Ekpe, also known as Mgbe or Egbo, represents one of West Africa's most enduring and complex socio-political institutions. Found primarily among communities in southeastern Nigeria and southwestern Cameroon, Ekpe has functioned for centuries as simultaneously a governance system, religious organization, and cultural preservation mechanism. The name "Ekpe," meaning leopard in the Ekoi language (derived from the Efik term), reflects the qualities central to the society: power, authority, and vigilance. While its direct political authority has diminished in the modern era, Ekpe continues to operate as a significant ceremonial and cultural institution, maintaining practices that blend governance, ritual, music, and symbolic communication.

This examination explores Ekpe's historical development, organizational structure, communication systems, and ongoing cultural significance, while acknowledging the inherent limitations of external scholarship regarding an institution that safeguards much of its knowledge for initiated members only.

Geographic Distribution and Cultural Context

Ekpe is most prominent among the Ejagham people of the Cross River region, but has spread to encompass the Efik and Bahumono peoples of Cross River State, the Ibibio, Uruan, and Oron of Akwa Ibom State, and communities in Arochukwu and parts of Abia State in Nigeria. Regional variations exist in practice, terminology, and emphasis, reflecting the society's adaptation to local contexts while maintaining core principles.

The transatlantic slave trade carried Ekpe traditions across the Atlantic, where they influenced the development of the Abakuá society in Cuba and similar organizations in Brazil. While these diaspora societies transformed significantly in their new contexts, they demonstrate the resilience and adaptability of Ekpe's foundational concepts. The persistence of these traditions outside Africa illustrates how enslaved Africans maintained cultural connections despite violent displacement.

Oral traditions and ethnographic evidence suggest that Ekpe emerged in forest communities of the Cross River region, with some scholars estimating its origins around the 17th century, though precise dating remains difficult given the oral nature of its historical transmission. The society appears to have developed as a response to the need for order, justice, and unity in areas characterized by dispersed settlements and the absence of centralized political authority.

Ekpe's expansion across the region occurred through multiple channels: trade networks that connected coastal and interior communities, migration patterns, intermarriage between groups, and the deliberate establishment of lodges in new territories. This spread created an interconnected system of authority that transcended individual communities, facilitating regional cooperation and shared legal frameworks.

The colonial period significantly impacted Ekpe's authority. British colonial administrators, implementing indirect rule and introducing Western legal systems, systematically undermined traditional governance institutions. While Ekpe lost much of its judicial and political power during this period, it adapted by emphasizing its cultural, ceremonial, and social functions—roles it continues to fulfill today.

Ekpe membership has traditionally been restricted to men, though women's auxiliary organizations exist in some communities and play important cultural roles that warrant further scholarly attention. Initiation into Ekpe involves ritual processes, oaths of secrecy, and progressive instruction in the society's knowledge systems. The initiation journey represents not merely admission to a social club but entrance into a structured system of knowledge, responsibility, and authority.

The society operates through a hierarchical rank system, with advancement requiring time, demonstrated character, financial contribution, and deeper engagement with Ekpe's ritual and symbolic knowledge. While the specific titles and number of ranks vary by region and ethnic group, the principle remains consistent: greater knowledge and authority correlate with higher rank. Senior members serve as custodians of tradition, mediators in disputes, and teachers for junior initiates.

Sacred objects central to Ekpe practice include Ukara cloth (featuring Nsibidi symbols), ceremonial masks representing leopards and ancestral spirits, specialized musical instruments, and ritual regalia. These items are carefully protected, with access restricted according to rank and ritual context. Their meanings extend beyond aesthetic value, functioning as repositories of historical knowledge and symbols of legitimate authority.

Ekpe's use of music represents a sophisticated system of coded communication rather than mere entertainment or religious expression. Various instruments serve specific communicative functions: friction drums, talking drums, slit gongs, bells, wooden clappers, and clay pots. Each produces distinctive sounds that, when combined in particular patterns and rhythms, convey messages understood by initiated members.

These musical codes allowed Ekpe to announce gatherings, issue warnings, signal the beginning of ritual activities, communicate judicial decisions, and even transmit specific instructions across distances. To uninitiated listeners, the sounds might appear festive or ceremonial, but to Ekpe members, they constitute a functional language capable of conveying complex information. This dual nature—publicly audible yet privately meaningful—exemplifies Ekpe's broader approach to secrecy, which operates not through complete concealment but through restricted interpretation.

The drums also served practical governance functions. In communities where Ekpe held judicial authority, specific rhythms might announce curfews, signal the opening of investigations, or communicate punishments. This acoustic authority reinforced Ekpe's power, as the sounds themselves carried the weight of law and tradition.

Nsibidi: The Visual Language of Authority

Nsibidi, the symbolic writing system intimately connected with Ekpe, functions as the society's visual language and intellectual framework. This ideographic system uses symbols to represent concepts, objects, actions, and abstract ideas. While not a phonetic writing system in the Western sense, Nsibidi effectively records and transmits complex information across time and space.

Nsibidi symbols appear on Ukara cloth worn during ceremonies, on ritual objects and instruments, in body markings applied during initiations, and on architectural elements of meeting houses. The system operates on multiple levels of accessibility. Some basic symbols are publicly known and appear in secular contexts, while more complex symbols and their deeper meanings remain restricted to initiated members. The most powerful and sacred symbols are accessible only to the highest ranks.

The significance of Nsibidi extends beyond practical communication. Mastery of the symbolic system requires years of study and demonstrates intellectual achievement, patience, and discipline. The symbols encode Ejagham, Efik, and related peoples' philosophical concepts, legal principles, historical narratives, and moral teachings. In this way, Nsibidi serves as both a practical tool and a pedagogical system, teaching initiates the values and worldview central to Ekpe philosophy.

Contemporary scholars have documented publicly accessible Nsibidi symbols, but significant gaps remain in external knowledge of the system. This reflects both the legitimate protection of sacred knowledge and the historical challenges researchers face in studying institutions that purposefully limit access to information. Ethical scholarship on Nsibidi requires respecting these boundaries while documenting what can be appropriately shared.

Historically, Ekpe operated as a multifaceted institution serving numerous social needs. Its judicial functions included arbitrating disputes between individuals and families, enforcing contracts and agreements (particularly in trade), imposing and collecting fines for violations of communal norms, and determining appropriate punishments for serious offenses. Ekpe's authority in these matters derived from both its spiritual connection to ancestral power and its practical monopoly on legitimate force within communities.

Beyond legal matters, Ekpe regulated economic activity, particularly trade. In the Cross River region's complex commercial networks, Ekpe membership often facilitated business relationships, as members trusted fellow initiates to honor agreements. The society also established market regulations, mediated trade disputes, and sometimes controlled access to certain commercial opportunities.

