BNXN is in charge, and he wants you to know it. Still In Charge is him saying it out loud.
It is a long way from the kid who used to beg strangers on Twitter for airtime. When those old posts resurfaced and the mockery followed, his reply, since deleted, was that the same telecom company had since signed him. He even started under another name. Buju became BNXN to avoid brand confusion with the veteran Jamaican reggae artist Buju Banton. Thankfully, he was already relatively known, and since then he has put every foot forward in the right direction, building BNXN into the brand it is today.
Back on “Sorry I’m Late,” Daniel Benson sang that “he had never stopped in his life and had no reason to stop now.” His run of projects has been him making good on that line. “Sincerely, Benson” introduced the man behind the name. “Captain” put him in the driver’s seat. “The Game Needs Us”, with Sarz, told the industry it needed him. “Still In Charge” confirms he never left the seat: six songs in about 16 minutes.
He is not subtle about where he thinks he stands. Before release he posted a Pablo Escobar meme from Narcos with six faces on it: his own, Asake, Davido, Wizkid, Burna Boy and Rema. In a listening session he explained that those are the names he considers the top of the industry. Eja Meja puts the second face next to his. It is their first record together, and in a year where Asake has been on a feature run, the linkup lands less as a surprise than a confirmation. Blaisebeatz keeps the drums heavy enough that neither man sounds like a guest.
Online takes the viral line about not being online and turns a quiet stretch into evidence of work. 16 is the spine. It goes back to hustling at sixteen, with WalahiSteph, a university mate, on production, which says something about who has been in his corner since before the money. Deliberate Work opens as swagger, then turns on someone from his business past he says took from him. He never names them, and neither will I. Braggadocio with a bill attached is where “in charge” gets earned, because control means more from a man who has lost some.
Shamaya is the one pure love song. FOLA’s chemistry with BNXN was already proven on the Alone remix and Very Soon, and with sbthaproducer pulling the drums back, FOLA’s cadence is what you hear first. If You Like, produced by Semzi, closes carefree.
BNXN told listeners this started as a deluxe for Captain before he scrapped it. Right call. A deluxe would have been a footnote. As an EP it plays closer to The Game Needs Us, tight enough that nothing needs defending.
My reservation is the online complaint that he reuses the same flows. I do not fully buy it, but I see where it comes from. On a project this short, every hook has to justify its place, and for a man claiming charge, the sound should bend more than it does. Finding new pockets is what presiding looks like, and that is the gap between a very good EP and a great one.
A kid who once begged for airtime now decides when his music arrives and what it says. Still In Charge is that sentence, six songs long.
“If there’s one ailment that everybody, at least in this part of the world, cannot but catch one day, it is malaria. So I was just trying to express that helpless feeling of being caught in that circle of that thing you may have sworn never to fall into. So it was just me being lyrical or poetic, even of a true feeling or my reality at the time the song was written, cos yeah it is my real experience that I feel a good number of others can relate to.”— Ayo Maff
That feeling sits at the centre of his new single, and it’s why I wanted to sit with him after its release. Nigerian songwriter, singer, and vocalist Ayo Maff, born Ayorinde Mafoluku Ayodele, is a dancehall, Afrobeat, and Afropop artist. His latest single, “Malaria,” features Zinoleesky. We spoke about how it came together. I came to the conversation to find out his process as an artist, his storytelling, and his plans, and I got all of it at once. But hearing someone’s journey and experience from the person themselves is different from listening to it through the music.
Ayo Maff has a gift for making plain feeling sound clever, and he knows it.
“I have always been very good with wording my lyrics in ways that come off as interesting when all I am doing is merely being expressive,” he says.
I asked whether the metaphor began as a joke. His answer, the one that opens this piece, says it didn’t. It was a true feeling, his reality at the time he wrote the song.
From there, the conversation drifted to the other voice on the record. Ayo Maff and Zinoleesky both come out of street-pop, yet they sound nothing alike, and I wanted to know what each of them carried into the room. I asked him:
You and Zinoleesky both come from street-pop but sound very different. What did each of you bring to the record, and how did the session actually go?
He answered:
“With respect to what we both bring, I think the song already showcases it. Our difference in sound is because of our individual authenticity and style, and it is always a beautiful thing when such diversity does not hinder creativity. Actually, it was that diversity that I feel brought out the greatness of that record. And with regards to how the session went, big shout out to my big bro Kizz Daniel, cos I was at a session with him and Zinoleesky when I played him the song, and he suggested that Zinoleesky will be a great fit for the song, coincidentally, I had always also thought so, so he was there, we just made it happen.
There’s a quiet backdrop here, too. Zinoleesky left Marlian Music in April and started his own label, Zinodict Music, and days after “Malaria,” he announced Waziyung as its first signing. For Zino, this is one of his first major features as an independent executive. Neither of them raised that with me, but it sits just behind the record, two artists sharing a chorus while each is, in his own way, building something new. Humour runs through Ayo Maff’s songwriting, and “Malaria” is funny right up until the moment it isn’t. The joke turns, and what’s underneath is exposed. I wanted to know whether he steers that, or whether it steers him. So I asked:
Humour is a big part of your songwriting, but “Malaria” is also vulnerable. How do you decide when to be playful and when to be open?
He said:
“With this music thing, you don’t exactly decide; the music leads you where it wants to take you. I make music at times, not really knowing what I want to make from the instance, but as the making progresses, we arrive somewhere, and it becomes clear where the music has taken us. So it depends on the vibe when making the music, what matters is being authentic and following the spirit at the time you make the music.”
I am a street boy, that one thing that can never change about me.
That answer made me curious about the raw material. If the music leads, then where does the language come from? Ayo Maff writes in the voice of the street, in Yoruba and Pidgin and everyday speech, and I asked what makes the cut and what he keeps out: Street language and everyday experiences shape your writing. Which slang phrases or moments from real life end up in your songs, and what do you avoid?
He didn’t offer a formula:
“Like I mentioned earlier, with music you don’t decide; it just happens. It mostly depends on the mood and vibe one is in at the time actually. I am a street boy, that one thing that can never change about me. So it will always show in my music in some way, be it in lyrics or delivery or other ways, and I always say that I write about things I’ve been through and experienced, I no fit talk about things when I no know. But how I get to pick and choose, I doubt there’s a formula to that, it just comes as it comes.”
That honesty has run through his work since Bariga, the Lagos neighbourhood he comes from, where early records like “Jama Jama” turned daily struggle into song and carried a quiet fear that success might pull him away from home. “Malaria” is lighter in tone, but it follows the same rule. He writes what he knows. It also made me want to ask how far that road has taken him. Ayo Maff is a different artist now than he was when he made Prince of the Street, in profile and in reach, so I asked what had shifted underneath:
Since Prince of the Street, how have you changed as a storyteller and as an artist, both in sound and in the way you build a project?
He pushed back on the word “changed”:
“I wouldn’t say change, I doubt I’ve changed. Grown though, yes, that has happened exponentially. I always say that I’ve never recorded as much and as intentionally as I have since my last album, and in the build-up to my next album. I would always be a storyteller, na just so we be from where I come, and I see my music as an outlet to say how I feel or talk about my experiences in ways that people who have been through what I’ve been through can relate and maybe it can also help them release those feelings and emotions as I do when I make my music.”
A song like “Malaria” never reaches people as sound alone. It arrives with a look, a mood, a world built around it, and I was curious about the people behind that world. Ayo Maff talks about growth as something he’s done alongside others, so I asked who stands next to him when a release takes shape:
Creatively, what does the world around “Malaria” look like, from the visuals to the rollout, and who shapes that direction with you?
He started with gratitude:
“Gratefully, I have a team that is perfectly in sync with me with regard to how to visually portray my music. We have for a while understood each other and know what the visual representation of my releases are, I feel that if you follow me, you’d reckon that there’s been consistency with how I go about my visuals. So with that level of understanding, we always collaborate to trade ideas and create visual concepts that depict the idea of the record in a way that fits well with how I like it. So yeah, we always find ways to work with the right photographer or videographer to achieve the ideas we put out or set out to achieve. So the world around it is me and my team steadily putting in work.”
By the end, the talk turned to the thing every listener wants to know: where he goes from here. With “Malaria” out and the conversation around it growing, I asked him straight: What’s next: is there a project or EP on the way, and what should we expect from it? Any tour plans, and which countries or regions do you want to tap into, and why now?
He kept the details close:
“What’s next? A lot, I promise you, there is a lot, but I would rather you sit and watch the space as it all unfolds. With regards to a project, it is no secret that my album “HIGHSTAR” is on the way, it will be my second studio album, and it drops soon. Tours, what region or countries… just stay tuned, they will all be rolling out soon and in due time, I promise. Why now? Why not now? HIGHSTAR is coming, so it all has to start happening now so that everyone will get the full experience of what HIGHSTAR is all about.”
Then I asked who would be on the project, and who he’d most like to work with:
Who would you most like to work with on the next project, whether artists, producers, or creatives outside music, and what would you want to create together?
“I will need a long sheet of paper to make this list cos there are so many people I would love to work with, so it will be quite a lot to start to list them. But the good thing is that I have some of them on my upcoming album, so soon enough you’d get to know them, and for those who won’t be there, in due time too, God willing, I will work with them and you’d know those ones as well.”
I left the conversation with one thought: Ayo Maff isn’t selling a persona or a polished origin story. He’s a young man from Bariga who still writes about what he’s lived, credits the people beside him, and treats growth as something earned slowly. The story behind “Malaria,” and his voice alone, tell you this is an artist who cares about the message. That’s what to expect from his second album, HIGHSTAR, dropping soon, especially with the new names and collaborations he’s adding to the list. It’s one to watch out for.
