The moment arrives quietly at first. People are seated, plates are filling, and greetings are still moving around the room. Someone adjusts the speakers, a guitar line slips into the air, and a talking drum answers. Within minutes, chairs begin to scrape the floor. Someone stands. Then another. A big auntie who has been composed since her arrival suddenly moves toward the centre of the room. The party has begun.

What makes an African party tick? Whether at home or in the diaspora, there is something unmistakable about it. At a Nigerian gathering, you cannot miss the aso-ebi, the party jollof rice, or the density of family and old friends sharing one space. But the real structure of the event is the music.

It is not background. It is architecture.

The music determines when people rise from their seats, when someone crosses the room to greet an elder, when currency is sprayed on performers and other party goers, and when the dance floor becomes unavoidable. At an African party, the question is not whether music matters. The question is which music, and why.

Juju music took shape in Lagos in the 1920s, drawing from Yoruba percussion traditions while adapting guitar techniques introduced through colonial contact. By the time King Sunny Ade carried it onto international stages in the 1980s, the genre was already deeply embedded in Yoruba social life: weddings, chieftaincy ceremonies, and naming celebrations. The talking drum converses with layered guitars while praise singers call out family names and lineages.

At a party, juju creates room for collective movement. An elder rises slowly to acknowledge the music. A relative steps forward to spray money. The band responds by weaving the family’s name into the rhythm. Juju does not force attention; it rewards presence.

Fuji carries a different kind of energy. Its roots lie in were, the devotional music sung in the early hours during Ramadan. In the 1970s, Sikiru Ayinde Barrister expanded that form into a full genre built around layered percussion and urgent vocals. Fuji pushes forward. The drums gather momentum, the lead voice rides above them, and the crowd responds.

Where juju maintains ceremony, fuji often signals the point when formality begins to loosen. The dance floor fills faster, the singing grows louder, and allegiances emerge. Ask a room whether K1 De Ultimate or Adewale Ayuba better represents the tradition and the conversation will quickly turn lively. The debate itself becomes part of the culture surrounding the music.

Highlife travelled across the West African coast before finding particularly strong expression in Igbo musical circles. By the 1960s and 70s, artists such as Oliver De Coque, Osita Osadebe, and Celestine Ukwu had developed a style built on intricate guitar patterns and reflective storytelling.

Highlife carries memory easily. A song that has not been heard in decades can suddenly return the moment the guitar line begins. The words come back almost involuntarily. This is often the music that accompanies the arrival of food, the recognition of elders, or the quiet moment when a room settles into shared familiarity. It is not nostalgic in a sentimental sense. It is the past made usable in the present.

Beyond these widely recognized genres are others whose reach may be more regional but whose power within their communities is complete. Inguasa music from the northern part of Nigeria is one example. Built around tight call-and-response structures and direct rhythmic patterns, it fills gatherings with collective participation. Everyone understands the cues. Everyone knows when to answer.

Across their differences, these genres share an important characteristic: they were never designed for solitary listening. They function as social technologies. They organize people in space, signal when to move closer, when to greet someone properly, and when to celebrate a person’s place in the room.

In the diaspora, the music takes on additional work. A playlist that moves from highlife to fuji to juju at a party in London, Houston, or Toronto becomes more than entertainment. It becomes orientation. It tells people where they come from and reminds them who they intend to remain.

Contemporary sounds now sit comfortably within this structure. Afrobeats records may open the night, drawing younger guests to the dance floor. Yet as the hours pass, the older rhythms often return. The guitars stretch out, the talking drum answers again, and the room settles into a familiar pattern of celebration.

The aso-ebi coordinates the gathering visually. The party jollof rice sustains it. But the music transforms the event into something larger than a simple meeting of people.

A good party, after all, is a form of argument. It says that a community exists, that its memory remains intact, and that celebration is one of the ways it continues to recognize itself.

That is what the music is doing. It is not background. It never was.