Spiritually, Ekpe reinforced respect for ancestors and the interconnection between the living and the dead. Rituals invoked ancestral authority to sanction laws and decisions. This spiritual dimension was not separate from Ekpe's governance functions but integral to them, as legitimate authority was understood to flow from properly maintained relationships with the ancestral realm.

Socially, Ekpe created bonds that transcended kinship groups and village boundaries. Membership established a shared identity and mutual obligations among men who might otherwise have limited connection. This network strengthened regional cooperation and helped integrate individuals who moved between communities through trade or migration. The society also provided social insurance, with members supporting one another during crises, funerals, and other significant life events.

Ekpe masquerades represent the society's most visible public expression. During festivals and ceremonies, masked performers emerge to execute highly choreographed dances and movements. The masks typically represent leopards—reflecting Ekpe's primary symbol—or ancestral spirits. Costumes incorporate raffia, feathers, beads, and cloth marked with Nsibidi symbols, creating visually striking appearances that command attention and respect.

These performances operate on multiple levels simultaneously. For the general public, they provide entertainment, spectacle, and connection to tradition. For initiated members, the performances communicate specific messages through their choreography, the symbols displayed, and the contexts in which they occur. The movements, gestures, and interactions between masked figures tell stories, reinforce moral lessons, and sometimes reference current community issues or disputes.

The dual nature of masquerade performance—publicly accessible yet privately meaningful—exemplifies Ekpe's approach to secrecy and power. Non-members witness the performances and may understand their general significance, but the full meaning remains accessible only to initiates. This creates a shared cultural experience while simultaneously marking boundaries of knowledge and authority. The performances also generate awe and sometimes fear, reinforcing Ekpe's authority through aesthetic and emotional impact.

Contemporary Practice and Cultural Preservation

In contemporary Nigeria and Cameroon, Ekpe functions primarily as a cultural and ceremonial institution rather than a formal governance structure. Modern state systems have assumed most of Ekpe's historical judicial and administrative functions. Nevertheless, the society remains active and significant in several ways.

Ekpe continues to organize festivals and ceremonies that celebrate cultural heritage and maintain traditional practices. These events serve as important markers of ethnic identity, particularly in urban contexts where traditional culture faces pressure from globalization and modernization. For many communities, Ekpe festivals represent the most visible and elaborate expressions of cultural continuity.

The society also maintains informal influence in some communities, with Ekpe members playing leadership roles in local governance, community development initiatives, and conflict resolution. While this influence lacks the formal authority Ekpe once held, it demonstrates the ongoing respect for the institution and its values.

Cultural preservation represents perhaps Ekpe's most important contemporary function. By maintaining knowledge of Nsibidi, traditional music, ritual practices, and historical narratives, the society serves as a living repository of cultural knowledge that might otherwise be lost. Younger generations' engagement with Ekpe—even in modified forms—helps ensure the transmission of this heritage.

In the diaspora, particularly Cuba, the Abakuá society continues to practice traditions derived from Ekpe, though significantly transformed by the Cuban context and centuries of independent development. The persistence of these traditions demonstrates the profound impact of African cultural systems and their capacity for adaptation and survival under radically changed circumstances.

Any external examination of Ekpe faces inherent limitations. Much of the society's knowledge remains appropriately restricted to initiated members, and scholars must respect these boundaries. What can be documented and discussed publicly represents only a portion of Ekpe's full complexity. This creates an asymmetry in understanding, where insiders possess knowledge unavailable to outsiders, including researchers.

Additionally, the term "secret society" itself, while widely used, may not fully capture Ekpe's nature. The society is not entirely secret—its existence, general functions, and public activities are well known. Rather, it operates through selective disclosure, with different levels of knowledge accessible to different groups. This nuance sometimes gets lost in scholarship that relies on Western categorical frameworks.

Contemporary debates also exist about Ekpe's evolution and authenticity. As with any living tradition, practices change over time, raising questions about what constitutes legitimate continuity versus innovation or corruption of tradition. These debates play out within Ekpe communities and reflect broader tensions between cultural preservation and adaptation to changing circumstances.

In conclusion, the Ekpe society represents a sophisticated African system of governance, communication, and cultural organization that has demonstrated remarkable resilience across centuries of change. From its origins in Cross River forest communities through the colonial disruptions and into the contemporary era, Ekpe has adapted while maintaining core principles and practices.

Ekpe's use of symbolic communication through Nsibidi, musical codes, and masquerade performance illustrates the diversity of human knowledge systems and challenges assumptions about literacy, governance, and cultural complexity. The society developed effective mechanisms for maintaining order, transmitting knowledge, and creating social cohesion long before European contact and independent of Western institutional models.

Today, as Ekpe communities navigate the challenges of cultural preservation in a rapidly globalizing world, questions emerge about how traditional institutions can maintain relevance and authenticity while adapting to new realities. The ongoing practice of Ekpe traditions—whether in Nigeria, Cameroon, or Cuba—suggests that these systems possess an inherent flexibility that has enabled their survival.

Understanding Ekpe requires acknowledging both what can be known from outside and what remains appropriately protected. This balance between documentation and respect, between scholarly inquiry and cultural boundaries, continues to shape how researchers and the public engage with this enduring West African institution. Ekpe's persistence reminds us that cultural heritage is not merely historical artifact but living practice, continually interpreted and enacted by communities who find meaning and value in maintaining connection with their ancestors' wisdom.

The Ekpe secret society emerged in Cross River region forest communities around the 17th century

Ekpe Secret Society

The Ekpe Secret Society: Its Governance, Ritual, and Symbolism in West Africa

Gqom emerged in the early 2010s and quickly took its place in South Africa’s music scene with its raw, minimalist sound. What started in Durban’s underground scene spread fast, eventually catching global attention.

Recently, Spotify reported a 5,732% increase in global Gqom streams since 2018, with peak listening consistently happening on Saturdays between 5pm and 6pm - cementing it as a go-to soundtrack for nightlife and party culture worldwide.

While Gqom is often described simply as South African dance music, the genre has deep roots in traditional house and kwaito. It reworked these foundations by taking out the steady 4/4 kick pattern of typical house music and replacing it with minimalist, broken rhythms. Its sound is defined by heavy basslines, rolling drums and sharp synths, making it distinct from its predecessors.

As the genre grew, it received a notable boost through popular culture. Gqom music influences found its way onto the Black Panther (2018) soundtrack through the track Redemption, credited to Zacari and Babes Wodumo. While “Redemption” blends influences, Babes Wodumo's feature brought Gqom's energy to a massive global platform. As one of Gqom’s defining voices - best known for her hit Wololo - her release effectively carried the sound into a major global moment.

But that global visibility didn't emerge in a vacuum—it was built on years of groundwork by the genre's architects. Gqom's rise was led by early pioneers such as DJ Lag and Distruction Boyz. Tracks like Ice Drop captured the genre’s percussive intensity and helped define its sonic identity. Other key contributors—include Naked Boyz, Rude Boyz, DJ Kay Bee, TLC Fam, and Citizen Boy.