Street hop is not a genre that announced itself with a manifesto. It arrived the way most things worth paying attention to do: quietly, from the corners where two worlds overlap. In this case, the overlap between UK road energy and Nigerian street pop. Between growing up on drill in the endz and going home to Olamide on the speaker. Between holding a Lagos accent in your chest and code-switching the moment you step outside.
A generation of UK-based Nigerian artists did not have to choose between those two identities. They made music from the middle of them, and the result is one of the most interesting sounds coming out of the UK right now. These five artists are the frontiers.
1. Ay Lemi
Born Odunayo Ezekiel Olalemi, Ay Lemi is the kind of artist whose origin story explains everything about his sound. He started playing drums and guitar at three in his local church choir. His influences run from gospel icon Tope Alabi to Olamide and Wizkid, which sounds like an unusual combination until you hear what he does with it. The warmth of the church and the directness of the street coexist in his music without either cancelling the other out.
Loader, his debut single released in February 2025, announced him immediately. Happy Day followed in May, opening with infectious Yoruba lyrics before dropping into a hook built for both a Lagos street corner and a UK festival stage. Over two million streams on spotify. A Billboard Afrobeats chart entry before most people knew his name. Happy Day alone sparked over 4,000 videos across TikTok and Reels.
Ay Lemi leads this list not just because of the numbers but because of what the numbers reflect. He sounds fully formed, like someone who spent years preparing for exactly this moment without knowing it was coming. The church trained his ear. The streets gave him his subject matter. Street hop gave him somewhere to put both.
The name alone signals intent. Kelz Shakur is not hiding his influences or his ambitions. The Tupac reference is deliberate, a statement that street hop, in his hands, carries something more than flex and energy. He performed live in London in August 2025 and his 2025 single Destiny gives you a direct line into where his head is at. This is an artist who understands that the streets are not just an aesthetic, they are a context that demands to be interrogated, not just celebrated. His music sits in the part of street hop where bars are doing real work, where growing up Nigerian and British in the UK is not a background detail but the whole argument.
If Ay Lemi is the energy, Lil Dipz is the vibe. His 2025 single Bestie went viral on YouTube and gave the clearest picture yet of what he brings to this sound. He built the instrumental foundation himself, starting from a melody he found on a virtual instrument called SKY KEYS, then layered bass, drums, and lyrics over it until it became something that moved. That self-sufficiency tells you something about how seriously he takes the craft.
His dual nomination at the RBE Awards 2025 for both Best Afrobeats Act and Best R&B Act confirms what the music suggests. He moves between melodic R&B and Afrobeats cadences without sounding like he is compromising either, which is the exact quality that makes street hop compelling when it is done right. Hard and soft in the same breath. Built for a party and capable of making someone feel understood in a quiet moment.
Foyin is the storyteller of this group. Where others in the street hop space lead with energy or statement, Foyin leads with narrative, the kind of music that rewards attention and reveals more on every listen. He captures the tension of navigating a dual identity without smoothing it over, which is exactly what makes it feel true. In a movement that can sometimes skim the surface, Foyin digs deep, armed with one key weapon: his flow, and his ability to ride it while telling his story in Yoruba.
Every movement needs its underground voice. The artist who keeps the roots honest when everything else starts to polish up and reach for playlists. Deezer Boy is that for street hop. Less concerned with crossover moments than with documenting where he is from and what it actually sounds like there. His music carries the kind of rawness that only comes from someone who is not performing the streets but reporting from them.
Together, these five show that street hop is not one sound but a spectrum. From Ay Lemi’s energy to Deezer Boy’s underground authenticity, from Kelz Shakur’s conscious weight to Lil Dipz’s melodic crossover and Foyin’s storytelling depth, what connects them is not a shared producer or a shared aesthetic. It is a shared identity: UK-raised, Nigerian-rooted, and making music from the space in between.
That space is where the next decade of this sound is being built.
Created with RNI Films app. Profile ‘Agfa Optima 200 v.3’
Over a Google Meet call slated for an hour, the leader of the Outlaws joins us at exactly 1:30 p.m. sharp, sounding remarkably relaxed. There is no sense of ceremony to it. No stiff introductions or carefully rehearsed answers. Within minutes, what was meant to be an interview begins to feel more like a conversation between people catching up.
And, gracefully, we let it.
By the time we really get into it, Victony has already settled into the room.
Starlife has been out for a few days now, which means the wait is finally over. The songs are no longer just his. They’re being played in cars, at parties, through headphones, onstage and, inevitably, debated across charts and timelines. After months of anticipation, the album has left the safety of his hands and entered the world.
So, naturally, we start there.
How is he feeling? He laughs, thinks for a moment, and the conversation begins to open up. Soon, we’re talking about the album, but also everything that came before it: Outlaw, Stubborn, Very Stubborn, the accident that became an indelible part of his story, the people who helped shape this new chapter, and the freedom he seems to be finding in it.
For our first Loook Issue, powered by LSTVWW, London, Victony sat with us to talk through that evolution, what it took to get here, and what it feels like to finally enjoy the life he spent years fighting for.
He has spent his whole career chasing one thing, and he’ll tell you himself if you ask him plainly enough. Not excellence, not a lane, not even a sound. Freedom. From Outlaw’s early defiance through the open wounds of Stubborn and Very Stubborn, each era has been another version of that pursuit, a young artist finding new and increasingly honest ways to express himself.
Starlife feels different. The fighting has quietened a little. The trauma isn’t gone, but it no longer has to take centre stage. Instead, Victony is choosing to look around, take in the view and enjoy the life he spent years fighting to reach.
Maybe that’s the easiest place to begin: not with where he is now, but with everything it took to get here. Because Starlife doesn’t exist in isolation. It carries traces of every version of Victony that came before it, even as he seems increasingly comfortable leaving some of them behind.
Starlife is out now, but I want to rewind a little. When you look at the journey from Outlaw to Stubborn, Very Stubborn and now STARLIFE, what has that transition actually felt like for you
It’s me just growing right as a person, learning and learning, and I feel like there’s been so much real life reflection in the music, right from Stubborn to Very Stubborn, and to star life, it kind of just shows you where my head space is at, but overall it’s just been me, it just felt like growth, to be honest, through this different process, so yeah.
Starlife feels very different in spirit. There’s a looseness to it, almost like you’re allowing yourself to enjoy the view a little more. Was that something you consciously felt while making it, or did you only recognise it when the album was finished?
Yeah, I think it came from the song, Starlife.
You know, when we made the song Starlife, it somehow just happened to be, like, the core of everything that I was making, you know, very unintentional. But long story short, we wanted to do an EP first, and we decided to call the EP Starlife, I don’t know why to be honest. I guess it just connected and resonated with us at the time, the way the song was and with a couple songs at the time, you could feel all the elements of other songs in Starlife, so it just became the core of everything we were trying to build and then we transitioned into a mixtape it was still going to be called Starlife and finally transitioned into an album, it didn’t change the name.
Seems like you made Starlife before Slick and Fresh was that the case?
Yes, Slick was the last song we made and that’s what made me decide, you know what, let me turn this into an album. Because to be honest, till June, July, it was supposed to be a mixtape.
I feel like you could still get that mixtape energy from the rollout and how quick we went to put out the album.
I decided to turn it into an album because I wanted people to take the music very serious, because time and effort had gone into production, writing and making sure, like, everything sounds good. And I felt like, yeah, this is above mixtape, feels like an album, but everything else around the energy surrounding the release of this project has been very, very mixtape, I won’t lie.
How long did it take you to get the full album, the 15th track?
I’d say about 7 months, yeah.
That took a while. Interesting.
If you zoom out and look at the journey, there’s a pretty striking progression: Outlaw, Stubborn, Very Stubborn, and now STARLIFE. Each title feels like it captures a different version of you. When you look back at those eras, what do you see?
I mean the goal has always been the same, I felt like all I have always wanted for myself in this life is to be really free, and so every version of myself that I look at is just me making an attempt to be free, it’s just been in that chase for freedom.
So, when you look at Stubborn, it’s like the same thing, and the process for putting out Stubborn is very, very similar to STARLIFE, actually. It started up the same way. It was meant to be an EP and then it turned into an album.
It’s just like, I don’t care, these are the best songs that I have, I’m going to put them together and put out an album regardless of what is expected.
[He pauses for a moment.]
So, to be honest, I just see different versions of myself that just really wanted to be free.
But, obviously, in these three eras of my career, I’ve been in different situations. I’ve fought different battles, I’ve survived different things and I’ve been in different headspace, but it’s still the same kid, just growing, it couldn’t have been any different, based on the people in my life and then the car accident that I dealt with, I mean it’s just me, it’s just freedom, you know.
Yeah I mean, anyone that pays attention will see the artistic journey and I think yours is very evident.
You mentioned Slick, was the last song you made on the album. While making, did you think it was going to be this massive?
No, no, no. I didn’t, to be honest. I mean, I knew it was a good song, right from making it, I remember I was so excited.
I had doubts, just little doubts.
I mean, Slick, Slick, the way the chorus was repetitive, I didn’t know if Nigerians were going to fuck with it. It was just very new. Even when I sent it to my Manager at the time, he was already fed up, because I would do this every week where I’d send new songs.
And it’s like, oh, we have to figure out the thing again. And that’s why we kept moving, like, from EP to mixtape to album.
So when I sent him Slick, It just felt like too much at the time, for him to process. And I was like, you know, let me just actually chill on this record a little bit. So I think I was planning the shoot for “who this”, and then I played some songs for my videographer and he’s like, “yeah, this is the one, these songs are crazy, it just really puts you, like, in your own lane.”