The Wedding Reception Party Scene from the movie titled, "The Wedding Party."

The Music That Makes the Party

It was almost three o'clock, two hours after the final bell had rung at D Lord's Nursery and Primary School, Ladilak, yet the school was far from quiet. Echoes of percussion drifted from the red, dusty courtyard through the empty classrooms. David, Michael, Darasimi, and six other pupils remained. Sweat tracing lines down their faces and soaking through their uniform shirts, they kept rehearsing in a place that should long have fallen silent.

The answer lies not just in dedication, but in an initiative that had quietly taken root inside this humble school in Ladilak, Shomolu, Lagos. Through the Foster Program by African Music Library, the pupils were being introduced to traditional African percussion instruments — the gangan, omele bata, omele gangan, and the shekere. However, the program focused not only on learning African music but also on thinking, focus, feeling, and a sense of belonging.

According to research, the benefits of music education to young children are not limited to playing the instrument or singing, but are comprehensive. Studies have shown that learning music enhances a child's cognitive development, academic performance, and emotional well-being.  It also fosters creativity, builds confidence through performance, strengthens social skills via collaboration, and helps manage stress.

What made the courtyard scene remarkable was the resilience and dedication of the pupils as they explored various instruments. Interestingly, the only girl among the young learners, Darasimi, demonstrated that all a young girl needs is an opportunity; the rest will follow. She began her journey on the shekere before the gangan and then quietly mastering the omele gangan - the ako (male) and the abo (female). The progression and finding the best fit has said everything about her determination and nothing at all about the old assumption that percussion was a boy's domain. She was dismantling that notion one beat at a time, performing with the same confidence as any of her classmates, and in doing so, giving the girls watching from the periphery something they had not expected to find in a music lesson: a mirror.

The impact extended beyond music. The head teacher, Mr. Fred, has watched the transformation of his pupils with quiet awe. The discipline of learning rhythms, it turned out, does not stay in the courtyard. Rhythm had followed the pupils back into their studies. The children were more focused in class, he noted — more attentive, quicker to recall, steadier in their concentration. Even their self-confidence has improved. David, the young talking drummer, said, "I used to be shy," he said, "but now I am no longer shy." Eight words. An entire education.

Reflecting on what was happening under that afternoon sun in Ladilak, this is not a rehearsal for a performance, but the slower, less visible rehearsal for life for these pupils. These children were learning that African music is not just entertainment. It serves as a vehicle for cultural pride, cognitive growth, and the kind of self-assurance that no textbook alone can provide. With the right rhythm, the right guidance, and the right opportunity, they were discovering what they were capable of.

The beat, it turns out, had never been just a beat.

To support  Foster by African Music Library , send a direct message or email: librarian@africanmusiclibrary.org

This is the cover photo for the blog post titled, "Transforming Lives Through Music Education."

Transforming Lives Through Music Education

Transforming Lives through Music Education

In African societies, music and dress have long been linked expressions of culture. Before recording studios and streaming platforms, music was heard mainly in communal spaces such as festivals, rituals, markets, and royal courts. In these settings, clothing was not only decorative. It communicated identity, status, spirituality, and the purpose of the performance. The relationship between dressing and African music is therefore historical and rooted in cultural practice.

Across the continent, musical performance has often included ceremonial dress. In many West African traditions, musicians and dancers appear in clothing made for ritual events. Among the Yoruba of southwestern Nigeria, the costumes worn in the Egungun masquerade represent ancestral spirits returning to the community. As the masquerader dances to the rhythms of talking drums, the layered fabrics move with the performer, making rhythm visible. In this context, clothing functions as part of the performance and connects music with spiritual expression.

In other parts of West Africa, hereditary musicians known as griots also maintain recognizable forms of dress linked to their cultural role. Performers associated with instruments such as the Kora often appear in robes or embroidered garments that reflect lineage and social standing. Musicians such as Toumani Diabaté have carried these traditions into concerts around the world, where the traditional clothing presentation accompanies the sound of the instrument.

