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.

​As reggae and dancehall surged, another groundbreaking movement was unfolding. Junior and Pretty emerged as pioneers of Nigerian hip-hop, not by mimicking American style but by reshaping rap into something uniquely local. Their humorous, animated delivery in Pidgin English made songs like “Monica” and “Bolanle” nationwide favorites. Sadly, their journey was cut short by the tragic death of Junior, yet their legacy continues to echo across the industry.

Parallel to these mainstream successes, another wave was rising from Ajegunle, the Lagos ghetto that would become one of the most influential cultural hubs of the era. Known as the Galala or Ghetto music, this sound was raw, streetwise, and deeply expressive. Daddy Showkey stood at its forefront with hits like “Dyna,” “Fire Fire,” and “Ghetto Soldier,” blending storytelling with socially conscious lyrics. His dance style, Galala, became a nationwide sensation, beloved for its humour, exaggerated expressions, and backwards rhythmic movements. Baba Fryo added to this momentum with the anthem “Dem Go Dey Pose,” a song that travelled far beyond Ajegunle’s borders to become one of the defining street records of the late ’90s. Daddy Fresh, another pillar of the community and a founding member of DE Pretty Busy Boys, earned recognition as “King of the Ajegunle Musicians” and helped solidify galala’s dominance.

At the same time, Daniel Wilson, popularly known as Mr. Ragamuffin, introduced a different branch of reggae known as ragamuffin, earning national fame with songs like “Mr. Ragamuffin” and “Original Bad Boy.” His sound expanded the reggae-inspired palette of the ’90s and deepened Nigeria’s relationship with Caribbean musical traditions.

All these artists and movements reflected a pivotal period of genre diversification. Highlife, juju, fuji, jazz, gospel, R&B, reggae, hip-hop, and an emerging pop fusion coexisted, often blending into each other. This rich music landscape gave Nigerian music the adaptability and dynamism that later made it globally appealing. The decade also witnessed pioneering efforts in the industry’s structure, including the rise of labels like Storm Records, which provided platforms for artists and contributed to shaping the modern music business in Nigeria.

What made the 1990s truly remarkable was not only the music itself but also the cultural storytelling, social commentary, and creative identity that defined it. Artists from Ajegunle, for example, used music to address social issues, economic hardship, and political frustration, with songs like “Fire Fire” becoming rallying points for everyday Nigerians. Others fused local rhythms with Western influences, creating a hybrid sound that would eventually evolve into contemporary Afrobeats. By the time MTV Base launched in Africa in the early 2000s, much of the groundwork had already been done, and an entire generation had prepared Nigeria for global recognition.

The 1990s remain one of the most important decades in Nigerian music history, the bridge between the highlife- and juju-dominated past and the Afrobeats-driven future. The artists of this era did not just create hit songs. They transformed culture, invented dance styles, shaped language, and built the platforms that now carry Nigerian music around the world. Without the experiments, risks, and innovations of the ’90s, today’s global Afrobeats story would simply not exist.

The 1990s marked a golden, transformational chapter in Nigerian music, a decade when bold experimentation met cultural rebirth.

Nigerian Contemporary Music Scenes in the 1990s

In the 1920s, a new sound was emerging in Oran, Algeria's lively port city often called "little Paris." The word raï (pronounced "rye") comes from Algerian Arabic and means "opinion" or "advice." At first, singers used it as a vocal filler between improvised verses. Over time, though, it came to stand for something much bigger: the right to speak out and challenge the status quo.

Oran was the perfect crucible for this musical rebellion. As a major port, the city housed a mix of cultures, from French colonizers and Spanish traders to Jewish merchants and displaced rural Algerians, all converging in its nightclubs, cabarets, and cafés. Against the backdrop of colonial oppression, a new urban underclass was forming: factory workers, distillery laborers, and peasants dispossessed by European settlers. They needed a voice, and raï gave them one.

What made early raï truly revolutionary was its female pioneers, the cheikhas, who performed music that polite society deemed utterly scandalous. These women, often from the most marginalized communities, sang in bawdy cabarets and bars, addressing taboo subjects with unflinching directness: sexuality, alcohol, love, poverty, and the harsh realities of urban life. They performed not just for women in private gatherings, as tradition dictated, but publicly for mixed-gender audiences.