And once I heard that, it sparked something in me again. Because that’s really what I wanted to do with this project. To show people what, Victony is capable of and do things, only Victony can do. So once I heard that, I started, like, getting into that zone again.
I just started playing the record again. I fell in love with it again and I became excited. I say this to say that I didn’t really have the chance to think about what it was going to do.
It was just that battle of, oh, am I going to put this out? Am I not going to put this out? Just based on everything that was going on at the time. Until I got to a place where I was excited enough to think about the visual, shoot and just put it out, that’s where it stops, but enough in terms of what is it going to do or not, to be honest I didn’t know, I just liked it.
You just said “ you want people to know what Victony is capable of” and I came across a video of you recently rapping, you used to be a rapper, also found out that you drew the cover art for outlaw, that just shows that there’s a lot to the name Victony, are we going to see a Victony rap song?
I think I know the video you’re talking about.I was cringing at that video.
[Laughs]
No, I doubt, I doubt I’m ever going to be rapping again. I think I found what I’m good at and I’ll just stick to it. But, I mean, you can always just hear, like, the hip-hop influence in my music, one way or the other.
Like on Starlife, even with the intro song, you hear some, some rap influences, same thing with Slick, right on the hook, and same thing with, Typo and 2Fresh.
So, I think with Starlife, I try to just show that side of me, which I’m always going to do, in my music, even though I’m a singer, but you’ll be able to tell with, like, certain cadences or, just rhythm or my flow choice or what not, that it is slightly different from, a regular Afrobeat artists.
So, but in terms of, like, rapping, rapping for real, I don’t know. I’m not sure.
[We both laugh]
STUBBORN, had international footprints with features with Teezo Touchdown & SAINt JHN. On STARLIFE you came back home why was it important for you to feature more Nigerian artists on this?
To be honest, I think it was from me trying to just do this quickly. Because Starlife is a very short phase. It’s not something that I wanted to overemphasize. And that meant doing music with the people that I have genuine relationships with. I got the verses from everybody, really quick. I also knew, these guys would really kill this. I could hear them in that soundscape.
I also wanted it to be genuine, because I wasn’t going to text anybody or wait for my label to reach out to anybody. Personally, I didn’t care about that in this process. I just believed in the music so much. And I wanted people that I could talk to and people that I can get real time feedback from.
And that’s what, really, really empowered that decision to just bring it home. It’s just wanting to be really authentic.
Like I said, Starlife is me, really, really, stepping into myself and doing the things that really makes me happy as a person, and the things that I have easy access to that make me happy.
And that’s the thing about my relationship with Baby Boy AV. That’s somebody I spend time with every day, same thing with YKB, YKB will come to my house and stay for a week or something. I go to Blaqbonez’ house every other day, and then, if I want something from Bnxn, he’s one text away.
I had, multiple sessions with Young Jonn at the start of the year. So, these were verses that I could just stretch out my hands to get, and I knew, they would also put in effort because of their level of respect from me.
But it wasn’t an intentional thing for it to be, like, oh, just only Nigerian features. It just worked out that way because of where I was and how I was just thinking about the process.
This sounds like Starlife is more like a family thing.
Exactly
Hmmm…What does the era Starlife really mean to Victony currently?
“Starlife” is me talking about the life I’m living right now, but at the same time, it’s also me manifesting the life that I desire. It’s still me fighting for myself, in a sense. Like, in this life, I’m going to be happy. I’m going to get all the good things in life. In contrast to my previous project, Stubborn. It was really personal, and that was also a step in that direction of wanting the best for myself, wanting to step in a very, very positive direction, wanting to step into the light.
And with Very Stubborn, it was trauma dumping on those records, like, being very open and vulnerable to the fans. And just releasing everything that I’ve held in for so long.
Starlife is a very different project from that, but it’s still a step in that direction. It’s, like, I’m not going to focus on the negative side of my life now, even if I still battle with those things, every now and then. Starlife is still a fight for my life, to be honest, but in a very, very different direction, it’s me saying, I’m going to step into my happy place.
This year, I have recorded over a hundred songs, to be honest, all just talking about the same thing, and if I put out a hundred of them, it wouldn’t sound any different from what is on Starlife.
And that’s how much energy I put into it, just making sure, like, I’m focused on the positive things, I’m not talking about anything negative.
This era is less about excellence or trying to prove, being the best artist or what, or trying to have the album of the year.
But it’s really about what I want for myself and that’s why I made these records, just to have fun with my friends, with my fans. You know, I made these records for my shows also.
Interesting….Your relationship with Ozedikus seems to have become a big part of the Starlife story. You both have worked on a series of songs about 13 or more? You made “FRE$H,” then “SLICK,”. What do you remember about making these two records? And at the time, did you have any idea you were sitting on something that would become this big?
Actually, I didn’t. This year, making music, One thing I wanted was to allow the music lead, and that’s why I hit up so many producers at the start of the year. I didn’t have a particular direction, I was just making music out of curiosity, I let myself just be in those sessions. I really wanted to tap into different people’s worlds. And with Ozedikus that was the case, I hit him up and I’m like, “bro, let’s have a session”, and to be honest, I didn’t even know what to expect.
Like, my friend at the time, he was just helping me, reminding me of producers in the game. He’s like, oh, you should work with this person, you should work with this person. So at the time, he was like, okay, let’s work with Ozedikus now.
Then I hit him up and, you know, Fresh was the first beat I heard when I went to the studio that day. And yeah, we made the song, we made three songs that night.
I just tried to do a session with him every week. Because, one thing I also wanted to do was to be musically sound.I have as many songs with Ozedikus as I have with PPrime, & Rage.
I know I have at least ten songs with almost every producer that I’ve worked with this year. So music to me was, similar to ,attending the gym, but, I mean, as much as it was I had to keep recording.
I also have something special with Ozedikus, with the way he records me, the way he works my vocal stack. He could immediately see the idea or see the end, from the beginning during sessions, and I think that’s what stood out, with Ozedikus. That’s what happened with Fresh, and that’s what gave me the confidence to keep working on more unique ideas with him. Because he knows how to get it done, and just start tailoring it to what you have in mind.
So with Slick, it was unique, because he sent me a different beat and went to the studio, we tore it down, I did the reference, and had the girls come in and another day, we did the second verse.
I mean, Slick is one song that, you know, we took time to produce, and that’s so funny because the song is very short compared to the time we used to produce it.
Quickly, I want to take a step back and appreciate the team behind STARLIFE, from the management team to the creative team (the stylist to the photographers etc), & producers and everyone that worked hard to portray this version of you.
Ten years from now, when people talk about Victony, what do you hope they remember beyond the songs?
I want them to remember me for my authenticity, I want them to be inspired by how much of myself I was. I want them to look at me and not care about what people think about them.
[A brief pause. We sit with that for a moment before circling back to Starlife.]
Back to Starlife, you made mention that Starlife is a short phase. What should we expect from Victony after Starlife?
I mean, it’s just going to be growth still. I feel like I’m learning faster and I’m growing faster and that’s why I’m quick to realize what I want for myself. I think you should expect a more matured version of me, a grown version. And that’s what you’re always going to keep getting.
QUICKFIRE QUESTIONS
Lagos or London?
Lagos.
Starlife Album Art or Stubborn Album Art?
Starlife Album Art.
I hope you ain’t picking STARLIFE because it’s out
No, no, no, no.
I feel like the album art is the deepest part of the whole thing. In it you see me as a kid with accessories like that, the big chain and the big hats, something that’s meant for, an adult. It just passes a message, what I carry inside me is bigger than I am. So, to me, like, every time I look at that cover, it reminds me of something deep.
Rapping or Singing?
Singing.
Morning or Night?
It depends, though. Okay, let’s just go with morning, because of how I’m feeling today.
Naija Babes or Yankee Babes?
Naija Babes oo
Gamer or Movie Fan?
Movie.
Movies or Football?
I don’t watch football.
You don’t watch football?
[Smiles]
No, I don’t.
Oh, gosh! Outlaws need to know this one.
[we both laugh]
What’s your favorite country to stay asides Nigeria.
U.S
Is the album going on the road? Are you going on tour?
Definitely, definitely, definitely. Next year.
Would Africa be experiencing it? Because there’s a rise in more artists coming home to do more shows in Africa with their album.
Yeah, of course. Benin, Lagos, Abuja, Ghana, Possibly Uganda, Kenya.
Six tracks, and not one of them sounds like an artist still processing pain out loud. This is Sherif comfortable enough to talk about ease, love, and ….
Blacko opens like a man who has made peace with his own weight. More confident, steadier in the pocket, and maybe that peace comes loaded with a run that has been building quietly, a feature on Davido’s “Amazing Grace,” then “Cry” with Llona, both moments where he showed up in someone else’s world and still left fingerprints behind. Sun Sherif Vol. 1 feels like where that momentum lands. Six tracks, one title that tells you everything before you press play. Not hiding from the light this time. Stepping into it.
Espresso opens things on admission rather than apology. Sometimes he spends more than he makes just to feel something these days, he says, and it is the kind of line the old Sherif might have buried under guilt. Here it just sits there, honest, unbothered by its own honesty, the grind and the loneliness that comes with it laid out plainly.
Run Around slows the pace down, piano leading the way into something more guarded emotionally. This is Sherif working through the walls he puts up in romance rather than the walls he puts up against the world, a quieter kind of vulnerable.
Forever with AratheJay picks the energy back up, dynamic and rewarding, a man enjoying the fruits of the work rather than questioning it. It also marks the first time Sherif has brought a Ghanaian artist onto one of his own projects, after years of either going solo or leaning on Nigerian collaborators, a small but deliberate widening of his circle.