In the genre's early years, minibus taxis served as Gqom’s testing ground. Because the genre’s heavy bass and compressed rhythms cut through noisy environments, taxis became moving sound systems. As Nan Kolè explains in the documentary Woza Taxi, blasting Gqom was a proven way to attract passengers - if your taxi played Gqom, people noticed.

Today, Gqom continues to dominate domestic streaming charts in cities like Durban, Cape Town, Johannesburg, Pretoria, Port Elizabeth, and Bloemfontein. Internationally, the genre has built strong followings in London, Nairobi, Harare, and Gaborone, with South Africans making up about 39% of its global audience. Standout tracks such as Midnight Starring by Busiswa, Ama Gear by Dlala Thukzin, Wololo by Babes Wodumo, and John Cena by Sho Madjozi have pushed the sound further into the global spotlight.

In today’s industry, Gqom has evolved from an underground movement into a recognized pillar of South African electronic music, with its influence firmly embedded in global club culture like other mainstream genres such as Afrobeats and Amapiano, making it a powerful reminder of how local street sounds can grow and claim its place in the global music conversation.

Gqom (pronounced with a click of the tongue – Nqu-om) is a pulsating and energetic sound started by teenagers in Durban.

Genre Spotlight: Gqom

Genre Spotlight: Gqom in South Africa

Cape Verdean Morna - often referred to as the Queen’s Music, is a heritage genre shaped by centuries of migration, loss, and return. Its earliest roots lie in the Portuguese colonial era, when enslaved women brought to the islands from West Africa used improvised, sung speech to express daily struggles - forced labour, separation from home, food scarcity, and emotional isolation.

These early expressions, led largely by women, established Morna’s focus on intimacy and lived experience, long before the genre took its later lyrical and harmonic form. These singers, known as cantadeiras, turned their lived experiences into music that carried a lot of emotion.

As the genre grew, morna shifted from its earlier, faster style to the reflective and deeply nostalgic sound we see today. Built on melody, poetry, and a gentle dance rhythm, it is usually sung in Kriolu, though instrumental versions are also common.

The music blends African rhythms with Portuguese fado and later hints of Brazilian modinha. Instruments such as the guitar, cavaquinho, violin, clarinet, and accordion form its core.

Morna is more of a slow to mid-tempo music, built on simple verse-led structures with spaced phrases and restrained vocals, placing most of its emotional focus on the tone and timing rather than groove or vocal swell, which distinguishes it from the likes of Afro-soul and related forms of music found in Africa.

By the late 19th century, Eugénio Tavares of Brava Island had reshaped morna into a slow, sentimental form centered on themes of longing, separation, and sodade—the Cape Verdean expression for emotional yearning. In the 1920s, B. Léza added new harmonic colors, borrowing Brazilian guitar techniques that gave morna a richer feel.

The legendary Cesária Évora carried Morna onto international stages in the 1990s by retaining its slow tempo and emotional intimacy, singing largely in Cape Verdean Creole with a conversational vocal style, and presenting the genre through European concert halls and world-music circuits - often barefoot - without reshaping it for pop or dance audiences, securing Morna’s global recognition while preserving its cultural core.

Today, artists like Lura, Betú, Tito Paris, Toy Vieira, Cremilda Medina, and Lucibela continue to honor the tradition while introducing fresh interpretations that speak to younger listeners.

Much of Morna’s survival can be credited to dedicated musicians who pass their knowledge to new generations. Many elderly instrumentalists mentor young players, teaching the subtleties of the genre’s guitar lines, vocal phrasing, and poetic structure.

Cultural institutions and the Cape Verdean government support this work through music programs, workshops, and annual events such as Todo Mundo Canta (Everybody Sings), where young performers from across the islands share their interpretations of morna.

The genre's turning point came after independence in 1975, when it moved from a marginal, working-class expression to a national cultural symbol. Previously socially marginalized under colonial rule, it gained wider recognition through recordings, radio, formal composition, and diaspora exposure.

Today, morna remains the emotional heartbeat of Cabo Verde. It may not dominate pop charts like contemporary genres do, but it thrives in homes, neighborhood gatherings, community festivals, and late-night jam sessions - spaces where a familiar chorus invites everyone to sing along and keep the tradition alive.

Morna is more of a slow to mid-tempo music, built on simple verse-led structures with spaced phrases and restrained vocals.

Genre Spotlight: Morna in Cape Verde

Afrobeats has been the global rave since the mid-2010s, soundtracking a new era of African music global dominance. From Wizkid’s “Ojuelegba” and Burna Boy’s “Ye” to Davido’s “Fall”, the genre’s infectious rhythms and pan-African energy reshaped global pop. Then came Amapiano. Born in South Africa’s townships and exported to the world in the 2020s through hits like “Sponono” (Kabza De Small, Wizkid, Burna Boy, Cassper Nyovest, Madumane) and “Tshwala Bam” (Toss, Tyler ICU, Nandipha808). With its hypnotic log drums, soulful synths, and dance-floor pull, Amapiano became the soundtrack of a generation ready to move.

Some might argue it’s too early for a new sound to emerge, yet the African continent has always been a melting pot of evolving rhythms like Arbantone from Kenya or Altè in East Africa. Across studios and dance floors, new hybrids are already forming. Could it be Afro Rave, Arewa sound, or a refined Afro House/Afro tech?

Afro Rave, a name credited to Nigerian artist Rema, blends Afrobeats with Arabian and Indian influences in tracks like “Calm Down” and “Charm.” The term also doubles as a lifestyle, representing high-energy, cross-cultural expression in both music, parties, and other live events.

Meanwhile, Arewa Sound, a broad label for the rising Northern Nigerian music movement, is finding its footing. Artists like B.O.C Madaki and Di’Ja fuse Hausa lyrics with contemporary pop, hip-hop, and dance elements, carving out a distinct identity from mainstream Afrobeats.

Then there’s Afro House and Afro tech, two genres gaining renewed momentum through acts like Black Coffee, Da Capo, Shimza, and Moonchild Sanelly. With electronic textures, deep percussion, and ancestral roots, these sounds are redefining what it means to “dance African.”

So, as Afrobeats continues to dominate and Amapiano still shakes speakers worldwide, the question remains: what will be Africa’s next global sound?

Your guess is as good as ours. Let’s watch and see!

Yes! Afrobeats, Amapiano, and ... what is the next global sound evolving from Africa?

Afrobeats, Amapiano, and what next?

Afrobeats, Amapiano… and What Next?

There’s been a lot of noise around Detty December in Lagos. This year, the festive season was said to have officially kicked off with an event at the Library restaurant and club, setting the tone for what is already shaping up to be another high-energy end-of-year run. From the approval of the Federal Government’s new Presidential Task Force aimed at formalizing and boosting the festive economy to the loud rush of short-let promotions and a flood of online event ads, Lagos is fully primed for the December crowd.