Cheikha Rimitti el Reliziana emerged as the undisputed grandmother of raï. Orphaned as a child in 1923 and joining a traveling troupe at age 15, she would become the genre's most notorious and fearless voice. Her 1954 song "Charrak Gatta," considered a reference to young women losing their virginity, scandalized conservative society. "People adore God, I adore beer," she sang defiantly, her gritty tenor voice becoming instantly recognizable. Rimitti continued performing into the 21st century, even collaborating with Robert Fripp and Flea of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, cementing her status as "la mamie du Raï" (the grandmother of Raï).

Early raï performers sang in raw, vernacular Arabic mixed with bits of French and Spanish, accompanied by traditional pottery drums and end-blown flutes. Their lyrics confronted the social issues afflicting Algeria's native population: typhus outbreaks, harassment by colonial police, unemployment, crime, and prostitution. This was music as social commentary, as defiance, as survival.

The 1970s and 1980s marked raï's metamorphosis from underground folk tradition to an international phenomenon. As recording technology advanced and imported musical styles, particularly Jamaican reggae and rock'n'roll, captivated Algerian youth, raï began absorbing these diverse influences. Bellemou Messaoud, known as "The Father of Raï," pioneered the modernization by replacing traditional flutes and drums with trumpets, saxophones, and accordions. By the 1980s, under President Chadli Bendjedid's more liberalized administration, electronic synthesizers, electric guitars, and drum machines transformed raï into the distinctive "pop-raï" sound that would captivate global audiences.

A new generation of performers emerged, adopting the titles Cheb (young man) and Cheba (young woman) to distinguish themselves from the traditional cheikhs and cheikhas. This wasn't just a musical shift; it was a generational statement. These young artists sang about love, sexuality, freedom, and alcohol with unprecedented explicitness, giving voice to Algeria's frustrated youth. The Baba Ahmed brothers (Rachid and his brother, Fethi set up the publishing house "Rachid and Fethi"), were instrumental in this transformation. When they built their 24-track recording studio in Tlemcen in 1980, they dramatically improved raï's production quality. Cheap cassette recorders, available by 1974, allowed raï to circumvent state-run media, spreading through underground networks and French-Algerian community radio stations.

If one artist embodies raï's international breakthrough, it's Cheb Khaled (who later dropped the Cheb to become simply Khaled). Inspired by French rocker Johnny Hallyday, Khaled became virtually synonymous with raï by the time Algeria held its first international raï festival in 1985. His 1992 hit "Didi" made history as the first song by a North African artist to reach Europe's Top 50. The accompanying video, showing men and women dancing together, Khaled performing with a glass of wine, was simultaneously joyous and rebellious. It was banned in Egypt and infuriated Islamic conservatives, yet its infectious energy and mysterious lyrics (nobody was quite sure what "Didi" meant) captured global attention. Khaled's stylistic innovations, including incorporating pedal steel guitars and Asian string instruments in songs like "N'ssi N'ssi," pushed raï's boundaries even further.

Alongside Khaled, other luminaries shaped raï's golden age. Cheb Mami became the first raï singer to perform in the United States and record albums outside France or Algeria, helping establish raï as a global genre. Chaba Fadela recorded "Ma Hlali Noum" in 1977, the first raï song to become a nationwide hit in Algeria, marking the birth of modern raï. Rachid Taha, though not strictly a raï artist, brought the genre to world music audiences through his eclectic fusion style. The 1999 live album "1,2,3 Soleils," featuring Taha alongside Khaled and Faudel, sold tremendously and became legendary, particularly their performance of "Ya Rayah," which became an anthem for North African youth.

Yet raï's transgressive nature inevitably provoked violent opposition. Colonial authorities harassed early performers. After independence, the austere Algerian government banned raï from state media, considering it vulgar and immoral, promoting values contrary to Islamic principles. Women were barred from performing publicly, leading adolescent boys to fill the void. The 1990s brought the darkest chapter. During Algeria's devastating civil war, often called "The Black Decade," Islamist armed groups targeted raï artists with particular vengeance. In 1994, Cheb Hasni, beloved for his sentimental love songs, was assassinated near his parents' house in Oran at just 26 years old. The following year, music producer Rachid Baba Ahmed was gunned down in his Oran record shop.