Jolie is the early favorite on this first listen. Calm, introspective, the sound of someone genuinely settled rather than performing settlement. It carries the project’s emotional center without straining for it. Frontline is where he reaches back into his Nigerian bag, a subtle Lagos reference and a sharp “omo iya mi” dropped into the track. Fierce, assertive, proof the calm has not softened the edge.
Love Again closes with Full Blown, the Trinidadian duo bringing funky, melodic instrumentation that gives the record a different texture from everything before it, warm and slightly island-leaning, the perfect backdrop for a song about finally letting acceptance in. Shoutout to Full Blown, they understood the assignment.
Six tracks, and not one of them sounds like an artist still processing pain out loud. This is Sherif comfortable enough to talk about ease, love, and what fame has actually cost and given him. He is not just surviving anymore. He is glowing, and for the first time in a while, he knows it.
On his new seven track EP titled “For A Good Time”, the British Nigerian star trades introspection for a passport, calls in Jorja Smith. There’s only one feature on Odeal’s new EP, and it says something that he chose Jorja Smith. Not a rapper for a bounce record, not a hype name for a headline Jorja Smith, whose whole career has been built on restraint, on knowing exactly when to hold a note back. For A Good Time looks, on paper, like an artist letting loose. Underneath, it’s still Odeal being careful about who he lets into the room.
The seven track project arrives as a clear pivot for the British Nigerian singer, songwriter and producer. His last two EPs The Summer That Saved Me and The Fall That Saved Us, both released in 2025 were set inside Lustropolis, the fictional emotional world he has been building since 2024, and both were preoccupied, in different ways, with heartbreak and the fallout of it. For A Good Time… was reportedly assembled during a run of writing camps across Medellín, Los Angeles and London, three cities with three very different rhythmic instincts, and for the first time in a while, Odeal steps outside the metaphor entirely and simply lives in the present tense.
The timing helps. Odeal comes into this project off arguably the biggest stretch of his career a sold out night at London’s O2 Academy Brixton, headline dates across the UK, Europe and Australia, a Stormzy feature on “24 Hours,” MOBO wins for Best R&B/Soul Act and Best Newcomer, a BET Award nomination and Billboard’s African Rookie of the Year honour. For A Good Time lands less like an artist chasing momentum and more like one who has earned the right to exhale.
The Sound: Where R&B Meets The Dancefloor
Production has always been where Odeal quietly outworks his peers, and this EP continues that streak while pushing his palette somewhere new. The lyrics on opener “Rush” lyrics and its follow-up “Get Down” lean on low, smooth instrumentation built to flatter his voice rather than compete with his voice. Warm bass understated percussion, and spacious arrangements give his vocal runs room to breathe, keeping the production sleek without stripping away its intimacy.
“Rush” lyrics
“If we rush, there’s not enough, to make me stay,but when we touch, nothing matters, let the world wait”.
It’s a texture longtime listeners will recognise from The Summer That Saved Me, an EP that drew on a wide production bench including P2J and GuiltyBeatz, blending Afrobeats percussion with lush, unhurried R&Bchords. Odeal hasn’t abandoned that DNA here; he’s just pointed it somewhere lighter.
The clearest sonic leap on the project is “Bluey Vitton,” which trades that smoothness for an uptempo, Amapiano- inflected pulse: log drums, a rolling bassline, house adjacent momentum making it arguably the most club-facing record Odeal has released to date. It’s also, by some distance, the EP’s best evidence of his range: a Nigerian dance idiom filtered through a British R&B voice, delivered with enough confidence that it never reads as a detour. To this critic’s ear, the title does some quiet work of its own, evoking the early-2000s culture of luxury-brand name-dropping, though that remains an interpretation rather than a stated intention from Odeal. And it lands as clever rather than gimmicky once the beat actually drops.
At the emotional centre of the EP sits “Coming Home,” the project’s only feature, with Jorja Smith, produced by P2J the same hand behind some of Odeal’s most affecting work on “The Summer That Saved Me. It’s a useful throughline: P2J’s production has become something of a constant across Odeal’s catalogue, the connective tissue between his more introspective ballads and his brighter, rhythm forward material. Here, lush R&B chords sit over a gentle Afrobeats undertow, and Smith’s voice threads through Odeal’s without either artist crowding the other. Set against the moodier, string laden textures that opened “The Fall That Saved Us“, a record more interested in sitting with discomfort, “Coming Home” feels like sunlight through a window that used to stay shut.
“After The Club” follows with a nice touch: an interpolation of Craig David’s 2001 hit “Rendezvous” tucked underneath its groove Craig David and Mark Hill, who wrote and produced the original, are both credited as writers on the new track. It’s a small, well placed reference that rewards listeners who grew up in that era of UK R&B without ever feeling like a gimmick. It’s the kind of detail that only lands if you’re paying attention, which is very much the point with Odeal he rarely puts anything on a record by accident. The closing run of “Love n Hate” and “TryingThings” pulls the tempo back down into the low, unhurried instrumentation that has always been his comfort zone, steering the project toward vulnerability just as it winds to a close. “After The Club” lyrics
“that you come, come with me now it’s half past 3 after the club and it’s her, you and me your choice was to leave with me tonight and pleasure indeed”.
Storytelling, From The Cover Art Down
What continues to set Odeal apart from his contemporaries in the Nigerian and British R&B space is how deliberately he treats a project as a total object, not just a collection of songs. That instinct is on full display here. Each of the seven tracks arrives with its own visualiser, extending the EP into a small cinematic world rather than treating visuals as an afterthought. The project also introduces Bluey, a character pulled directly out of “Bluey Vitton” who embodies the EP’s spontaneous, slightly reckless spirit, a piece of world building that mirrors what he did with Lustropolis, except in service of joy this time rather than grief.
That same intentionality runs through the writing. Odeal has built a reputation, project after project, on storytelling that rewards patience songs that read as simple on a first pass and reveal more careful detail on repeat listens. For A Good Time is no exception. Even at its most carefree, the lyricism still carries his fingerprints: specific, image driven, unwilling to settle for a generic hook when a more particular one is available. It’s part of why Odeal’s music tends to resist easy categorisation alongside other Nigerian R&B voices his songs ask to be sat with rather than skimmed, even when the subject matter is a night out rather than a heartbreak.
Sequencing And Verdict
Structurally, For A Good Time is one of the more confidently sequenced EPs Odeal has put out. Each addition blends into the next without ever feeling like padding, and the seven track runtime works in the project’s favour long enough to build a full arc, short enough that nothing overstays its welcome. It plays out almost like the itinerary of one long night, opening on the nervous energy of getting ready and closing somewhere far more vulnerable than where it started.
It won’t convert anyone who found Lustropolis’s melancholy more compelling than this newer, sunnier register, and a small handful of the deeper cuts lean closer to pleasant than essential. But as a statement of range proof that Odeal can chase a good time on record without abandoning the storytelling instincts that built his following it succeeds. For A Good Time is not the project that will define Odeal’s career, but it is the one that confirms he has more than one register worth paying attention to, and that even his lightest work still asks to be listened to closely.
Whichever way it’s ranked against the Lustropolis run, For A Good Time does what a good summer EP is supposed to do: it makes the case for its own mood without abandoning the craft that got Odeal here. Seven tracks, one clear feature, a handful of smart production choices, and an artist confident enough to sound this unbothered without sounding careless. That’s a harder balance to strike than it looks, and For A Good Time mostly gets there.
There is a particular kind of Lagos evening that only makes sense if you understand what it means to be in demand. The kind where your phone has not stopped since morning, where the calendar is stacked, where every notification is someone asking for a piece of you because something you made has started moving in ways you could not have predicted even six months ago. That was the evening I spoke with Solana.
She joined the call warm and unhurried, which said something on its own. Because by the time we spoke, Okunkun had already done what it did to the internet, and for someone whose evenings were probably now filling up with performance requests and booking enquiries, the version of Solana I met was remarkably unbothered by all of it. Present. Curious. Laughing easily. She had somewhere to be after us, her manager was already circling, and she gave us the time anyway.
That detail, more than any single thing she said, is what stayed with me.
Before the timeline found her, before the reposts and the booking requests and the people from countries she has never visited telling her they cannot stop listening, there was just a girl from Lagos making music that felt true to her. Music rooted in Yoruba, in heritage, in the specific texture of a culture that does not need translation to be felt. She was not building a movement. She was just building her sound.
But movements have a way of forming around the right kind of honesty. And somewhere between the first viral reel and the internet’s attempt to explain what it was hearing, a word appeared. Yorupop.
It spread the way these things do, in comments, in replies, in the shorthand of people who needed something to call what Solana was doing. Contemporary pop sensibility fused with Yoruba language and cultural identity. A bridge between the traditional and the present. Between where African music came from and where it is clearly going. The internet named it. Solana became its face.
Her full name is Ogunlana Busolami Habibat. Her stage name came from two pieces of herself, Sola from her first name, Lana from her last name. Simple, personal, and quietly telling of how she moves through everything else. She does not reach for something external to define her. She takes what is already there and shapes it into something that sounds right. Yorupop, it turns out, works exactly the same way.
She is calling in from Lagos, and when I ask her to paint me a picture of where she is, she almost laughs at the question before answering simply. Lagos. Nigeria. Which, given everything that has happened around her recently, feels like the right kind of grounding.
“It has been super great,” she says when I ask about life since Okunkun landed. “It went from zero to a hundred and something. The support has been insane. So many people reaching out. Just a really great experience so far.”