Movement has always been central to African musical expression, and clothing often evolved to support that movement. Beaded skirts, ankle rattles, shells, and layered fabrics were added to costumes to produce sound or highlight motion during dance. In parts of East Africa, beadwork worn by dancers moves in rhythm with the body, adding a visual element to percussion. In Southern Africa, traditional Zulu dance attire—including animal skins and beadwork—emphasizes the strong footwork that accompanies ceremonial music.

As African music entered the recording era in the twentieth century, the connection between dress and musical identity remained visible. In Ghana and Nigeria during the 1950s and 1960s, highlife musicians presented an image of urban sophistication. Artists such as E.T. Mensah often performed in suits, reflecting the nightclub culture of cities like Accra and Lagos. The clothing matched the polished sound of highlife orchestras and their urban audience.

In Nigeria, Fela Kuti used clothing to reinforce the political and cultural message of his music. He often rejected Western formal wear, appearing on stage bare-chested. His appearance reflected the Afrocentric ideas that shaped Afrobeat and signaled resistance to colonial cultural influence.

In South Africa, dress also became part of musical identity on international stages. Singer and activist Miriam Makeba frequently wore African gowns and headwraps while performing abroad. Her clothing helped present African culture with dignity and visibility during a time when the country faced international attention over apartheid.

In Central Africa, the relationship between music and fashion developed in a different direction. In the Democratic Republic of Congo, the fashion movement known as La Sape grew alongside the popularity of Congolese rumba. Musicians such as Papa Wemba became known for wearing designer suits and carefully coordinated outfits on and off stage. In this case, clothing expressed style, identity, and social aspiration within urban culture.

In North Africa, artists have also combined music with elements of traditional dress. Algerian rai singer Khaled often mixes modern stage clothing with garments that reflect regional culture, mirroring the blend of traditional and contemporary elements found in rai music.

In contemporary African music, clothing remains part of artistic identity. Nigerian artist Burna Boy often appears in outfits that combine African fabrics with global streetwear. Beninese singer Angélique Kidjo regularly performs in African textiles while touring internationally. In East Africa, Diamond Platnumz blends urban fashion with regional influences that reflect youth culture around Bongo Flava. Artists such as Yemi Alade and Sho Madjozi also incorporate traditional hairstyles, fabrics, and design elements into performances and music videos.

Today, audiences often express music through music videos and social media. Because of this, clothing has become part of how artists present their identity and communicate with audiences. Distinct fashion choices can signal culture, genre, or artistic vision even before the music begins.

From ritual masquerades and court performances to nightclubs, concert halls, and digital platforms, the link between dressing and African music has remained consistent. Clothing supports movement, signals identity, and adds meaning to performance. African music has therefore always been both an auditory and visual experience, where sound and dress work together to express culture and history.

This is the cover design for the blog post titled, The Bridge between African Rhythm and Fashion.

The Bridge between African Rhythm and Fashion

The Bridge Between African Music and Fashion

Every year on International Women’s Day, the world marks the achievements and creativity of women across industries. In African music, women have long been innovators, storytellers, archivists, and cultural ambassadors. Their voices have shaped the sounds of the continent and influenced music beyond it.

From traditional performance circles to global stages, African women have preserved and advanced musical traditions. Long before recording studios and streaming platforms, women played a key role in sustaining Africa’s musical heritage. One example is Bikutsi, a dance and music tradition among the Beti people of Cameroon that, before the 1960s, was performed largely by women. They gathered in the evenings after work to sing, dance, and share experiences. In Nigeria, Waka music developed from Yoruba folklore and Islamic musical influences and gained prominence through performers such as Batile Alake in the 1950s.