Artists faced death threats, passport confiscations, and forced exile. Many fled to France, including Khaled, Mami, and numerous others. The French-Algerian diaspora became raï's refuge and, paradoxically, its launching pad for international success. Paris emerged as the world center of raï production and promotion. Yet persecution only strengthened raï's appeal. For Algeria's youth and the North African diaspora in France, raï became more than music. It was a symbol of resistance, a connection to homeland, and a voice for marginalized communities facing racism and economic hardship in their adopted countries.

By the late 1980s, raï had seized the international world music scene. The timing was perfect: Western audiences were developing a taste for "World Beat" following reggae's success in the 1970s. Unlike earlier Arab music legends such as Fairuz or Umm Kulthum, raï artists spoke to a generation raised on rock, disco, and electronic music. Major festivals followed: in Algeria in 1985 and Paris in 1986. Raï began appearing on college radio from Pennsylvania to Oregon, at urban dance clubs' "world music" nights alongside reggae and salsa, and in Tower Records outlets nationwide. Two Algerian raï tunes made the Village Voice music critics' top ten poll in 1989.

In December 2022, raï reached a major milestone when UNESCO added it to the Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. This recognition celebrated not only the music, but also "the craft skills and culture" that surround raï. It honored the living heritage of the communities that have created, supported, and changed this groundbreaking genre over the past century. This worldwide recognition arrived just as raï was enjoying a new wave of popularity, showing it is still very much alive.

Today, raï continues to evolve with remarkable vitality. Raï'N'B emerged in the early 2000s as a major fusion genre, led by DJ Kore and Skalp. This blend of raï with R&B produced four successful albums between 2004 and 2011, featuring collaborations with Cheb Khaled, Cheb Mami, Cheikha Rmitti, and international stars like Kelly Rowland, Ricky Martin, and Moroccan rapper La Fouine. Though the movement faded as EDM dominated the 2010s, a fifth Raï'N'B album is reportedly on the horizon, signaling a potential resurgence.

Way-way represents raï's latest evolution, a street sub-genre that's exploding on YouTube and TikTok despite rarely appearing on radio or official charts. Producer Zouj describes it as simultaneously familiar and completely new: "Bilel Tachini will put out a tune on a random Tuesday and make more streams than Drake." Artists like Cheba Warda are pioneering this sound, characterized by specific drum loops, maximal production (unlike Western minimalism), and what Zouj calls a "very punk" approach. This underground movement demonstrates how raï thrives outside traditional industry structures, building massive followings through social media and word-of-mouth.

Contemporary artists are rediscovering raï as a bridge between identities. Part-Palestinian artist Saint Levant recently collaborated with Algerian legend Cheb Bilal, creating tracks that blend old-school raï with modern pop. French-Algerian singer Danyl has made this fusion the backbone of his music. Algiers-born artist TIF incorporates raï influences and has become a chart-topping success. For children of the diaspora navigating between cultures, raï offers something precious: references that resonate, authenticity mixed with nostalgia, and a connection to ancestral roots. The genre's infectious energy combined with contemporary production is proving irresistible to a new generation.

Raï music began in the smoky cabarets of colonial Oran and eventually made its way to UNESCO cultural heritage list.

The Extraordinary Journey of Raï Music

The Ghanaian music industry has always been a haven for creativity, and in recent years, the rise of the Asakaa music has reshaped its urban soundscape. Asakaa—a name derived from Ashanti New Town, a Kumasi neighborhood—is both a movement and a sound that reflects the city’s youth energy.

The word Asakaa comes from Saka, a variant of Kasa, meaning "to speak" in Akan. The artists see their lyrics as expressions of real-life experiences rather than glorifications of violence, reshaping how drill is understood in their context.

Walking through the streets of Kumasi today, this philosophy of speaking manifests through the songs. Drill beats echo from speaker boxes and car stereos, carrying the unmistakable signature of Asakaa: skippy drum patterns, deep basslines, dark melodies, and tempos hovering around 60–70 BPM. This is what Kasa sounds like in 2025: the beats layering hi-hats and piano loops under gritty bars delivered in Twi, pidgin, and English.