The thing about that sentence is how understated it is for what actually happened. Okunkun did not gradually find its audience. It detonated. Within hours of her second Instagram post, she was watching the views climb and refreshing in disbelief. A thousand. Two thousand. More. She kept asking herself what was going on. The answer, as it turned out, was that she had been right all along about a song that the industry had spent three years telling her was wrong.
Because Okunkun is not a 2026 song. Solana wrote and recorded it in 2023. She played it for people in the music space. The responses were consistent and discouraging. “They told me, I don’t really think Nigerians are listening to this. This is not a Nigerian sound. I had so many rejections on this song.” She pauses before she continues, and in that pause you can feel the weight of three years of doubt.
“When you have gotten so many rejections, you start feeling like, am I making the right thing here? But I knew this was a really great record. So I was just feeling, you know what, I am just going to put it out. Whatever happens, happens.”
What happened was the timeline. What happened was Yoruba-speaking and non-Yoruba-speaking fans alike stopping mid-scroll to ask who this was. What happened was Ayra Starr, Tiwa Savage, and Tems all pressing repost on the same song within days of each other. What happened was people from countries that have never produced a single Afrobeats record messaging Solana to tell her they could not stop listening even though they did not understand a word she was singing.
“That is what music is supposed to do,” she says. “It is supposed to bring people together. An invitation into indigenous culture. When you listen, you are just in that headspace, enjoying another culture.”
The cultural conversation around her sound has taken on a life of its own. People online have called it Yorupop.The Lijadu Sisters have been invoked repeatedly in comments and replies, the word reincarnation appearing more than once. Solana receives the comparison with genuine warmth and immediately, gently, steps around it.
“I would not say my sound is Yorupop. Yorupop is just another expression of who Solana is. It is part of the things that make me. When I was recording, I was just creating something that connects to my heritage, my present generation, my childhood. Yoruba is the language I know,so I am going to express myself in it. But my general sound is not Yorupop. It is just another extension of who I am as an artist.”
As for the Lijadu Sisters, she is honoured. But she was not tapping from them as a source. She was just being herself, and the lineage found her.
That line between intention and instinct runs through every part of her creative process, including the part most people do not know about yet. Solana and Killertunes have been working together since 2019. Seven years. Almost every song in her catalogue carries his fingerprints. His brothers are part of her management team. She uses the word family without any performance in it, because that is what it actually is.
“We have worked for so long that we understand each other’s creativity,” she says. “We understand each other’s sound. We literally just flow. And there is so much stuff we have that people have never heard. They will be like, what.”
The EP dropping in October is fully produced by Killertunes. Seven songs. No features. Just the two of them, and whatever they have been quietly building together since before most of her current listeners were paying attention.
Even the visuals, which have drawn their own wave of admiration and dissection online, come from the same unhurried place. I ask her about them because the short-form content around Okunkun feels considered without feeling controlled, and she almost laughs at the implication of a grand strategy behind it.
“It is literally a family thing. His brothers, his wife, me. We just drive around and look for places to shoot. We dress up, we find somewhere, we shoot. We are just living our lives. So when people are like, how did you plan this, we are just being our normal Tuesday.”
There is something quietly radical about that. In an industry that rewards the performance of strategy, Solana and her people have built something that looks effortless because it largely is. Not careless. Genuine. And the authenticity, she is clear, is not something to abandon now that it is working.
“It is the authenticity that drew people in. So why should I stop that?”
Before we wrap up, because her manager is already waiting and the evening is filling up, I mention that I play COD and she plays Fortnite and we should probably sort something out. She laughs with a confidence that does not need to explain itself.
“If you come to me in Fortnite, you are going to cry.”
I kind of believe her. Well until she proves it anyway.
The EP drops in a few weeks. Seven songs. No features. Just Solana, Killertunes, and whatever happens when an artist stops asking for permission and starts trusting her instinct.
Whatever happens, happens. It has been working out well so far.
Welcome to the school of Ayra Starr. This is Year 3 , 16 courses , with a run time of 46 minutes. Co-lecturers include Dr Kwn, Prof. Wizkid, Dr Theodora, Dr Rema, Prof. Zayn, and Prof. Danny Ocean.
The Erudite Prof Starr explores a range of sounds that allows her to show off range, skill, storytelling and just share exceptional talent. From Afrobeats, to R&B, contemporary pop, dancehall, and finally house. Prof Starrexplores all of these to produce her most cohesive body of work yet. Welcome to Starr Girl 301!
Most of the writing still runs through Ayra herself, credited under her birth name Oyinkansola Sarah Aderibigbe, but the room around her has gotten a lot bigger: Ilya Salmanzadeh, Amanda Ibanez, Mason Tanner, Malika Hamza, Jerry Duplessis, and Wyclef Jean all show up somewhere in the credits. It’s a more international writers’ room than the one behind “19 & Dangerous” or “The Year I Turned 21,” and the polish that comes with it hasn’t cost her anything, her voice and her Nigerian identity still come through clearly.
STARRGIRL
STORYTELLING AND OVERALL MESSAGE
Set next to her debut “19 & Dangerous” (2021) and sophomore effort “The Year I Turned 21” (2024), “Starr Girl” plays like an artist finally growing into herself rather than performing growth for the cameras. It’s not flawless, but it’s genuinely hard to point to a real miss across sixteen tracks, and the production holds a consistency her earlier work sometimes lacked. Her voice sounds more settled too, moving between sultry restraint on the slow cuts and a brighter, more playful register on the pop moments without either one feeling like a costume.
That consistency isn’t just sonic. With a second Grammy nomination landing earlier this year, the title reads less like Starr crowning herself and more like a statement of something that’s been obvious since “Bloody Samaritan” broke her out in 2021. By her own account, the album is about “existing in multitudes,” and that idea is what keeps a project this scattered from falling apart. It shows up in language as much as sound she moves between English, Pidgin, and Yoruba, and lets some Spanish slip in on the “Hot Body” remix, so the cosmopolitanism is audible in how she says things, not just what she’s saying them over.
SEQUENCING
The album opens on “Dangerous,” a moody, mid-tempo statement of intent, before “Amazing,” featuring kwn, lifts the mood into brighter pop territory. “Gimme Dat” reintroduces her Grammy nominated Wizkid collaboration, and the run of “Pressure,” “Tornado,” and “Midnight in New York” settles into the album’s most emotionally textured stretch, blending Afrobeats percussion with R&B restraint. “Hot Body” and “Ms. Paper,” featuring Theodora, bring the tempo back up before “Dance” and “Where Do We Go” close the midsection with two of its most immediate pop moments. “Who’s Dat Girl,” featuring Rema, and “Misunderstood” pull the mood back inward, “Letter to God” is the record’s most reflective turn, and “Heaven Baby,” featuring Zayn, alongside “Treasure,” winds things down before the “Hot Body” remix featuring Danny Ocean closes on a victory lap. It reads less like a rigid three-act structure and more like a mood board tension, brightness, reflection, tension again which tracks with how Starr describes the album herself.
TRACK BY TRACK: WRITING AND PRODUCTION
“Dangerous” opens on a nod to Mobstarr, her fan community, a reference she reinforced when the album was previewed for fans at a Tape Lagos listening event in April 2026. Beyond that, the verses are pure declaration Starr staking her claim on her own business command and the speed of her success before anyone else gets a word in. Production stays clean behind the vocal, and it’s an efficient, confident way to open the record.
“Amazing,” with kwn, is lighter and more playful, closer to comedy than seduction, with kwn’s own verse playing coy about being pressed for time a palate cleanser after the weight of the opener.
“Gimme Dat” was never going to surprise anyone after its Grammy nomination and its status as Starr and Wizkid’s first reunion since the 2022 fan favourite “2 Sugar.” It samples Mary J. Blige and Wyclef Jean’s 2000 single “911,” which explains the sprawling writing credits Starr and Wizkid alongside Adekunle Oluwaseyi, Elvis Akujobi, Richard Imaekhai, Fred Daniels, Edafe Gabriel, Olusola Mayowa, Aniekeme Akpan, Jerry Duplessis, Katia Cadet, Mary Brown, and Wyclef Jean himself. Lyrically it leans on Pidgin, building its come on around “awoof” something got for free, unearned as Starr sets her own terms before any deal gets sealed. Vybe0 and Mikababeatz keep the production in a groove-first Afrobeats pocket, the interpolated hook giving it an early 2000s R&B backbone under the Afrobeats surface the clearest case on the album of Starr reaching outside her own lane for source material.
“Pressure” leans on background vocals from Leon Thomas, whose falsetto threads through the mix without pulling focus, landing closer to pure R&B than almost anything else here. “Tornado,” produced by Skillies, Shizzi, and RiotUSA, carries Latin tinged percussion and extra vocal texture from Fola and Donel Mangena, pushing briefly into dancehall Afrobeats crossover territory. Its boasts go further than most of the record’s, drawing an audacious comparison to Anini, the Nigerian outlaw who became a folk anti-hero in the 1980s a strange, memorable flex inside an otherwise straightforward one.
“Midnight in New York,” co-written by Starr with Andre, Kadu, and Donel Mangena, is produced by London, Starr, and Matt James, and mixed by Johnny Drille, her fellow Mavin signee. Where “Dangerous” is declarative, this one is loose and unattached, a no-strings encounter over wine with a stranger rather than anything built to last. It’s one of the album’s most atmospheric records, built for a late night mood rather than the dancefloor, and the only song where Starr’s own production credit sits next to her writing credit. Drille’s mixing also spans “Hot Body,” “Dance,” “Who’s Dat Girl,” “Heaven Baby,” and “Treasure,” giving “Starr Girl” a sonic throughline her last two albums didn’t quite have.
