines Magazine, The Nollywood Reporter, Culture Custodian, 49th Street, and more. Connect with him on Twitter and IG: @Dreyschronicle