Yet beyond the frenzy and the long list of parties waiting to thrill revellers, there is a real opportunity here for indie artists. This season brings audiences, brands, and influencers together in the same city at the same time. It is one of the few periods when visibility, collaboration and cultural attention peak together.

The question is: how can you, an indie artist, capitalize on this moment to grow their careers and increase their social capital?

For you, Detty December should be more than a festive season. It is a unique moment for visibility and career momentum. Even if the biggest stages are out of reach, smaller platforms like rooftop sessions, brunch concerts and pop-up events can offer you more room for discovery. These relatively smaller spaces are where you can make your strongest first impressions, because crowds in December are more open, curious and ready to stumble on something fresh.

The return of the diaspora also brings an audience eager to reconnect with home and explore new sounds. You can tap into this energy with sets, freestyles, or content that fuses nostalgia with what is currently shaping Lagos culture for quick amplification.

There’s always one best-kept secret: Collaboration is easier this season. With many creators in town and the general openness to spontaneous creativity, a quick studio session, an acoustic version or a freestyle video can travel far if captured and shared immediately. So, don’t hold back. Ask! Collaborate! and Share!

Instead of chasing record labels, look out for lifestyle brands that are trying to stand out during the rush. Restaurants, shortlet hosts, fashion collectives, beach clubs and nightlife promoters all need content and ambience. A smart partnership can offer free visibility, paid sets or cross-promotion, and help position you as a cultural asset rather than just a performer. Social media also becomes more powerful in December because attention revolves around real-time experiences. Short clips, fan reactions, behind-the-scenes snippets and Lagos street energy tend to perform well, especially when venues and promoters are tagged on location.

Beyond the music itself, December is a time when personality sells. People want someone to root for during the season, and artists who show humor, attitude, vulnerability or style often stand out. So, go hone your social and emotional skills. If you are unable to secure major bookings, curating a tiny personal experience can be just as effective. A backyard session, a studio hangout, a listening night or a rooftop mini-concert can create deeper loyalty than a large stage, because intimacy converts audiences into early evangelists.

This period is also ideal for releasing something exclusive. Whether it is a holiday freestyle, a short Lagos-themed EP, a photo dump zine or simple merch tied to the season, put something out there. Limited items build urgency and give fans something to hold on to long after the festivities fade. And through all of this, remember to collect data: names, emails, social handles or WhatsApp opt-ins at every event. Social capital grows fastest when you can reconnect with people long after the December dust settles.

In the end, Detty December is a playground of possibility. As an indie artist, you must be willing to be present, intentional and creative. This is one of the most powerful moments of the year to grow your career and expand your cultural footprint.

Detty December isn’t just vibes but opportunity for indie artists to be seen, heard and remembered. Learn how to turn Lagos’ festive chaos into momentum

Your Detty December Opportunities

It is commonly said that most ethnic groups in Africa have patriarchal structures. However, there are notable exceptions where the women lead, such as the Bijagó people off the coast of Guinea-Bissau, the Akan communities in southern and central Ghana, Côte d’Ivoire, and Togo, as well as the ancient Kingdom of Kush, which is located in present-day northern Sudan and southern Egypt. Notably, these patriarchal structures have shaped many aspects of life, including music.

Across the continent, several instruments have been historically reserved for men. In Kenya, the nyatiti was strictly played by the male gender until Anyango (Eriko Mukoyama), a female Japanese player, famously broke a tradition thousands of years old. We also saw the beautiful 21-string Kora, which is predominant among the griot families of the Mandinka people in countries like Mali, Senegal, and Gambia, being passed down from father to son. There’s also the Kakaki, historically linked to the Songhai cavalry and now predominant in the Northern part of Nigeria, Chad, Sudan, Burkina Faso, Benin, and Niger. It is still associated with royal courts and praise singing for emirs and sultans.

Why then were women excluded from playing some instruments, and why are we seeing more acceptance today?

The reasons are deeply rooted in traditional belief systems and social structures. Many of these instruments held sacred or ceremonial significance, often tied to male initiation rites, warrior traditions, or political authority. The nyatiti, for example, was believed to carry spiritual power that only men could handle. The Kora’s restriction within griot lineages wasn’t just about gender; it was about preserving family secrets, musical techniques, and the oral histories passed through patrilineal inheritance. The Kakaki’s association with military prowess and royal courts made it a symbol of male power and political hierarchy.

There were also practical considerations embedded in these traditions. Since many of these instruments were played in public spaces, royal courts, or battlefields (domains controlled by men), women’s exclusion became normalized over centuries and hardened into prohibitions. Some communities believed that women playing certain instruments could bring misfortune or that the physical demands of instruments like the Kakaki were unsuitable for women.

But times are changing, and the acceptance we’re seeing now comes from multiple directions. Globalization and education have challenged rigid gender roles, while urbanization has weakened some traditional strictures. Women musicians have boldly challenged these barriers, such as Anyango and Atisana (also known as Jennifer Atieno), who not only learned to play the nyatiti but also mastered it, earning respect in the process. We’re also seeing more women Kora players, such as Sona Jobarteh, Guylene Solon, Kandia Kouyaté, and Zena Carlota, emerging, while younger generations are beginning to question why gender should determine musical expression.

Organizations that seek to promote cultural preservation now recognize that excluding half the population from musical traditions poses a significant threat to the survival of those traditions. And perhaps most importantly, audiences (both African and global) have shown they care more about the beauty and skill of the music than the gender of the person playing it.

The acceptance isn’t universal or complete, and resistance still exists in many communities. But the conversation has shifted from “women can’t” to “why shouldn’t they?” And that shift, however gradual, is opening doors that were closed for millennia.

The conversation has shifted from 'women can't' to 'why shouldn't they?' And that shift, however gradual, is opening doors that were closed for millennia.

Why then were women excluded from playing some instruments

Gender Roles in African Music Traditions

Across Africa, animal carvings hold meanings that extend beyond mere decoration. They act as markers of power, spirituality, and identity. For centuries, communities have carved different animals, especially lions, elephants, birds, serpents, antelopes, and crocodiles, into wood, stone, ivory, and metal. These figures can be found in royal courts, shrines, initiation spaces, as well as during farming and funeral ceremonies. Each animal and its carving carries a meaning shaped by the people who created it, the place they lived, the gods they worshipped, and the social structures they inherited.

In many cultures, the lion represents kingship, authority, strength, courage, and protection. Among the Akan people of Ghana, the carving of the lion (called gyata in Twi) appears on several royal objects such as sandals & stools, state swords (afena), and fantasy coffins (Abebuu adekai). In Southern Africa, among the Zulu and Tswana, their leaders are called iBhubesi, meaning "lion." The chiefs wore parts of the lion, and some parts of the animal are used in rituals. Meanwhile, among the Sepedi and Tsonga, the white lions were said to be the children of the Sun God or reincarnated chiefs.