Oral traditions function as a cultural archive. Women’s songs record community values, social change, challenges, and collective memory. The rhythms, melodies, instruments, and storytelling found in these performances contribute to Africa’s musical identity. As African societies evolved and music began to reach broader audiences through radio and recordings, artists such as Evi Edna Ogholi, Brenda Fassie, and Onyeka Onwenu emerged as pioneers who carried these traditions into new spaces.

Across the twentieth century, a generation of female artists expanded the reach of African music and introduced it to global audiences. Artists such as Miriam Makeba used music as a cultural and political voice, drawing international attention to apartheid in South Africa. Performers like Angelique Kidjo continued by blending African traditions with international collaborations that extended the reach of African sound.

The legacy of these pioneers helped create space for a new generation of artists who now occupy a central place in contemporary African music. Today, performers such as Ayra Starr, Yemi Alade, and Tems are among the visible ambassadors of African music on the global stage. Many write their own music, lead creative teams, build international audiences, and influence the direction of contemporary African sound.

The contribution of women to the industry extends beyond performance. Women are active as producers, managers, executives, music journalists, and archivists who document and interpret Africa’s musical story.

Progress continues, but challenges remain. Gender disparities still appear in festival lineups, leadership roles within music companies, and access to technical and production opportunities. Celebrating African women in music also involves recognizing these gaps and supporting systems that allow more women to develop and lead within the industry.

For the African Music Library, documenting African music includes preserving the stories of the women who have shaped it across generations. Their songs carry memories. Their work reflects the range of the continent’s musical traditions and continues to influence how African music is heard and studied.

As we mark International Women’s Day, we recognize the women who have sustained Africa’s musical heritage and those shaping its future. The sound of African music has always included their voices and will continue to do so for generations.

This International Women’s Day, the African Music Library celebrates their enduring influence.

Celebrating African Women in Music

What is the sound of a community?

In many parts of Nigeria, music serves as a language that helps people remember who they are and goes beyond simple entertainment. The sharp, metallic resonance of the Ogene is one sound that has a particularly significant cultural significance among the Igbo people of southeast Nigeria.  Ogene music is more than just melody and rhythm. It is a record of Igbo identity, memory, and daily life.

The Ogene is a straightforward but effective tool. It is an iron gong that is struck with a metal rod and is typically curved or slightly hollowed. It is useful for both music and communication because of its bright, penetrating tone, which can cut through background noise and move across open areas.

In the past, Igbo communities used the Ogene for various purposes. It could be used to announce significant events, call villagers to meetings, or accompany masquerade performances. The instrument functioned at the intersection of social structure and music in this way. The Ogene’s sound frequently indicated the impending occurrence of something important.

Ogene is backed up by some other instruments, Ichaka, Oyo, Olu, Oja, Udu, and Takuro/Mpokoro. The lead instrument is determined by which eastern part it is played. In Enugu, Oja leads, telling stories or eulogizing. While in Delta, Olu (The gong leads).

Typically, the music is upbeat and rhythmic. Recurring and interlocking rhythms produce patterns that entice engagement. Singers frequently use proverbs, satire, and social commentary to interact with the audience during performances. The songs can narrate historical events, mock social misconduct, or honor bravery. A basic aspect of Igbo musical culture is revealed by this participatory nature: music is rarely a spectator activity. Rather, it serves as a communal social experience in which listeners and performers engage. The music becomes an oral archive because of its lyrical components. The words and lyrics in it frequently convey deeper cultural meaning, even though the rhythms may draw attention. Younger generations can experience the worldview of their elders by listening to Ogene music.

Ogene music has changed in response to contemporary influences, just like many other indigenous musical traditions. New contexts for Nigerian music have been brought about by urban migration, digital media, and the genre's international distribution. Ogene sounds can occasionally be heard in modern Nigerian pop productions. Occasionally, producers and artists use its metallic sound in contemporary compositions, fusing electronic beats with conventional percussion. Artists like Flavour, Phyno , Zoro, (Zoro ft Flavour- "OGENE" , Game Changer , umu obiligbo - Culture and more.) The tradition is not inherently diminished by this adaptation. Rather, it illustrates how cultural sounds move and change over time.

