Wizkid’s Morayo is a manifesto of an artist who is at ease with himself. He’s a figure whose career began in the ebullient, synthetically rich terrain of the 2010’s — a time when Afrobeats was carving out a soundscape on the cusp of major expansion. In the years since, he’s weathered stylistic experimentation, the global rise of the genre, and the tumultuous pressures of superstardom with a measured grace, moving from the drive and hunger of his early hits to the mellow, almost complacent mood and tone of his nowadays. Hence, Morayo is less a continuation of his established legacy than it is a recalibration of what that legacy means in the context of his evolving identity as an artist.

In interviews and social media rants leading up to the album, he publicly distanced himself from the label “Afrobeats,” expressing concerns over the Western appropriation and homogenization of the sound which he helped pioneer. The rejection was reasoned to be defiance against the commodification of the genre by the global mainstream as opposed to a repudiation of his own flamboyant roots. In many ways, Morayo is as much about what Wizkid doesn’t do as it is about what he does. As the genre-defining force behind Afrobeats’ global emergence, he could easily coast on the laurels of his past, cashing in on easy hooks. And while he tries very hard to derail from that, he doesn’t quite succeed at it.

Morayo, at its core, is very evidently one that bears an aching sense of loss. The album doubles as a tribute to his late mother, the titular Morayo, who has played a central role in shaping his life and career. From the album’s opener “Troubled Mind” — a Fuji-inspired tune introduced by Sir K1 De Ultimate —  to the recurring motifs that center around her influence, Morayo is steeped in grief, reverence, love. On “Pray”, he sings about the protective, watchful eyes of his mother, evoking a spiritual continuity that stretches beyond the physical realm. “I know my mama pray for me, and I know the heavens dey for me,” he croons, the weight of the words heightened by the bouncy production. The pain is never far beneath the surface, yet it’s carefully layered with the triumphs of a life well-lived, one that is more celebrated than mourned.

Wizkid has always been a master of mood and space, constructing tracks not only to evoke feeling but to provide the perfect sonic backdrop to a specific moment. Morayo, at its best, delivers on that principle. It does not deviate dramatically from the sonic signature that Wizkid recently carved out starting with Made in Lagos — and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, it’s this continued exploration of the smooth textures that are synonymous with his style that cements the album’s place within his oeuvre, while allowing his sound to naturally mature.

In terms of guest appearances, Morayo does a phenomenal job of balancing familiar faces and new voices. Wizkid has always excelled in curating collaborators that enhance his sound, and on this album, he invites a range of talents who each leave their mark. The pairing with Asake on “Bad Girls” is electric, and their synergy throbs deliciously. Tiakola’s feature on “Aprés Minuit” adds a flair that marries French lyricism with Afro-infused beats. Similarly, “Bad for You” features American R&B stunner Jazmine Sullivan. Anaïs Cardot’s feature on “Slow” adds a dreamy quality that helps create a track that feels sensual and timeless.

Tracks like “Bend” evoke classic Wizkid while others like “Piece of My Heart”, featuring Brent Faiyaz, lean heavily into alt-R&B. On “Time”, Wizkid dials things back, delivering one of the album’s more introspective cuts. For “Break Me Down” Wizkid channels his inner loverboy as he describes how his lover makes him feel. He compares her body to a “well-rolled spliff” and describes the pleasure it brings him. 

While Morayo’s passing casts a shadow on Morayo, this is not an LP heavy with grief. Wizkid’s mother, whose name loosely translates to “I have seen joy,” is present not just in the weight of the album’s subject matter, but in the very vibrance of the soundscapes. The album plays with the contrasts of joy and grief. It’s clear that Wizkid is aiming to keep her spirit alive in a way that is both tender and joyful, and Morayo stands as a bridge between his private mourning and the communal joy he continues to share through music. He very clearly demonstrates this on “Karamo” and “Kese (Dance)”, unadulterated Afrobeats reminiscent of his early music. 

If Morayo represents anything in the larger trajectory of Wizkid’s career, it’s a moment of grounding. Not necessarily a return to form, but a deeper acknowledgment of what came before and what remains — the legacy of a sound and a man. It is, above all, a reminder that great art doesn’t always need to be new. Sometimes, it’s about creating something with purpose, with heart — and that, in its own way, is what Morayo succeeds at doing. Though it’s not groundbreaking in the way that his previous albums were, neither does it push the envelope, it carries a weight and depth that are significant enough. Innovation isn’t always the goal for every artist, especially when a work like this exists to explore a singular theme: the processing of grief and the peace that comes with it.