The Asakaa Boys collective—Jay Bahd, O’Kenneth, Reggie, Kwaku DMC, City Boy, Kawabanga, and others—have reshaped Ghanaian rap with raw stories, street slang, and drill-inspired beats. Behind the movement, Rabby Jones helped define its sound and even coined the term “Asakaa.” The late Virgil Abloh also played a role in taking the culture global, spotlighting Kumasi’s scene on the world stage.

Several standout tracks have propelled the sub-genre into mainstream African music. Sore by Yaw Tog became a viral hit and earned an international remix featuring British rapper Stormzy, cementing Asakaa's global relevance. Condemn by Jay Bahd resonated for its raw, unfiltered commentary on street loyalty and betrayal. Reveal by La Même Gang showcased the collective's chemistry and became an anthem of youthful defiance. Balenciaga by O'Kenneth married luxury brand references with typical street narratives, reflecting the aspirational nature of Asakaa storytelling. When established artists entered the space, Trauma by Sarkodie brought introspective depth to the drill template, while DND by Medikal and Sarkodie bridged the gap between Hiplife's melodic sensibility and Asakaa's harder edge, proving the sound's versatility across generations.

Aside from music, this newfound culture has also influenced fashion, slang, and youth identity, forming a new generation of Ghanaian storytelling and self-expression rooted in authenticity, just like its predecessor, Hiplife.

Since its emergence during the pandemic, Asakaa has gone from an underground sound into an international symbol of Ghanaian street culture. What began in the streets of Kumasi now reverberates across the African continent. Young artists are studying the Asakaa template, blending drill's global grammar with their own local dialects and experiences.

As streaming platforms democratize music distribution and African youth cultures increasingly drives global trends, Asakaa stands at a crossroads: it can either remain a distinctly Ghanaian phenomenon that preserves its Kumasi roots, or evolve into a pan-African blueprint for how the continent reimagines Western genres on its own terms. Either way, the movement has already proven that African cities don't just consume global sounds, they transform them, speaking back in their own voices. And in Akan, that act of speaking, that "Kasa," has always been an act of power.

Asakaa, a name derived from Ashanti New Town, a Kumasi neighborhood, is both a movement and a sound that reflects the city’s youth energy.

Genre Spotlight: Asakaa in Ghana

In an industry long dominated by Western streaming giants, a quiet revolution is happening and it’s coming from Africa. Somewhere between Lagos’ thumping Afrobeats lounges, Johannesburg’s Amapiano dance floors, and Dar es Salaam’s Bongo Flava studios, a new platform is tuning into the continent’s true rhythm. Its name is Josplay, and it’s redefining what it means to stream African music.

For years, African artists have uploaded their songs onto platforms that were never truly built for them. The systems work but not quite. Payment models often ignore local economic realities. Algorithms fail to understand how deeply language, geography, and culture shape musical taste. And while “African music” might have its own category, it’s usually buried beneath the global pop landscape, a colorful sidebar rather than the main story.

Josplay was born to change that narrative. Instead of treating African sounds as a niche, it places them at the heart of the experience. The platform celebrates the full spectrum: Afrobeats, Amapiano, Highlife, Gqom, Bongo Flava, and dozens more genres that pulse through the continent’s cities and villages. This isn’t a token gesture; it’s a structural shift. Josplay understands that African music isn’t a flavor, it’s a universe.

Part of what makes Josplay stand out is its cultural fluency. The platform’s curation doesn’t lump African listeners into one box. It knows that a fan in Lagos might crave different sounds than someone in Nairobi, even if they share the same playlist title. Its recommendation engine mirrors how Africans actually discover music through regions, dialects, moods, and moments. Even the design speaks the language of its audience, from playlist titles that feel familiar to interface languages that make the experience truly local.

Behind the playlists lies an equally radical idea: fair pay for African creators. By focusing on African markets rather than simply serving them, Josplay is building payment models that make sense for the continent. Artists stand to earn better returns here than on many international platforms, an overdue recognition of the value they bring to a global culture that can’t seem to get enough of African sound.