The difficulty, though, is making sure that Ogene music retains its deeper cultural context when it enters commercial venues.

This is the cover page for the blog post titled, "Ogene Music: The Sound of Igbo Heritage."

Ogene Music: The Sound of Igbo Heritage

One of the things that stand out in Cameroon is the language. Aside from local languages, it is the dual lingua franca of English and French that divides the country geographically but holds together its music, customs, traditions, seat of government, and other intangible ties. Though its land mass is largely situated at the center of Africa and part of West Africa, the music from Cameroon is percussive and vocal in ways that resist easy categorization.

The country is home to more than 270 ethnic groups, and each carries its own musical inheritance. The Beti people of the south favor the bikutsi, a form built on an insistent, rolling rhythm that comes from the balafon, a wooden xylophone that has been played in the region for centuries. In the north, the Fulani bring music tied to pastoral life and Islamic tradition, where the hoddu, a string instrument related to the kora, carries melodies across open land. These are not museum pieces. They are living forms, still played at ceremonies, markets, and gatherings.

Cameroon’s most visible export, however, is makossa. Developed in the port city of Douala in the 1950s and refined through the 1970s and 80s, makossa became the first Cameroonian genre to travel the world. Manu Dibango carried it the furthest. His 1972 recording "Soul Makossa" found its way into discos in New York and Paris, and its hook later appeared in recordings by Western artists.

The geography of Cameroon, which touches the Atlantic coast, the Sahel, and the forests of Central Africa, means its sound has always been open to movement. Coupé-décalé from Côte d'Ivoire crosses the western border. Congolese rumba arrives by radio and migration. What comes back out is rarely a copy. Cameroonian musicians have a way of absorbing influence and returning something that sounds like the country itself.

Language remains central. Songs shift between French and English within a verse, then turn to Pidgin, the creole that bridges regional and colonial lines. The code switching is deliberate. It allows artists to address multiple audiences at once in a country where the audience is never singular.

Music from Cameroon rewards close listening. It reflects a nation shaped by more than one voice.

The cover image for the blog post titled, Cameroon, Where Language Shapes the Rhythm.

Cameroon, Where Language Shapes the Rhythm

Cameroon, Where Language Shapes the Rhythm

Scroll through most Nigerian playlist today and you will hear it almost immediately. The glide from English into Yoruba. The pivot into Igbo mid-hook. The switch to Hausa for emphasis. It is effortless and unmistakably Nigerian.

Listen to Dami Duro by Davido. Or Dog Eat Dog by Odumodublvck. Or Water & Garri by Tiwa Savage. The blend is not decorative. It is structural. The language shift changes the groove, the bounce, even the confidence in delivery.

Gospel artists do it too. Kaestrings moves between English and Hausa, reflecting his Northern upbringing. Chioma Jesus leans into Igbo, where her phrasing feels most spiritually textured. Then there is Nathaniel Bassey, from Akwa Ibom, whose catalog spans English, Yoruba and Igbo with remarkable ease.

Is it just familiarity? Market strategy? Or is there something deeper shaping the sound?

Part of the answer may lie in how language lives in the body. Many Nigerian languages are tonal, where pitch does not merely decorate a word but defines it. From childhood, speakers internalize subtle rises and falls in speech that determine meaning. That tonal awareness does not disappear when they begin to sing. It follows them into melody while it shapes the phrasing. It influences how comfortably a line sits on a beat.

When artists sing in languages they grew up speaking, something often relaxes. The vowels are fuller. The consonants strike and the emotional inflection feels authentic. You can sometimes hear the difference between memorized pronunciation and inherited speech. And in music, where authenticity is currency, that distinction matters. No artist wants to release a record that makes them feel like an imposter.