The crocodile symbolizes duality, adaptability, wisdom, skill, unity, and spiritual power. In Mali, the Bamana and Dogon peoples ascribe various meanings to crocodile carvings. Among the Bamana, the crocodile, known as dantigimari, and other animal carvings are utilized in peaceful mediation between competing spiritual or social forces. They also appear on door locks and serve as clan protectors. For the Dogon people, crocodile carvings on granary doors and locks signify protection. In their rituals, the crocodile represents sacred elements and plays a key role in their mythology.

Elephants are represented in carvings that symbolize leadership, strength, memory, family, wisdom, power, loyalty, and longevity. The Bamileke people of Cameroon use elephant masks, known as Mbap Mteng, during various events, including royal ceremonies, funerals, and festivals. Among the Igbo people of Nigeria, elephant tusks serve as symbols of power and blessings. Overall, the elephant embodies a leadership that is steady and enduring.

Antelope carvings symbolize creativity, fertility, agricultural abundance, renewal, and the connection between humanity and nature. The Bamana Chi Wara headdress honors a figure believed to have taught people how to farm. The Dogon incorporate antelope figures into their funerary rites, while the Mossi include them in farming ceremonies. The antelope represents growth and the knowledge necessary to sustain life.

Bird imagery often relates to spiritual power. For the Yoruba people, the night bird represents feminine spiritual power and is found in carvings on sacred bowls, crowns, and architectural designs. These birds are associated with aje, which are spiritual societies predominantly composed of women. In Southern Africa, the Shona carved the famous Zimbabwe Bird, believed to represent ancestral spirits that oversee the land and now serves as a national emblem. Among the Akan, bird images are found on royal umbrellas, signaling prudence, foresight, and wisdom. Birds frequently serve as intermediaries between earth and sky, humans and gods, leaders and fate.

The leopard represents another kind of authority. It is elite, elusive, nimble, and often associated with secret societies. Among the Igbo of Nigeria, leopard carvings are connected to the Nze na Ozo system, which distinguishes individuals who have achieved high moral standards and social responsibility. In the historic Benin Kingdom, carved brass leopards once stood guard at palace entrances as symbols of the Oba’s supreme power. In the Cross River area and Cameroon, the Ekpe or Ngbe societies utilize leopard imagery in ceremonies related to justice, initiation, and community governance. In these contexts, the leopard signifies disciplined and calculated influence.

The serpent is a prevalent symbol throughout West and Central Africa, representing protection, healing, and cosmic forces. In Benin, the Fon people celebrate the rainbow serpent Dan, also known as Ayida Wedo, a deity of creation and balance whose image appears on royal and spiritual items. Among the Dogon, the serpent stands for Lebe, an ancestral spirit who safeguards the earth and ensures fertility in agriculture. In Yoruba traditions, serpentine motifs are found in shrines dedicated to Osun, reinforcing ideas of healing, purity, and continuous transformation. Overall, the serpent represents the life cycle, encompassing moments of endings and beginnings, as well as the renewal that occurs in between.

The buffalo symbolizes endurance and communal strength. Among the Senufo of Côte d’Ivoire, buffalo helmet masks play a key role in Poro Society rites of passage, where young initiates learn discipline, leadership, and community responsibilities. In Luba ceremonies, the buffalo image confirms stability in leadership. The Zulu associate the buffalo with warrior lineage and community protection. Across these cultures, the buffalo consistently embodies the concept of shared power rather than individual strength.

Together, these animal carvings create a living visual language. They continue to shape modern African identity systems, brand storytelling, architecture, film, animation, fashion, digital art, and the broader creative economy. They are not mere relics; they are systems of design and philosophy, cultural memories that still influence how people understand authority, spirituality, innovation, and belonging.

These animal carvings create a living visual language and continue to shape modern African identity systems and the creative economy

Spiritual Symbols of African Animal Carvings

A few days ago, Jazzman Olofin called out Adekunle Gold for performing his hit song “Raise Da Roof” without permission. Many people have weighed in on this situation. Some said his publishing company should handle it, while others argued it was just a rehearsal and did not occur at the actual event. There were also opinions suggesting that venue publishing could manage the payout, among many other thoughts.

Before sharing our own view, we want to discuss the techniques used when modifying or reworking an existing song. The most common techniques include remastering, remixing, reimagining, sampling, and interpolation.

These important techniques play crucial roles in improving a song. They allow artists to express themselves in unique ways, experiment with different styles, redefine the soundscape, and promote African music. This approach helps introduce music to new audiences and presents it in new contexts for existing listeners.

What are these techniques and what do they mean?

Remastering involves taking the original audio and applying various processes to update the recording for a modern audience. This technique aims to improve the audio quality of classic recordings to meet current standards. It enhances tracks by reducing unwanted noises and optimizing the dynamic range. Remastering can also bring new clarity and higher resolution to tracks, making them sound clearer and richer, which is especially beneficial for older African songs. A great example is “Joromi” by Sir Victor Uwaifo.

In contrast, remixing is the most common way to rework existing songs. This process involves taking a recorded or released song and creating an alternative version by changing its elements. It often includes collaborations and experimentation. Changes can involve altering the tempo, adding or removing instruments or vocals, introducing new sounds or beats, and rearranging the song’s structure. Remixes can extend a song's lifespan, keeping it relevant and reaching new audiences. A notable example is the original version of the trending dance song “Tshwala Bam” by South African artists TiToM and Yuppe, along with a remixed version featuring Burna Boy. Another example is “Joromi” by Sir Victor Uwaifo, which features Mya Blue, the first AI-generated virtual artist created by Nigerian producer Nkasiobi Chukwu, also known as Eclipse Nkasi.

Reimagining, also known as reimagination, is a new interpretation of an existing song. This process significantly alters the original composition with clear changes in arrangement, instrumentation, genre, or style. It involves a more artistic and creative approach to remaking a song. From another angle, reimagination in music production serves as a marketing strategy to attract attention to the original track and artist while showcasing the contributions of new artists in the reimagined version. A solid example is the reimagined version of Styl-plus’ “Olufunmi” by ID Cabasa featuring Fireboy DML, Odumodublvck, BOJ, and Joeboy.

Another technique is sampling, which involves taking a part of another song and using it in a new piece. This portion can be a short snippet or a longer loop, often modified in various ways such as being chopped up or processed to make it less recognizable. It's important to obtain permission from the record label and a copyright license from the rights holder. For instance, listen to “Never Told” by Sizz The Truth, who sampled Alhaji K. Frimpong’s “Kyenkyen Bi Adi Mawu.”

Finally, there’s interpolation. This technique is the opposite of sampling. It involves recreating a melody note for note or using a melody from a previous song but re-recording it rather than directly sampling. An example is Ayra’s interpolation of “You Bad” by Wande Coal in Jazzy’s song.