“Hot Body” keeps the tempo up in uptempo Afrobeats territory, though its title hook is arguably the weakest part; the verses do the heavier lifting, trading in luxury car imagery and the feeling of being watched from a distance. The Spanish language remix that closes the album, featuring Danny Ocean, keeps the same swagger but reframes it as a bilingual duet rather than a solo brag. “Ms. Paper,” with Theodora, is a smoother R&B-leaning duet Theodora folds French inflected wordplay into her verse alongside the English and it benefits from the two voices sitting close together. “Dance” is one of the record’s clearest statements of self-acceptance, its lyric built around being content with who she already is, its bounce edging toward the house influence running faintly through the album.
“Where Do We Go,” written by Starr with Ilya Salmanzadeh, Amanda Ibanez, Mason Tanner, and Malika Hamza, produced and arranged by Salmanzadeh, is an Afropop detour built on a pulsing bassline, playing out as a hesitant push-pull between two people told through a shared-commute metaphor rather than a direct confession. “Who’s Dat Girl,” featuring Rema and written with Nwamu Chukwudebem, Promise Ekpe, Divine Ikubor, and Nilusu Nisanka, is produced by Ragee and The Elements. Rema’s verse leans on pop culture wordplay fashion, cartoon villains, prison break plotlines while Starr’s own verse reaches for something heavier, invoking Ken Saro-Wiwa, the Nigerian writer and activist executed in 1995, an unusually weighty touch inside an otherwise flirtatious song.
The back half turns inward. “Misunderstood” is one of the most reflective solo cuts, told in the third person about a woman written off by everyone around her who refuses to shrink for it, a quieter turn from someone who’s spent five years being talked about as much as listened to. “Letter to God” follows in the same register, built around piano, bass, and a full-band crescendo, as Starr addresses a precarious but worthwhile love directly to God; it’s the closest the album comes to gospel-inflected balladry. “Heaven Baby,” with Zayn, strips the percussion out entirely for a classic piano led duet, Starr’s voice against Zayn’s falsetto on a song about instant attraction. It’s the album’s most obvious reach for a global pop audience, and while it doesn’t always sit as naturally as the Afrobeats-rooted tracks around it, it’s a reasonable bet for an artist actively building a Roc Nation-backed international profile.
“Treasure,” also mixed by Drille, closes the reflective run with a vocal delivery that echoes “Dangerous” back at itself, each syllable seeming to hold up the next rather than resolve cleanly, a small structural rhyme that bookends the album. From there, the “Hot Body” remix with Danny Ocean sends the record off with a Latin Afrobeats crossover that’s become increasingly common across the genre, a victory lap rather than a comedown, and a smart way to close a project that spends its second half getting quieter.
STANDOUT TRACKS
“Misunderstood,” “Dance,” “Pressure,” “Gimme Dat,” and “Hot Body” are the five songs that best justify the run time, each one making its case independent of its features or where it sits in the album’s arc.
“Starr Girl” isn’t a perfect album, but it’s Ayra Starr’s most assured one. The production is more unified than “19 & Dangerous” or “The Year I Turned 21,” the writers’ room is bigger without diluting her voice, and the sequencing gives the record real emotional movement instead of a flat run of singles. Where it loses points is ambition that sometimes settles for polish over risk; a handful of mid album tracks play it safer than the opening run promises. Still, two years and two Grammy nominations on, with a title that finally matches the moment, Ayra Starr has certified her accolades as a star.
London as they break down their new project, “Sounds of the Diaspora.”A project we think might be their hardest yet.A chilled conversation on music, identity, and where they’re headed next.
LSTV CUT: Let’s get into it; what’s the unspoken rule that helped stay solid through growth, pressure, and success?
NSG: In all honesty, there’s no unspoken rule. We all very much believe in unified power, so we stay united forever. United through adversity and through all the blessings
LSTV CUT: How do you balance individual ideas without them clashing or slowing the process down?
NSG:Different visions because we all see things from different perspectives, but we have all the same goal.which is an advantage. We share our different ideas and find a way to meet at common ground
LSTV CUT:As a collective, how do you handle moments when individual members are in different headspaces creatively or mentally??
NSG: Yes, absolutely, because at the end of the body, no be firewood and that’s one thing we all understand.
LSTV CUT:fair, How did you decide which artists represented the “diaspora” you wanted to capture on this album
NSG:First of all, big up to the artists featuring on SOTD. We wanted to be intentional with the features, but also it needed to make sense sonically, and when you hear the songs, you’ll hear how seamless they all sound. Aside from being fans of these artists, we love how they represent their roots through their art and how they connect with the diaspora worldwide.
LSTV CUT: What did these collaborations ON SOtD teach you about how African music is evolving globally?
NSG: As Africans, UNITY is the way forward, when we come together, we can achieve a lot OF great things, whether by music, fashion… whatever it is. Togetherness is the way forward
.
LSTV CUT:100! Let’s try this unity thing. If Sounds of the Diaspora could be described as a colour, what colour would it be — and why?
NSG: The colour would be BLACK because it carries history , energy, evolution, all at the same time.
LSTV CUT: At what point did you realise NSG had become bigger than just music?
NSG: Ahah when people started dressing like NSG, I knew Yep this is deeper than music and on the music side , just by the conversations we be having with people we once looked up to growing up. Also, by the way people genuinely ride for us. a special shout-out to the AREA BOYZ AND GIRLZ OUT THERE . we love you guys.
LSTV CUT:Even I was dressing like NSG haha. You dropped albums in January last year and again this year. Is that timing intentional? What does starting the year with new music mean to NSG?
NSG: Timing is everything. Start as you mean to go on, and this year we mean to release plenty OF music. So why not start the year with 8 tracks and an interlude?
LSTV CUT: The album artwork is striking and feels symbolic. What was the inspiration behind the cover, and what story were you trying to tell visually?
NSG: The artwork tells the story of the diaspora kids. Even though we are African or Caribbean by blood (black representation on the cover), some of us were born/raised in the United Kingdom, so it’s part of our identity, whether we like it or not. You can see this through how we speak, or dress, BUT sometimes you feel like you don’t fully fit into what you would call, quote & quote“British person”, hence why in the artwork, you can see the individual is standing a bit further back from everyone else, while still having the flag wrapped around him. It’s not just an artwork, it’s real life!
LSTV CUT: Looking ahead, what do you want people to feel when they listen to this album a year from now, not just right now?
NSG: A year from now , we want the people to feel the timelessness of this project, something they can come back to and say “this still hits” from the lyrics to the sounds.
There is a specific kind of electricity that hits the timeline when a massive joint project is announced. It feels different from a solo album rollout; while a solo body of work is a statement of self, a joint project is a high-stakes conversation—and honestly, it’s the ultimate ego-check. Right now, it’s time for Real Vol 1 from Wizkid and Asake, which in all senses we are incredibly lucky to be getting. In an industry often paralysed by “Who is bigger?” and “Who has more streams?”, seeing the architect of the 2010s global run trade verses with the undisputed landlord of the 2020s is a massive win for the culture. It’s a refreshing outlier, proof that when the music is right, the generational gaps and the towering egos simply take a backseat.
I’ve always felt that the African music landscape finds its greatest strength in these rare, concentrated collisions. Unlike a standard feature—where an artist just “pops in” for a quick 16 bars, a joint project requires building an entirely new world. We saw this tectonic shift back in 2015 with Olamide and Phyno’s 2Kings. That wasn’t just an album to me; it was a cultural treaty. Seeing the King of the West and the Eze Nnunu of the East shake hands on a full-length record told the streets of Lagos and Enugu that we were all on the same frequency. It proved that our local dialects weren’t only “indigenous”—but the main event. If you want to talk about drama-turned-classics, we have to look at Bnxn and Ruger’s RnB. For years, we watched them trade subs on Twitter over “solo hits” vs “features” and who had the better numbers. Then, out of nowhere, they hopped on a flight, sat in a room, and knocked out a seven-track EP in just three days. Sonically, it’s a masterclass in chemistry—Bnxn’s “velvet and honey” hooks meeting Ruger’s gritty, dancehall-inflected delivery. It transformed a public rivalry into a shared victory lap that solidified proving that an alliance will always be more powerful than an enemy.
The impact of these alliances often dictates the very “vibe” of our lives for years. Think back to the mid-2010s when the energy between Nigeria and Ghana was at its peak. Those collaborative efforts between the likes of Mr Eazi and Juls literally slowed down our heartbeats. They took us from the frantic dance steps of the early 2010s into a smooth, “Pon Pon” highlife-infused era that had everyone leaning back in the club instead of sweating through their shirts. These projects are like the secret R&D labs of Afrobeats; they test the sounds that eventually become our personality for the next three Decembers.
What really gets me excited about Real Vol 1 is the “coronation” factor. When a titan like Wizkid shares the marquee with a force like Asake, it’s the ultimate flex of confidence. Wizkid has mastered this polished, “expensive” minimalism that feels like a chilled glass of wine on a private jet. Then you have Asake, whose sound is like a frantic, beautiful Lagos rush hour—choral, urgent, and deeply rooted in Fuji. Watching these two sonic worlds collide is fascinating because it’s a handshake between the veteran’s poise and the newcomer’s hunger, plus you could tell both of them genuinely enjoy each other’s company. Remember the “big brother, small brother” energy that completely took over our feeds some months back, seeing them buddy up on their Apple Music radio takeover and joke around for Instagram’s Close Friends Only series made the internet pause a little from stan wars, but enjoy a lovely, wholesome environment, maybe i’m living in a bubble who knows, but it’s rare to see that level of unfiltered love in such a high-pressure industry, and it makes the music on the project feel so much deeper knowing it comes from a place of actual friendship.