But Josplay’s vision goes beyond streaming. It’s part of something larger, a growing movement for cultural and technological independence. Africa’s creative industries are booming, yet too often the tools of that growth are foreign-built and foreign-owned. Josplay flips that script, creating infrastructure that’s rooted in local values, economies, and ambitions. It’s a platform made by Africans, for Africans, designed to make sure the wealth of creativity flowing from the continent benefits its own people first.

In many ways, Josplay is a statement: Africa doesn’t need validation from outside to define excellence. Its artists, listeners, and innovators already form one of the most dynamic music ecosystems on the planet. By offering a space built specifically for them, Josplay is not shrinking its market; it’s deepening its impact.

And as its reach expands, the ripple effect could be profound. Josplay might just inspire other regions in the Global South to build platforms that reflect their own identities, proving that in music streaming, as in culture, one size doesn’t fit all.

For the millions who live and breathe African sound, Josplay is more than another app icon on their screens. It’s a digital home for rhythms that have traveled across oceans and back, for stories told through drums, chants, and basslines. Whether you’re an Afrobeats loyalist, an Amapiano devotee, or simply curious about what’s next in global music, Josplay offers an invitation: come listen to Africa, on Africa’s terms.

Because as the continent’s music industry races toward billion-dollar horizons, platforms like Josplay aren’t just streaming services—they’re the new cultural infrastructure, ensuring that Africa’s creative wealth enriches its own communities before the world dances along.

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Josplay Music Download Banner

The Streaming Platform Built for African Music is Josplay

Coupé-Décalé is a high-energy dance and music genre that has roots in Côte d’Ivoire in the early 2000s. It combines influences from Ivorian zouglou dance music, traditional Akoupé rhythms from the Attié people, and the infectious rhythm of Congolese Ndombolo.

The sound was first shaped by a group of Ivorian DJs in Paris — the Jet Set, led by Douk Saga alongside Molaré, Lino Versace, Serge Defalet, Boro Sangui, and others — who brought flamboyance, celebration, and flash to the genre’s early image.

Musically, Coupé-Décalé is built around bright electric guitar riffs played in a percussive style, layered with bass, congas, shakers, and upbeat drum grooves. Synthesizers and keyboards add a melodic touch. The result of this incredible composition is an irresistibly danceable sound that quickly spread beyond Paris to Abidjan and then across Africa’s dance floors.

The genre’s name comes from Noushi, a street slang in Côte d’Ivoire. Coupé means “to cheat” and décalé means “to run away” or “disappear.” Together, the phrase represents a street-smart, hustler’s attitude to outwit the system and celebrate his/her wins.

While Coupé-Décalé originated in the Ivorian diaspora, it found a new home in Congo, a country already known for its vibrant soukous and ndombolo traditions. Its arrival in Congo is linked to cross-cultural exchanges between Ivorian and Congolese artists in Paris and Abidjan.

Congolese audiences connected deeply with Coupé-Décalé’s dance energy and its shared lineage with local rhythms. Over time, Congolese musicians and DJs began incorporating elements of Ndombolo into their sound, resulting in a faster, more electronic hybrid that suited Kinshasa’s evolving nightlife.

By the mid-2000s, Coupé-Décalé and Congolese dance music had a lot of exchanges, influencing each other. As soukous evolved into more digital Ndombolo forms, Coupé-Décalé added a fresh rhythmic vocabulary to Congo’s club culture. Today, the genre remains a staple in major cities like Kinshasa and Brazzaville, where DJs regularly include Coupé-Décalé tracks in their sets, keeping the dance floor alive.

Artists and tracks like Sagacité by Douk Saga, Dosabado by DJ Arafat, and Attalaku Méga by DJ Jacob helped solidify the sound’s popularity across the continent, while Congolese performers like Awilo Longomba continue to merge its signature beats with local flair.

To this day, Coupé-Décalé continues to evolve across Congo’s club and mainstream scenes. Producers are experimenting with faster, beat-driven electronic hybrids that blend with local Ndombolo grooves. Streaming platforms have given the genre new visibility and life, helping DJs and emerging acts in the genre reach wider audiences.

