Fela Anikulapo-Kuti built an entire genre on defiance. From the moment he fused highlife with James Brown’s funk to create Afrobeat, the music was inseparable from resistance. It was a megaphone for the disenfranchised, a weapon against tyranny, a report from the frontlines of Nigeria’s, and to a broader extent, Africa’s dysfunction. His songs, “Colonial Mentality”, “Gentleman”, and “Yellow Fever”, attacked the lingering effects of colonial rule, ridiculing Africans who adopted European ways at the expense of their own identity. But when independence came and Nigeria’s leaders proved to be no different from the colonialists they replaced, Fela turned his fury on them. In the 1970s and 80s, he waged war against military dictatorships, corporate corruption, and religious hypocrisy. The popular  “Zombie” mocked the mindless obedience of Nigerian soldiers; the derisive “Shuffering and Shmiling” exposed the complicity of organised religion in oppression; and the sardonic “I.T.T.” took direct aim at multinational exploitation and its traitorous Nigerian collaborators.

Fela’s music was a constant provocation, a challenge to power so, of course, he paid dearly for it. His Kalakuta Republic, a commune that was equal parts recording studio, political think tank, and sanctuary for dissidents, was burned to the ground by soldiers in 1977. His mother, Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti, a nationalist and women’s rights activist, was thrown from a window, and his body bore the marks of brutal beatings. But Afrobeat never softened. The music was the message, and the message was clear: Nigeria was broken, and someone had to say it.

When the oil boom years saw a surge of wealth, the music reflected this, with sounds becoming more lavish and celebratory. But the subsequent economic downturns and political instability brought about a shift, with artists using their platforms to address social issues, expressing the frustrations of the masses. In the 80s, Fela’s influence extended beyond his own discography. Sonny Okosun joined the fight with “Which Way Nigeria?” (1984), a soundtrack to existential dread.

Ras Kimono’s ”Under Pressure” (1989) lamented economic hardship, while Majek Fashek’s “Prisoner of Conscience” (1988) questioned the authorities. Even Fuji music became a vehicle for protest. Barrister, Kollington Ayinla, and Ayinde Marshall spiced their songs with sharp political commentary, using metaphor and innuendo to navigate censorship. 

The 1990s continued in this vein, though the political terrain had shifted. Military rule was at its most repressive, and musicians bore witness even as the sound began to shift. Hip-hop, reggae, and streetpop were emerging as independent forms, particularly in the slums of Lagos, where a new generation of artists was finding its voice.

The densely populated suburb of Ajegunle cropped up as a crucible for a new musical movement in the late 1990s to early 2000s. The music had a different rhythm. The Lagos slum became the breeding ground for a new sound which can, today, be categorized as the genesis of Nigerian streetpop, spun by those who lived in Nigeria’s underbelly. Nigeria’s democracy was faltering under the weight of corruption, unemployment, and social decay. So street-pop became the people’s voice. It was fresh, frank, passionate, and true to life. Artists like Daddy Showkey, a local legend, surfaced from this environment. His “Ghetto Soldier” (1999) was a rallying cry for those left behind by the system. He sang about poverty, police harassment, and survival, uniting highlife, reggae, and streetwise grit into something distinctly revolutionary but nonetheless spellbinding. African China also rose from the streets of Ajegunle to national glory with reggae and dancehall-infused “Galala” sound. His 2005 hit, “Mr. President,” was a direct address to the nation’s leaders, highlighting themes of bad governance, bribery, and corruption. African China’s affective lyrics largely found affinity from many Nigerians, mostly those who felt marginalized and unheard. These artists were the people’s mouthpiece, channeling their collective anger into music that was cathartic, but still superbly enjoyable and transformative.

During this period, hip-hop was also finding its footing. The Remedies (composed of Eedris Abdulkareem, Tony Tetuila, and Eddy Montana) helped pioneer Nigerian hip-hop, drawing heavy influences from American hip-hop to bridge the gap between Nigerian rap and the mainstream culture of hip-hop. While much of their music was feel-good party starters, there were moments of discontent. When Eedris went solo, he leaned into that anger. The famed “Jaga Jaga” (2004) captured Nigeria’s dysfunction in three simple words. The streets embraced it; the government feared it. The backlash was swift, but till date the song remains alive and kicking. Even mainstream pop stars could not ignore the state of the nation. 2Baba’s “E be Like Say” (2006) was a thinly veiled attack on corrupt politicians, while Sound Sultan’s “Motherland” (2006) mourned the exodus of young Nigerians seeking better lives abroad.

However, as the new millennium progressed, the Nigerian music industry underwent monumental transformations. The burgeoning commercialisation of the industry saw artists gravitating towards themes that guaranteed airplay and corporate endorsements. Lucrative endorsement deals and sponsorships further incentivised musicians to steer clear of controversial topics that might alienate sponsors or segments of their audience. With multimillion-dollar endorsements and global record deals on the line, artists became cautious. It was safer to sing about love, money, and success. There were still songs about struggle, but the tone was different. Instead of fighting the system, artists spoke of personal survival. Now hustle culture has almost completely replaced activism. 

Currently, the economic realities of Nigeria, with its vast inequality and limited opportunities, create a fertile ground for this kind of escapism. For the primary consumers of Nigerian music today who are digitally connected and constantly bombarded with bad news, music provides a temporary escape from the biting realities of their lives, a form of wish fulfillment, a way to vicariously experience the wealth and success that seems so out of reach.

This focus on escapism comes at a cost. The lack of social commentary in mainstream music leaves a vacuum, a silence on the issues that affect the lives of millions of Nigerians. 

Many contemporary artists who position themselves as Fela’s heirs largely avoid direct political confrontation. They wear the aesthetics and the stylistic markers of activism but without the true substance. Additionally, there is a palpable fear of political repercussions. This apprehension was evident during the #EndSARS protests against police brutality in 2020. While the movement saw significant youth participation, many artists were absent or hesitant to lend their voices. Although Burna Boy, Falz, Ajebo Hustlers and Davido released tracks memorialising the tragic events of the protests and the cruel, violent manner of governance.

Nigeria today is no less troubled than it was in the past. Music, throughout human history, has been a visceral archive of societal shifts, cultural values, and political climates; a living, breathing chronicle of the times.  Now the music has hugely become a reflection of a curated reality, a dream of wealth and success that, for many, remains just that. What kind of socioeconomic and political history will be gleaned from the current wave of Nigerian music?