Ultimately, these bodies of work remind us that we’re part of a continuum. In an industry where everyone is constantly fighting for a singular crown, the joint project is that rare moment where two giants decide the kingdom is better served by a shared vision. It’s a bridge between the legends we grew up with and the superstars we’re stanning today. I don’t see this as a new tracklist or just another collaboration; we’re witnessing a legacy being reinforced in real-time, and I for one am just happy to be here for the ride.
At the Centre of every middle-class family revolves an evening’s catching up with African magic playing on the DSTV. The choice of “Afrika Magik” is a symbolic one by SDC. Almost like a reminder of the cultural heritage and nostalgia African magic brought to our homes. The album is a love-letter to Nigerian life, to the undercurrents of belief, myth, women’s voices, and the rhythms of Lagos and beyond.
The Significance of “African Magic” in our Everyday Lives.
From the outset, the album houses a spiritual undercurrent: on the opening track “Libations”, Tec and Ghost pay homage to musical forebears such as Victor Olaiya and William Onyeabor, weaving in the idea that legacy, ritual and daily life are intertwined.
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In Nigerian everyday life, “magic” is less about fantasy and more about the subtle ordinariness of belief: the stories told during commutes, the juju whispered in cautionary tales, the spiritual backdrop to success or failure. The album taps this: interludes such as “White Juju” (which humorously addresses “AI aka white juju and voodoo”) highlight how technology, mysticism and everyday hustle merge. Thus, Afrika Magik becomes more than just an album—it becomes a map of how African spiritual aesthetics, cultural memory and modern life co-exist. The nods to old Nollywood films further this: they’re not just nostalgia, they’re cultural signposts reminding us that “fantasy” and “normal life” share the same space in Nigeria.
Inclusion of Female Voices
On this album, SDC said UP FEMCO!!
This album has more female features in contrast to their previous albums. One of the strengths of this album is how it elevates female voices and perspectives not merely as features but also as integral presence on this album. Artists like Tems,Moonchild Sanelly, Lulu Winny and Lusanda. Btw Tems and SDC can never do wrong in my eyes. Their collaborations always feel like a harmattan breeze blowing over skin. This inclusion matters because it shifts the album away from simply male rap narratives; it makes space for female texture, influence and presence not just as backing but as foreground. In a society where women’s lives are often the unspoken backdrop, these features lift them into view.
The Role of Interludes
Interludes here act as more than mere breathing space; they are dramaturgical and thematic anchors. The “Nollywood Vixens” interlude, for instance, explicitly situates the album in a cultural cinema-space, invoking female archetypes and the interplay of everyday drama with myth.
Similarly, “One Chance (Interlude)” and “White Juju” help punctuate the album into acts: the first half often more reflective/romantic, the second more celebratory/expansive. These breaks allow the listener to reset and transition between moods, which is vital given the diverse sonic terrain. This kind of album-craft is deliberate: SDC treat the album like a film.
Standout Tracks
Libations: A powerful opener that declares their place, name-checking legendary Nigerian artists and setting tone.
Small Chops and Champers: Do I need say more about this track?? What a track guy!! It gave everything it was meant to give. Just give me small chops and champagne joor .
Pressure (FT Taves): Taves was literally flexing on this track. He almost stole the song from them (just my opinion tho). The beats also in this track too>>>>.
“Magik (ft Moonchild Sanelly): Experimental Rhythm, connects South African + Nigeria, bridges hip-hop, kwaito and the albums theme of “magic”.
Experimental Tracks & Production & Writing
One of the hallmarks of Afrika Magik is its fearless blending of genres: highlife, palmwine music, hip-hop, alté, amapiano, R&B.
The production was handled by longtime collaborator Spax, with contributions from Guiltybeatz, Genio and Yinka Bernie. Instrument such as guitar riffs, horns, soft percussion, log drums (especially on the closer) bring a live-feel, organic layer. The writing is rich. Dialogues with past legends, personal journeys, street-life, love, ambition. The lyrics on “Send a Text” for example, become conversational and reflective.
Experimentally, tracks like Magik (with its kwaito bounce) or masterkey (mixing R&B/hip-hop with American singer Mereba) push SDC outside their previous safe zones. The interludes themselves are creative experiments—cinematic skits, voice-overs, nostalgia refracted into sound. Thematically and sonically, the album is both wide and deep.
Verdict
Afrika Magik is a strong, multifaceted album. It doesn’t just sound good, it feels rooted, culturally attuned and ambitious. Show Dem Camp manage to honour the past (the musical and cinematic traditions of Nigeria), include new voices (especially female collaborators) and explore new sonic territory without losing their identity.
For a Nigerian listener, the album works on many levels: it’s a soundtrack to everyday life—party, reflection, hustle, love, belief. It’s also a mirror of how African magic (in its broadest sense) lives in the margins, in songs, in gatherings, in the interludes of life.
If I have a caveat, it’s that the length (17 tracks) and the variety means that at times the pacing could feel uneven. Some transitions are bold; some tracks may require several listens to fully land. But that is a small trade-off for the album’s ambition and the rewards it offers.
Score: 4/5
If you’re looking for a project that offers depth, nostalgia, and fresh collaborations, Afrika Magik is more than worth your time. For SDC fans it’s a meaningful continuation; for newcomers it’s a compelling entry point into what Nigerian rap and Afro-fusion can sound like in 2025.
Burner accounts are anonymous or fake social media profiles used to share opinions, spread gossip, or leak private information without revealing the person behind them. Unlike official artist pages, they operate in the shadows, often dropping “receipts,” screenshots, or unverified claims that fuel speculation. In fan cultures worldwide, from K-pop to hip-hop, burners have become a powerful tool to shape narratives. In Afrobeats, they’re now central to how drama unfolds, bypassing labels, PR teams, and sometimes even the artists themselves.
The Afrobeats industry has always thrived on whispers. Rumors of collaborations, secret studio sessions, and private fallouts often travel faster than the songs themselves. But in today’s digital era, whispers don’t stay whispers for long, they morph into screenshots, burner accounts, and viral threads. This new rumor economy is reshaping the culture in real time.
The recent controversies involving Omah Lay and Rema, and the never-ending Burna Boy and Wizkid rivalry, are prime examples of how a culture of anonymous leaks and unverified revelations is reshaping not only fan conversations but also the reputations of some of Afrobeats’ biggest stars.
Earlier this month, screenshots allegedly from a burner account linked to Omah Lay began circulating online. The account, which had operated under the handle “Story of an Angel,” posted iMessage chats that appeared to show Omah Lay sharing an album concept with Rema back in 2023, an idea that, months later, seemed to resurface in Rema’s own project. What made fans believe this anonymous account was connected to Omah Lay were subtle clues: the account’s intimate knowledge of his creative process, posting patterns that aligned with his public statements, and a writing style that mirrored his previous social media presence. The validity of the chats has not been confirmed, and neither artist has publicly addressed them. Yet that hasn’t stopped the story from dominating headlines, fueling debates about creativity, trust, and betrayal in the music industry.
Similarly, the Burna Boy and Wizkid dynamic has long been amplified by anonymous accounts and whispered claims. From subtweets to alleged burner accounts dropping “receipts,” their rivalry thrives on ambiguity. Even when neither artist speaks directly, “stans” and blogs seize on fragments, turning them into narratives that dominate timelines. The absence of confirmation only deepens speculation, as silence is reinterpreted as strategy.
This is the peculiar power of burner accounts: they bypass traditional gatekeepers i.e the labels, PR teams, even the artists themselves and deliver raw claims straight into the bloodstream of fan culture. With one post, they can tilt the narrative, turning speculation into per deceived truth. And because these accounts are anonymous, there is little accountability if the claims turn out to be false. The court of public opinion moves faster than facts.
The stakes extend far beyond hurt feelings. In an industry where global streaming numbers, international collaborations, and brand endorsements can make or break careers, reputation damage can translate into real financial losses. When whispers suggest an artist has stolen concepts or betrayed collaborators, it doesn’t just affect fan perception, it can influence label executives, booking agents, and potential collaborators making decisions worth millions of dollars. This raises a difficult question: how much weight should we give to revelations that emerge in this way? On one hand, burner accounts and leaked screenshots can sometimes expose real injustices whether unpaid royalties, broken promises, or unacknowledged collaborations. They provide fans with an insider’s view of an industry that often operates behind closed doors. On the other hand, they also create fertile ground for misinformation, where private tensions are amplified into public scandals before anyone has had a chance to verify the details.
The result is an environment where reputation is increasingly fragile. An artist can wake up to find years of work overshadowed by a screenshot, with no way of proving or disproving its authenticity. Even silence becomes risky. If Omah Lay and Rema remain quiet, fans will interpret that silence as confirmation. If Burna Boy or Wizkid ignore burner chatter, their fanbases fill the vacuum with competing interpretations. In a culture dominated by leaks, the narrative is rarely controlled by the people at the center of it.
Burner culture also changes the relationship between fans and artists. Afrobeats audiences are no longer passive listeners; they are detectives, piecing together timelines from tweets, interviews, and leaked messages. The fandom becomes a whisper network of its own, feeding on half-truths and speculations, sometimes with more energy than the music itself. This dynamic can be exciting, creating a sense of insider knowledge and community among fans. But it can also be corrosive. When gossip outpaces art, the focus shifts from creativity to controversy.
This pattern isn’t entirely unique to Afrobeats, hip-hop has long featured diss tracks and public feuds. But where traditional rap beefs played out through official releases and public statements, Afrobeats drama increasingly unfolds through anonymous accounts and unverified leaks, making it harder to separate performance from genuine conflict, strategy from spontaneous emotion.