Overall, beyond improving the listening experience, each technique offers a unique way to enjoy an existing song while providing a personal touch for modern audiences.

With this understanding, you can now identify whether a song was remixed, remastered, reimagined, sampled, or interpolated. Whether it’s a subtle remaster or a remix, these techniques highlight the versatility and creativity of music as an art form. They also help preserve and promote African music, ensuring it evolves and reaches new audiences globally while providing opportunities for collaboration and innovation.

I know you're still waiting for our stance on the issue between Jazzman Olofin and Adekunle Gold. But first, tell us: what technique did Adekunle Gold use for the remake? Watch the video here. If you figure it out, you may learn our position.

The blog post on African Music Library on Remastering, Remixing, Reimagination, Sampling, Interpolation: What’s the difference?

Remastering, Remixing, Reimagination, Sampling, Interpolation: What’s the difference?

Remastering, Remixing, Reimagining, Sampling, and Interpolation: What’s the difference?

Igbo rap emerged in Nigeria's southeast as a distinct variety of hip-hop, gaining momentum from the early 2000s onwards. Rather than mirroring American styles directly, the genre draws heavily from Igbo musical heritage, including rhythms, call-and-response patterns, and traditional instruments such as the igba, udu, and ogene. These artists often blend these elements with highlife, Afro-soul, R&B, or Afrobeats, while rapping mostly in Igbo and occasionally interchanging to Nigerian pidgin.

The early days of Igbo rap were shaped by figures like Mr. Raw, Slowdog, and MC Loph, whose work established the foundation. This linguistic identity across different regions became so central to the sound that the Headies eventually created a dedicated category for indigenous rap styles, allowing Igbo rap to stand side by side with mainstream English-language hip-hop rather than under it.

In the 2000s, tracks such as Mr. Raw's "Obodo" and "Hip Hop Gyration," along with collaborations with Ruggedman and 2Shotz, helped push the sound into public consciousness. A later generation, led by Illbliss, Phyno, Ruffcoin, and Slowdog, expanded the genre's reach by merging street-focused rap with Afrobeats-friendly production. Songs like "Eriwa" by Ruffcoin, "40ft Containers" by Illbliss, and "Achikolo," "Abulo," "Grateful," and "Ghostmode" by Phyno demonstrated how Igbo rap could work both on the dancefloor and in storytelling.

Across the genre's evolution, one of the most defining changes came from Phyno. Before his breakthrough, many Igbo rap songs revolved around broader social commentary or cultural pride. Phyno reframed the genre by centering the realities of the youth: street survival, struggle, ambition, and coded slang that only insiders and proper Igbo boys could decode. His use of everyday Igbo expressions and gritty street terms (ezege, aburo, ofeke, iyoo, aloba, ochonganoko, idiroo mma) created a new linguistic universe that younger rappers now use either consciously or unconsciously. In his production, the metallic ring of the ogene often punctuates trap-style hi-hats, while traditional call-and-response structures frame verses that toggle between boastful confidence and existential reflection.

This change brought about a cultural ripple. Words that once lived only on the street appeared on artists' merchandise, in casual slang, and across social media, strengthening the identity of the movement. Phyno's influence is so pronounced that many emerging rappers subtly nod to him in their delivery, worldview, or lyrical phrasing.

Today, a new wave has taken root across eastern cities like Awka, Onitsha, and Enugu. Artists such as JeriQ, Rhatti, Aguero Banks, Highstarlavista, Sparkle Tee, and Rord Kelly are drawing from drill, street rap, and local rhythms to shape a grittier, more aggressive sound. JeriQ's "Stucc in the Grind" and Sparkle Tee's "Ofor" exemplify this shift—hard-edged production meets raw storytelling about hustle and survival. These rappers no longer feel pressured to relocate to Lagos for approval. They do their collaborations when necessary, but return to the East, where they sell out shows, grow a strong fanbase, and keep their culture sustained.

Igbo rap emerged in Nigeria’s southeast as a distinct variety of hip-hop, gaining momentum from the early 2000s onwards

Genre Spotlight: Igbo Rap in Nigeria

Kadongo Kamu is not just one of Uganda’s oldest genres, it is the oldest mainstream genre in the country. The term comes from the Ganda phrase meaning “one little guitar,” a reference to its original structure: a music built around a single acoustic guitar. While other instruments are sometimes included today, the purest form of Kadongo Kamu still relies solely on that guitar as its core.

The genre evolved from Bakisimba, a traditional Ganda drumming and dance style. Its heavy bass drum patterns were easily replicated onto the bass guitar, allowing early musicians to recreate traditional rhythms without carrying the large drums. This is how the guitar became the defining instrument of the style.

Fred Masagazi is widely regarded as the father of Kadongo Kamu. His socially conscious storytelling earned him a huge following, and he played a role during Uganda’s independence era in 1962. Elly Wamala was another key pioneer, though he later moved away from the genre, believing it had become too accessible to musicians he felt lacked formal training.

Other influential artists who shaped or sustained the genre include Paulo Kafeero, Herman Basudde, Fred Sebatta, Mathias Walukagga, , Mulindwa Vvumbi, Alice Nabatta, Matia Luyima, Minsusera Ssegamwenge, and Mamuli Katumba.

In recent years, producer Stave Jean has revived interest in Kadongo Kamu by reworking classics like Fred Sebatta’s Nalwewuuba. His modernized touch earned praise from Lord Fred Ssebatta and marked an important moment in the genre’s contemporary evolution.

Commercially, Kadongo Kamu has faded compared to trend-driven mainstream genres that appeal more to younger listeners who prefer dance-oriented music. Still, cultural loyalists in the Buganda region continue to uphold it, and artists like Fred Sebbaale and Mathias Walukagga remain active and successful.

Even as it sits at the margins of Uganda’s fast-paced contemporary music landscape, Kadongo Kamu endures as a culturally significant genre—deeply valued for its storytelling, preservation of history, and its enduring ties to Ganda identity.

Kadongo Kamu is a music genre from Uganda and the phrase comes from the Ganda phrase meaning “one little guitar.

Genre Spotlight: Kadongo Kamu

Genre Spotlight: Kadongo Kamu

Most people are familiar with the call-and-response music form, which is quite synonymous with African music, and the verse-chorus structure, which remains the most common in modern popular music. Both forms feel natural to us because they mirror how we live, speak, and express emotion; sometimes through repetition, dialogue, and stories.

As songwriters, we move through a wide spectrum of themes: romance, joy, heartbreak, birth, death, longing, conflict, healing, celebration, loneliness, and every unnamed feeling in between. The truth is that we tend to flow and write better about the things we’ve lived through. Life gives us vocabulary. Experience gives us texture. When we’ve felt something deeply, translating it into lyrics comes more naturally because the emotion is already sitting close to the surface.