Though its mainstream dominance has slowed in Côte d’Ivoire, Coupé-Décalé remains a vibrant force in Congo’s nightlife — constantly reinvented through remixes, TikTok dance trends, and cross-continental collaborations that keep it alive.

Coupé-Décalé is a high-energy dance and music genre that has roots in Côte d’Ivoire in the early 2000s.

Genre Spotlight: Coupé-Décalé in Congo

This October, Josplay will join hundreds of Africa’s leading music professionals in Pretoria, South Africa, for ACCES 2025 - the Music In Africa Conference for Collaborations, Exchange and Showcases.

ACCES is where the conversations that shape the future of African music happen. From streaming and rights management to artist mobility and creative innovation, it’s the one place where every corner of the industry meets - artists, producers, executives, and technology companies all in one space.

Josplay will be taking part in this year’s edition to contribute to these conversations and to share what we’ve learned building a platform designed to help African artists take control of their music and their earnings. Our focus is simple - to push for a streaming culture that values African creativity fairly and gives listeners the depth and authenticity they deserve.

Representing Josplay at ACCES 2025 is Anu Onasanya, Librarian at the African Music Library and a founding member of Josplay. Anu will play a vital role in Josplay’s engagements at the event, contributing to discussions on how digital platforms can preserve Africa’s sonic heritage while opening new doors for emerging artists.

This marks another step in Josplay’s commitment to a music economy that truly works for African creators - where artistry and ownership are respected, and fans enjoy deeper, more authentic connections to the music they love.

For you, our users, this means more visibility for the artists you love, stronger partnerships across borders, and a deeper library of authentic African music and stories coming to the platform.

We’ll be covering highlights and updates from ACCES in real time.

Follow us on X (Twitter) and Instagram to stay close to the story as it unfolds.

Africa Conference for Collaborations Exchange and Showcases 2025 holding in Pretoria South Africa from October 29 to November 1, 2025

Africa Conference for Collaborations Exchange and Showcases

Josplay joins Africa’s biggest music conversation - ACCES 2025

Dancehall takes its name from Jamaica, where local sound systems played popular records for people in dance halls. The genre emerged in Jamaica in the late 1970s as a more rhythm-driven offshoot of roots reggae, which had dominated through that decade.

A major element of dancehall is its heavy use of Jamaican Patois instead of standard English and its emphasis on the riddim — the instrumental groove that drives the music. Structurally, dancehall typically follows a 4/4 rhythm, meaning there are four bass drum beats in a single bar. The ascended and descended beats from the snare is counted as one, but technically, you would count four strokes, providing the recognizable ka-boom-ka-boom rhythm in dancehall.

By the 1980s, dancehall had taken over Jamaica’s music scene, and in the following decade, its reach expanded through diaspora communities around the world. During the 2010s, as Jamaican music and pop culture influenced more African artists, the sound found a strong foothold in countries such as Nigeria, Ghana, Uganda, and Zimbabwe.

In Nigeria, musicians began blending dancehall’s rhythmic pulse with local languages, melodies, and storytelling to create Afro-dancehall — a homegrown version of the style. This fusion kept the upbeat, party-ready energy of traditional dancehall but added Nigerian lyrical themes, from every day to lifestyle and political issues. Over the years it has become one of the biggest mainstream genres in the country, second to Afrobeats.

Artists such as Timaya, P-Square, Cynthia Morgan, Burna Boy, and Patoranking helped bring the sound into the mainstream, coupled with hits like Julie by Shank, Magician by Ice Prince, Do Me by P-Square, Simati Niya by Cynthia Morgan, Champion by General Pype, Show Me Yuh Rozay by Ketchup, and Girlie O and Alubarika by Patoranking.

Today, Afro-dancehall remains part of Nigeria’s vibrant soundscape. While Afrobeats currently leads the charts, the influence of dancehall continues to show through new artists who use its grooves as a foundation for experimentation.

Rising star King Perryy is one of the standout voices, with his Continental Playlist (2023) surpassing 4 million streams and Niggas from the South (NFTS) (2024) gaining over 2 million Spotify plays, cementing his place among Nigeria’s promising dancehall acts.