The irony is that Afrobeats is entering its most professional era yet, artists are signing global deals, filling stadiums, and charting internationally. But beneath this polished surface, the machinery of gossip is more chaotic than ever. In many ways, burner accounts represent the growing pains of an industry that is both local and global, informal yet professional. They expose the gaps between how the industry is managed publicly and how it operates privately.
Finding Balance in the Noise
What is needed now is balance. Fans should be cautious in how much they elevate unverified claims, understanding that screenshots can be fabricated and anonymous accounts may have ulterior motives. Media outlets must resist the temptation to treat every screenshot as gospel, remembering that the pursuit of clicks cannot come at the cost of fairness. And artists themselves need to adapt, understanding that in an era of leaks, transparency and proactive communication may be the only way to stay ahead of the rumor mill.
At its best, the whisper network surrounding Afrobeats reflects the passion of its community. It shows how deeply fans care about not just the music but the stories behind it. But left unchecked, it risks becoming a culture that thrives more on suspicion than celebration.
Burner accounts will not disappear; anonymity has always been a powerful tool for those seeking to share sensitive information without facing direct consequences. What matters is how we, as fans, media, and artists, engage with them. Do we treat them as starting points for discussion, or as final verdicts? The difference may determine whether Afrobeats continues to grow on the strength of its music or becomes trapped in the noise of its own whispers. As the genre reaches new global heights, the industry must decide whether it wants to be defined by its art or its rumors. The whispers will always be there. The question is: are we listening to the right voices?
At Outer South, the ethos has always been about pushing boundaries sonically, visually, and culturally. It’s a label that doesn’t just sign artists, it cultivates visionaries. And no artist embodies that spirit more clearly right now than Tim Lyre.
There’s a certain momentum building around Tim right now. He’s in full “album mode,” and the energy is infectious. When we catch up, he’s calm, assured, and most importantly, excited. “I’m good, thank you. Thanks for having me on,” he says, smiling. “Things are good right now — album mode gingered.”
Tim’s new album, Spiral, is more than a body of work. It’s a landmark moment in a journey that began over a decade ago.
“Well, I’d say I’ve been putting out music since 2012 — not when I was 12, that would be crazy,” he laughs.
“But I’ve been around music my whole life. I come from a long line of church musicians — great-grandfather, grandfather, father. From a young age, I was reading music and learning classical theory.”
From a young age, I was reading music and learning classical theory.
Tim Lyre
Raised in the cadence of choirs and instruments, Tim was involved in music early.
Tim- It was like a rite of passage. Everybody had to be in the choir. That environment shaped me. I play piano, guitar, a bunch of instruments, so being around music constantly helped me understand a lot — not just as a vocalist but as a producer and writer too.
The Chop Life Crew Chapter
By 2020, Tim was part of a collective known affectionately as Chop Life Crew, a name inspired by Mojo AF and Prettyboy D-O’s celebratory anthem.
Tim – That name just made sense at the time. Everywhere we went — me, Mojo, Ronehi — people already associated us with it,” Tim explains. “We made it official. I’ve known Mojo and Ronehi since A-levels. We grew together.”
The collaboration wasn’t just organic; it was transformative.
Tim- It’s definitely impacted my music. When you grow with like-minded people like Mojo and Ronehi, it pushes you. If you listen to the music, you hear the growth in production, in storytelling, everything.
The chemistry, particularly between Tim and Mojo, is evident — especially on “Villagio,” a standout on Spiral.
Tim- We’ve worked together since uni. That kind of familiarity builds instinct. I don’t have to overthink when I’m working with Mojo. I just see what he’s vibing to, and we go. He’s the best rapper in the country, as far as I’m concerned.
Introducing Spiral
Tim’s earlier works — worry > and masta — hinted at something bubbling under the surface. With Spiral, it erupts.
Tim- It’s more expansive than anything I’ve done. More tracks, more subject matter, more storytelling. I’m talking more. And it’s my first double-sided project.”
More tracks, more subject matter, more storytelling. I’m talking more. And it’s my first double-sided project.”
Tim Lyre
Inspired by old-school double-sided CDs, the idea was both nostalgic and strategic. “
Tim- Some of my favourite albums came like that. I wanted Side A and Side B to feel different sonically, but still connected. Each side tells its own story.
So, why the name Spiral?
Tim- Someone once told me spiraling means something negative, like a downward spiral. But for me, it’s about evolution,” Tim explains. “Life unravels — fast. You chase a dream and sometimes miss what’s happening around you. This album is me making sense of everything that’s happened — as an artist, as a person. It’s my evolution.
Intentional Collaborations
From Show Dem Camp to Binta, the album’s features are both eclectic and carefully placed.
Tim- I’m a studio writer type of artist, so I’m always around other creatives — producers, singers. Some people I connect with online, some through mutual friends. With Binta, for example, we’d been talking since worry < dropped. We finally linked up in London and made ‘Storytime’
Two standout features — Joshua Baraka (Uganda ) and Manana( South African) — reflect Tim’s ability to bridge the continent’s sounds.
Tim- Joshua was unexpected. I love his voice. The label reached out to his team, we were both in London, and it all just aligned. Manana, I’ve never met in person. We connected on Instagram. He sent his part back the same day I sent the song. Crazy.
Despite producing less than usual, Tim still crafted about 40% of the album’s sound.
Tim – This time I worked more with others. KC Freeley produced Economy, Lock In, Rocketship. Of course, Ronehi — that’s my long-time guy. We record almost every day. Dare also contributed to this one.
Bars From Real Life
Tim even flexes his rap muscles on the album. One of his favorite verses? From “Villagio” with Mojo:
“My kele just wan go abroad,
She said she want to hammer, rowo mo japa,
I say baby what you running from?
She say baby where I’m coming from,
I’m tired of niggas, they all do fraud…”
He laughs.
That’s real. A real conversation with a babe. She was moving out of the country ‘cause every guy she met was doing fraud. Lagos is not a real place.
Beyond the Booth: Songwriting and Discovery
Outside of his own records, Tim is gaining momentum as a songwriter, with credits on Boj’s album and even some work with Adekunle Gold.
Tim- Writing is new for me, but it’s been fun. There’s less pressure than when I write for myself. I try to step into their perspective. It’s a challenge I enjoy.
And he’s still discovering.
Tim – There’s this artist — Braye. Insane. Like a baby Nigerian Chronixx. His project I Wish I Had More Time is what I’ve been spinning lately.
The Live Experience
Tim isn’t just releasing music — he’s bringing it to the stage.
Tim – We’ve got merch coming soon and a live show on September 25th at Camden Assembly — that’s the biggest venue I’ve headlined so far. And we’re planning a show in Lagos towards the end of the year too.
When asked what he wants fans to take from Spiral, he’s reflective.
Personally, I hope it helps me break through a certain ceiling. For fans, I just want them to receive it the way I’m giving it — with love. If you’ve followed my music till now, this is just an expansion of all that. And I’m excited.
As the album builds, one track, Ski, marks a shift in tempo — the bounce kicks in.
“I always wanted to make one of those two-in-one songs,” Tim says. “The first part was inspired by a Boyz II Men song. I wanted to start R&B and then switch to a dancehall vibe. I didn’t know how it would land, but when it was done, I was proud of it.”
From church choirs to Camden stages, from Chop Life Crew to Spiral, Tim’s evolution is unfolding in real time. And if this album is any indication, we’re just witnessing the beginning of his next act.
Ebelebe took the stage at exactly 9pm and the rest is history
EBELEBE took the stage at the iconic KOKO Camden on Friday night, backed by his band and DJ, ready to run through a vibrant selection from his discography — especially his debut album Stubborn. The Nigerian superstar brought energy, charisma, and everything we came for.
For me, it was really the dancers that stole the show. Appearing at intervals, they delivered stellar performances to lyrics that practically conjure sensuality. And Vict0ny? He didn’t waste the moment — performing in sync with their every movement like it was all one seamless groove.
When it comes to production and setlist, one standout for me was the transitions between songs. One thing I’ve noticed in the Afrobeats live scene is how rough those transitions can be. But not here. Vict0ny embodied his creative edge with transitions that felt intentional and smooth, keeping the energy flowing without a single dip.
By 10 PM, the set wrapped up (KOKO had another event lined up), but it didn’t feel rushed. From start to finish, the audience was locked in, riding every beat. Vict0ny was the perfect leader for his Outlaw nation — myself included.
And this chant? It’s still in my head. TONY, WE WANNA PARTY!!
From a big Grammy nomination to his first single of the year—Lojay is clearly gearing up for something major. And if I had to bet? We’re getting an album.
Now, I’d be lying if I said I could predict what this pen god is about to bring on his debut album, but from the rollout of Somebody Like You, it smells like experimentation. Lojay might just be stepping into new sonic territory with this one. And while we wait, we need a follow-up feature with his longtime collaborator, Chris Brown, plus a few unexpected surprises. But first things first—where’s the album title and release date? We need answers.
On Somebody Like You, Lojay effortlessly crosses genres, fusing Afro-Latino influences with a lead guitar melody that pulls us right back home. And with Sarz—a certified legend—on production, this is exactly the kind of teaser that makes us want more from him on the full project.
“What if I gave you love to my ceiling?”—a standout line that lingers long after the track ends.
Lyrically, Lojay pours his entire heart out to a heartbreaker. “What if I gave you love to my ceiling?”—a standout line that lingers long after the track ends. The song is packed with raw emotion, layered with questions and regrets, as he hopes to find someone just like her. But seriously… who broke the Pen God’s heart?! Because now, he’s unstoppable.
Lojay for the Grammys
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