But the challenge begins when we haven’t lived the experience. A client requests a heartbreak song when we are in love. Someone wants a triumph anthem when we’re still climbing our own hills. A brief demands a story that isn’t ours, yet the expectation is that we’ll deliver something authentic enough to resonate with thousands of listeners. And, of course, the payment doesn’t care whether we’ve “been there” or not.

So what do we do when the emotion isn’t ours, but the assignment still stands? How do we stay true to the song, the listener, and ourselves? This is where the ABC of songwriting comes in. A simple but powerful way to approach creativity, especially in moments when your emotional experience doesn’t naturally align with the brief.

Every great song begins with awareness. Awareness of the theme. Awareness of the emotional destination. Awareness of the listener we are writing for. Before we start writing, we must understand what the song needs to become. If it’s a love song, what shade of love? Tender? Complicated? Playful? If it’s a sorrowful ballad, what kind of sadness? Loss? Regret? Yearning?

Awareness allows us as songwriters to approach the song intentionally. It encourages keen observation of people, listening to real stories, and paying attention to the small human details we often overlook. Sometimes, we don’t necessarily need to have lived every experience; we need to understand it well enough to translate it with sincerity.

A good reference was Late South African musician Hugh Masekela's song, "Stimela." In this song, he sang about black miners who were forced from their homes to work in the gold and coal mines during the apartheid era.

Songwriting isn’t only about personal experience; it’s also about empathy. When the emotion isn’t ours, remember, we are allowed to borrow. Borrow from conversations, films, books, documentaries, other songs, or even the silent moments we’ve witnessed in other people’s lives. Before you condemn this thought, note that borrowed emotion doesn’t make our writing false. In fact, some of the world’s greatest songs were written from emotions the songwriter observed rather than experienced. An example is The Boomtown Rats' "I Don't Like Mondays." Bob Geldof was said to have written the song in response to a news report about a school shooting in San Diego in 1979, carried out by a teenage girl who, when asked for her motive, simply replied, "I don't like Mondays."

Borrowing teaches us how to hold another person’s story gently, respectfully, and creatively. It helps us create distance from the theme while still writing from a place of connection. Because at the end of the day, songwriting is a dance between what we feel and what we understand about how others think.

When the emotion fades or isn’t ours to begin with, craft becomes your anchor. Craft is the discipline of songwriting. It is the skill, the technique, the structure, the deliberate choices that shape the final piece. It’s the talent that remains dependable when inspiration slips away.

Craft carries the weight of imagery, phrasing, rhythm, repetition, contrast, rhyme, and arrangement. It’s what helps us build verses that rise, choruses that land, and bridges that shift the story forward. With solid craft, even a borrowed emotion becomes believable because we’ve given it form, shape, and musical meaning.

Once we understand the ABC, we begin to see songwriting as a balance between vulnerability and architecture. Some days, we are just the vessel, pouring out our lived experience. Other days, we are the architect, building a world that isn’t ours but feels true enough to move someone else. Both roles matter. Both are valid. And both make us a better songwriter.

Because at its heart, songwriting isn’t always about telling our own story; it’s about telling a story that deserves to be heard, whether or not we were the one who lived it. The ABC helps us write with empathy, clarity, and purpose, no matter where the emotion originates.

As songwriters, we move through a wide spectrum of themes: romance, joy, heartbreak, birth, death, longing, conflict, healing, celebration, loneliness, and others.

ABC of Songwriting

The ABC of Songwriting

When you talk about cultural renaissance in African music, Zulu blues in South Africa is one of the strongest points of reference. Also called Maskandi, the genre is a Zulu folk tradition that emerged as a powerful expression of the South African labor migrant experience in the early 20th century.

The word Maskandi comes from the Zulu adaptation of the Afrikaans word musikant, meaning musician. Its origins are deeply rooted in the lives of migrant workers who used music as a medium to navigate displacement, identity, and everyday struggles.

The genre is defined by emotionally rich lyrics—spanning sorrow, joy, love, and lived experiences—supported by its signature acoustic guitar, concertina, and call-and-response patterns.

A key moment in the early days of Maskandi music was the rise of John Bhengu, professionally known as Phuzushukela. A guitarist, whose work was documented and recognized as maskanda in the 70s, making him one of the popular pioneering figures of the genre.

This growth further influenced artist’s desire to copy popular South African genres like Mbaqanga, leading to the incorporation of bass drums and a more popular use of backing vocals in the music.

Traditionally, a Maskandi artist performs one long, continuous song that tells the story of their life, creating an intimate connection between artist and listener. While modern albums feature multiple tracks, many songs still hold on to that storytelling depth and extended structure.

Over the last two years, the genre’s resurgence has made it one of the fastest-growing sounds on Spotify South Africa, rekindling interest among a new generation of listeners.

The Bhinca Nation playlist on Spotify—dedicated entirely to Maskandi—now attracts over 2 million plays each month and has grown by more than 3000% since 2022, highlighting both the genre’s expanding fanbase and the rise of new artists with a resonant sound.

Some of the major contemporary names include Inkos’yamagcokama, Mzukulu Umafikizolo, Mshinwemali, and Sminofu, whose music continues to reach audiences across diverse demographics.

Recent standout tracks include "Uzophela Umcimbi" by Mafikizolo, "Awuhlabe Kabili" by Limit Nala, "Umkami Sengalile" by Mjolisi, and "Unikhodima" by Nhloso Khwela featuring Shenge Wasehlalankosi.

The genre’s revival represents a cultural reconnection led by a new generation. As Gen Z and Millennials rediscover Maskandi, they’re reshaping it through fresh collaborations, digital visibility, and genre-blending creativity. This shift is practically shaped by pride, creative spirit, cultural reclamation, and the hunger to stay connected to your roots.

What started as the music of migrant workers has become a modern symbol of pride among young South Africans—positioning Maskandi for an even brighter and more influential future in the country’s evolving music landscape.

Maskandi music is characterized by emotionally rich lyrics, supported by its signature acoustic guitar, concertina, and call-and-response patterns.

Genre Spotlight: Maskandi in South Africa

In the last decade, we have seen some exceptional female African artists break the norm, push past long-standing ceilings, and compete shoulder to shoulder with their male counterparts, yet still stand in a class entirely their own. Tiwa Savage, Yemi Alade (aka Mama Africa), Tyla, Tems, Ayra Starr, Amaarae, Libianca, Fave, Babalwa M, Zuchu and others have not only etched their names onto the African music industry’s wall, but they have also carried that imprint proudly into the global space. Their success stories are loud, visible, and inspiring. But beneath the celebration sits a quieter tension: are there enough female artists in Africa, and does the industry truly support them?