The genre's journey in Nigeria continues to show how global sounds evolve through local creativity. By reshaping the Jamaican style into Afro-dancehall and incorporating it into Afrobeats, Nigerian artists have built a creative bridge between the Caribbean and Africa — turning a shared rhythmic heritage into a sound that’s proudly their own.

In Nigeria, musicians are blending dancehall’s rhythmic pulse with local languages, melodies, and storytelling to create Afro-dancehall — a homegrown version of the style

Genre Spotlight: Dancehall in Nigeria

In the heart of Mali, where music intertwines with everyday life, a boy who wasn't meant to sing was born. His name is Salif Keita. He was born in 1949 in the small village of Djoliba, into a royal family linked to Sundiata Keita, the legendary founder of the Mali Empire.

However, Salif's birth came with a mark: albinism, a stigmatized condition. For someone of noble blood, it was said to bring misfortune. Despite his seemingly disadvantaged outward appearance, Salif had an unusual calling: to sing. But royal descendants were expected to lead, not to entertain. Music, in Malian tradition, belonged to the griots, the hereditary caste of storytellers and praise-singers. Making him an outlier!

Yet Salif Keita's voice was extraordinary. It was bright, rich, and full of feeling. It carried centuries of storytelling, pain, and resilience. In his early twenties, he left home for Bamako, and later moved to Côte d'Ivoire. He performed in nightclubs and slowly gained recognition that challenged traditional roles. His rise was a journey of courage, blending traditional Mandé rhythms with modern sounds of jazz, funk, and Afro-pop, creating something entirely his own. Soon, his voice was traveling far beyond Africa, captivating listeners across Europe and the Americas.

A major turning point came in 1987 with the release of “Soro.” When this album hit the airwaves, it was more than just a record; it was a revolution. Produced by the legendary Ibrahima Sylla, the album fused synthesizers, electric guitars, and brass with traditional balafon, kora, and djembe. The sound was both ancient and innovative, a reflection of Africa standing on the edge of modernity. Songs like "Sina," a moving ballad addressed to his father who rejected him for pursuing music, became a defining statement. "Sina" wasn't just a song; it embodied a reconciliation of pain and pride, transforming his personal battle into a universal message about identity and acceptance. Other tracks like "Mandjou" and "Djonga (Slavery)" carried political undertones, speaking to Africa's changing landscape and the struggles of independence. With “Soro,” Salif Keita didn't just release an album; he gave Africa a new sound, one that honored its roots while embracing the world stage.

In the years that followed, Salif Keita kept evolving, becoming a global ambassador for African unity and albino rights advocacy. His later works, like “Moffou" in 2002 and “La Différence" in 2009, deepened his message of peace, dignity, and inclusion. "La Différence," in particular, was a heartfelt declaration that turned his life's struggle into a message of empowerment: "I am black, my skin is white; so what? I am a man, respect me. I am a man, accept me." His music became more than melody; it became medicine.

For anyone who wants to experience the depth of Salif Keita's work, his essential recordings trace an evolution across decades. “Soro" remains his breakout masterpiece, with "Sina," "Souareba," and "Sanni Kegniba" offering the perfect entry point. “Moffou” marked a beautiful acoustic return to roots, featuring unforgettable collaborations like "Yamore" with Cesária Évora and the stirring "Madan." “La Différence” stands as a personal, soulful celebration of identity, with its title track and "Samigna" among the highlights. “Talé,” released in 2012, saw him boldly collaborating with producer Philippe Cohen Solal, blending traditional Malian sounds with modern electronic beats. His 2018 release, “Un Autre Blanc,” served as a farewell album and a touching call for inclusion and human rights. Each record reveals a different facet of Salif Keita's talent: royal, rebel, healer, and teacher.

Today, Salif Keita stands as one of Africa's most revered musical icons, often called "The Golden Voice of Africa." His life story is a testament to the power of art to push boundaries, heal wounds, and unite humanity. Through his journey, we are reminded that sometimes, the greatest voices come from those who were once told to be silent.

Malian Artist Salif Keita, known as the Golden Voice of Africa, turned rejection into rhythm and pain into purpose