But Nigeria complicates any neat conclusion. It is a country of constant code-switching. In markets, on campuses, in boardrooms and on timelines, English blends with Pidgin and other indigenous languages without ceremony. The hybrid sentence is normal. The layered identity is default. Perhaps what you hear in the music is simply a mirror of that lived reality.

There is also the quiet calculus of reach. English travels. Indigenous languages root. A Yoruba hook can electrify a Lagos crowd; an English verse can stretch to diaspora listeners in London or Toronto without translation. Blending both can be cultural affirmation and commercial strategy at once. Not compromise, but expansion.

And then there are the outliers who stretch the framework. Nathaniel Bassey’s multilingual catalog suggests that “native” is not always ethnic. It can be devotional and at the same time communal. It can be shaped by church culture, migration, schooling and the environment. An artist born in one region may find their resonant musical expression in another. Identity, after all, is not static. It evolves with exposure.

So when Nigerian artists pivot between languages mid-song, are they following tonal instinct? Leaning into authenticity? Building market bridges? Reflecting urban hybridity? Or simply singing in the most honest way they know how?

Maybe language in Nigerian music is not just a vehicle for lyrics but an instrument in its own right. It bends melody. It alters tone. It signals belonging. It expands possibilities.

Or perhaps the blend is less deliberate than imagined. Perhaps it is simply who they are becoming — a generation raised between tongues, thinking in layers, singing in layers too.

The cover photo for the blog post title When Mother Tongue Shapes the Nigerian Sound.

When Mother Tongue Shapes the Nigerian Sound

Josplay, Africa’s premium music streaming platform, has announced the 2026 recipients of its Josplay Rise Fund. The company will provide $1,000 in structured development support to three emerging African artists selected through this year’s programme.

This year’s beneficiaries are Kiria (Kenya), who receives $500; Elprezido (Nigeria), awarded $300; and Donboydml (Nigeria), awarded $200. The annual initiative is positioned as an early-stage intervention programme aimed at addressing a persistent gap in the African music ecosystem: access to small but catalytic funding at critical career moments.

Rather than operating as a cash prize scheme, the Rise Fund applies targeted support toward defined needs such as recording, production, marketing and distribution. The objective is to remove practical barriers that often slow momentum for independent artists operating in emerging markets.

Blessing Tenumah, Head of Music Content & Partnerships (Africa) at Josplay and project lead for the initiative, said the programme reflects a long-term ecosystem strategy.

“At Josplay, we see music streaming as one component of a broader music economy,” she said. “The Rise Fund enables us to support artists at a stage where relatively modest capital can produce measurable professional progress.”

In addition to financial support, recipients benefit from editorial consideration and increased visibility on the Josplay platform, including a curated “Raw and Rising” playlist featuring the top 20 applicants for the funding.

Applications are assessed on artistic merit, demonstrated commitment and clarity of proposed use of funds. The selection process is overseen by a panel comprising Josplay executives and external industry professionals.

The 2026 funding cycle opened in December 2025 and closed on 14 January 2026. It drew applications from emerging artists across multiple African territories. Following a structured review and scoring process, winners were formally announced on 20 February 2026.

As attention gradually shifts to the global valuation of African music content, initiatives such as the Rise Fund reflect a more deliberate structural commitment to independent talent development and long-term market expansion. In this context, early-stage intervention is a strategic investment in strengthening the foundations of Africa’s evolving digital music economy.

The picture of Kenya artist Kiria, Winner of Josplay RISE Fund 2

Kiria

Josplay awards $1,000 in artist development grants to emerging African acts

Do you need to learn music theory to excel in music? It is a question that returns in every generation, especially as more musicians rise outside formal institutions. We should start with a caveat first. This is not an argument against studying music in school or against self-learning as a disciplined craft. It is an exploration of the role music theory plays in shaping musicianship, and whether it is a requirement or simply one of many possible paths.