These questions linger because long before the spotlight, the pipeline is already beginning to shrink. We applaud the women who break through, but only a few make it to that point in the first place. Cultural expectations, family pressures, safety concerns, lack of mentorship, and even access to instruments, studios, or training all determine who gets to pursue music in the first place. For many young women, music is a dream they are encouraged to love from afar rather than chase closely. So when we talk about representation, we are not just reacting to the names we see on stage. We are confronting the many we never get to see at all.

Even for those who push through early hurdles, the industry itself is a maze, with gatekeepers still holding most of the keys. The music ecosystem, consisting of producers, managers, promoters, and label executives, remains predominantly male. That imbalance quietly shapes opportunity. The difference is not always visible in the final product, but it is felt in the journey. It influences who gets discovered first, who gets developmental support, who receives long-term investment, and who is positioned to succeed beyond the debut single. Female artists often have to prove twice, deliver twice, and navigate the industry with a kind of caution their male peers rarely need.

Then there is the weight of double standards, an invisible burden carried into every performance, interview, music video, and public appearance. A woman in music is scrutinized for her outfit, lyrics, voice, confidence, and even her silence. Things that would pass unnoticed with a male artist suddenly become topics for debate when a woman does them. This scrutiny affects more than the image. It influences collaborations, brand deals, stage invitations, and the creative freedom needed to evolve.

Speaking of collaborations, they are one of the strongest currencies in African music today. They move artists across borders, unlock new fan bases, and accelerate growth. Yet male-to-male collaborations are still far more frequent and far more organic. Women receive fewer high-impact features, fewer spontaneous co-signs, and fewer cross-genre moments. This means the road to continental or global visibility often requires more strategy and less serendipity.

But despite all these layers of pressure, one truth continues to rise to the surface. When female artists shine, they dominate. Tems did not just enjoy a breakthrough. She reshaped global soundscapes. Tyla did not just release “Water.” She triggered a worldwide movement. Amaarae did not just drop a project. She shifted what alternative African pop could be. Ayra Starr didn't just gain international attention. She became a symbol of Gen Z African excellence. And Tiwa Savage and Yemi Alade did not merely open doors. They built corridors for others to walk through.

Their success is not accidental. It is proof that once female African artists are seen, supported, and given room to breathe, the world responds.

Which brings us back to the original question: are there enough female artists? The honest answer is no, and not because the talent does not exist, but because the system still filters them out too early. There are not enough structures nurturing young female talent from childhood to industry readiness. There are not enough safe creative spaces, accessible mentorships, or intentional pipelines. The gap is not in talent. It is in access.

As for whether the industry supports them enough, the answer remains complicated. Support exists, but not in the depth or consistency needed to match their ambition. The industry applauds female success loudly but invests in female potential quietly. Yet every time a woman breaks through, she reveals the scale of what we are missing. A continent full of gifted women who could rise higher, faster, and more frequently if the pathways were easier to walk.

Africa is not lacking female talent. It is simply underestimating it. And perhaps the real call to action is this: to build an industry that invests in its women, not just celebrates them when they finally fight their way into the spotlight.

Female African music stars truly hold no bars – they are rule-breakers, hitmakers, and game-changers!

Female African Music Stars

A Case for African Female Artists

Beginning from the working-class neighborhoods of Cairo, such as Imbaba and Al-Salaam City in the late 2000s, Mahraganat  which literally means "festivals" in Arabic, has become one of Egypt’s most popular but controversial musical movements. The genre fuses the percussive energy of Shaabi (traditional Egyptian street music) with electronic beats, hip-hop rhythms, and auto-tuned vocals, creating a sound that’s energetic and urban.

Mahraganat’s rise coincided with the 2011 Egyptian revolution, during which its rebellious energy became the soundtrack for a generation seeking change. Artists used the music to express social realities like unemployment, inequality, and everyday struggles through lyrics delivered in colloquial Egyptian Arabic, making it deeply relatable to the masses.

The genre is characterized by thumping drums, minimalist synths, fast-paced loops, and rough-edged vocals. It is the music of weddings, street parties, and car stereos—spaces where every day Egyptians gather to dance, celebrate, and escape reality.

Early pioneers like DJ Figo, Sadat, and Oka wi Ortega, shaped the raw electronic sound that defined Mahraganat's early years. Today, some of the genre’s biggest names—such as Hassan Shakosh, Omar Sharif, and 3Phaz—carry that legacy forward, with tracks that continue to electrify parties across Cairo and spill into global underground scenes. Also, one cannot mention 3phaz without mentioning his back-to-back singles in 2020, which took over the Egyptian music space at the time titled Procession and Phaze Three, a Mahraganat masterpiece.

However, Mahraganat’s success has come with strong opposition. Egypt’s Musicians Syndicate has repeatedly banned the genre from public performances, citing moral and cultural concerns. Critics view it as a threat to traditional values, while supporters see the crackdown as resistance from the old guard against youth-driven innovation.

Despite restrictions, Mahraganat has evolved into a cultural force, spreading through YouTube, social media, and informal performance spaces. Its influence now reaches across class lines, with middle and upper-class Egyptians embracing it in private events and clubs.

Mahraganat has earned pockets of international attention—mainly through YouTube virality, diaspora listeners, global music journalism, and electronic music festivals—but its strongest influence is still regional, rooted in Egypt and the wider Middle East. It isn’t a global mainstream force like many big genres, yet it has carved out a distinct niche in underground and world-music circles.

The genre’s journey from Cairo’s backstreets to Egyptian mainstream symbolizes how grassroots music can redefine identity, challenge authority, and connect a generation through rhythm and resistance.

Mahraganat  which literally means "festivals" in Arabic, has become one of Egypt’s most popular but controversial musical movements.

Genre Spotlight: Mahraganat in Egypt

The 1990s marked a golden, transformational chapter in Nigerian music, a decade when bold experimentation met cultural rebirth. It was a time when new stars rose, fresh sounds emerged, and innovative movements took shape, forming the groundwork for the global Afrobeats phenomenon the world celebrates today. More than any other period in music history, the ’90s sparked Nigeria’s modern pop culture.

Among the earliest and most influential voices of this era was Mike Okri, whose signature “Afro-Mystic Soul” blended highlife rhythms with Western contemporary influences. Although he broke out in the late 1980s, his presence defined the early ’90s just as strongly. Songs like “Time Na Money” and “Omoge” were not only national hits but also turning points that shaped Nigerian pop. As the first artist signed to CBS Records Nigeria, Okri opened doors for a generation of musicians navigating a still-developing industry.

While Okri represented polished, soulful pop, Blackky arrived with a bold infusion of reggae and dancehall that resonated instantly with Nigerian youth. Early hits such as “Rosie,” “Bang Belly,” and “Blackky’s Skank” captured the upbeat energy of Jamaican dancehall and gave it a distinctly Nigerian twist. “Rosie” especially became a cultural moment, an irresistible tune that dominated parties and airwaves and announced dancehall as a powerful force in Nigerian pop.