The late Nigerian Afrobeat godfather Fela Anikulapo Kuti offers an early example. Sponsored by his parents to Great Britain to study medicine, he abandoned that path and enrolled at Trinity College of Music. There, he learned classical music, trumpet, composition, and arrangement. Yet the sound that would later define Afrobeat did not emerge fully from classrooms. It emerged from Lagos nightclubs, political anger, jazz records, highlife rhythms, and long band rehearsals. Theory gave Fela structure, but lived experience gave him direction.

Ayub Ogada’s journey was different. He was raised to revere his ancestors' Luo traditions, and as a young man toured the United States and Kenya with his musical parents, performing Luo culture. He came to specialize in the nyatiti, the eight-stringed lyre that would become his signature instrument. In 1979, he formed the band African Heritage in Nairobi, dedicated to creating new, original music for a new Kenya. When the band veered toward international pop in 1986, he left for London, where he played with Taxi Pata Pata and formed a new roots band, Orchestra Rafiki. His music carried a depth that could not be traced to notation alone. It came from repetition, listening, and memory rooted in Luo tradition. When the world discovered him through film soundtracks, it was not an academic background they heard, but a voice and feel shaped by culture and lived experience.

Salif Keita, often called the golden voice of Africa, never attended a formal music school. Born into a noble Malian family where music was discouraged. He taught himself, moved to the city to start singing in nightclubs, found his way to the Rail band of Bamako,  and the rest is history. His understanding of melody and phrasing came from tradition, not textbooks. His mastery came from time, not certificates.

These stories point to an uncomfortable truth for rigid systems. Music theory is a language, but it is not music itself. It explains what has already been felt, played, and tested. For some, theory accelerates growth. For others, it comes later as a tool to describe what instinct already knows. In African music especially, learning has always been communal, practical, and oral. Songs were passed hand to hand, not page to page.

Today’s music space reflects this same tension. Some of the most successful artists can read and write music fluently. Others cannot name a single chord but can move millions with a hook. The difference is rarely theory. It is consistency, listening, curiosity, and the willingness to keep refining sound.

Perhaps the better question is not whether music theory is necessary, but when it becomes useful. For many, it is not the beginning of the journey. It is the mirror that helps them understand where they have already been.

In the end, music does not reward how it is learned. It rewards how it is felt, practiced, and shared.

The design above is the cover for the blogpost titled Do you need to learn Music Theory to Excel in Music.

Do you need to learn Music Theory to Excel in Music

Do You need to Learn Music Theory to Excel in Music?

Sound and context are always intertwined in Yoruba music. Understanding musical instruments involves knowing not only how they are played but also where, when, and why they are played. A culturally ingrained understanding of emotional boundaries in music-making is expressed in the Yoruba proverb, "Ṣhẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀ kì í lọ s’ọ̀dẹ̀ ìbànújẹ́" which literally translates to "the Ṣhẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀ does not go to a place of sorrow." This proverb expresses the idea that some instruments have social and emotional connotations that make them suitable for some situations but inappropriate for others.

Yoruba musical culture insists on the ethical and emotional placement of sound by emphasizing the proverb. The social fabric shapes and is shaped by the instruments, which are context-bound and not interchangeable. This interpretation casts music as a deeply situated practice where meaning, emotion, and community come together, challenging contemporary ideas of music as purely aesthetic.

A dried gourd covered in a net of seeds or beads is used to make the shaken idiophone instrument known as the Shekere. It originated from the Western part of Nigeria, among the Oyo Tribe (Yoruba land) and it is frequently employed in Yoruba performance contexts and musical genres. It is bright, rhythmic, and mobile, its sound is frequently created by physical movement, such as shaking, swinging, or slamming the instrument against the palm or thigh to produce a variety of tones that can enhance musical texture or serve as an anchor for rhythm. Its design serves both practical and symbolic purposes, the gourd adds resonance, and the beads give it a rattling texture that characterizes its sound. The Ṣhẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀ inherently promotes dancing, participation, and social interaction due to the intimate relationship between sound and movement.

In Yoruba society, the Ṣhẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀ is frequently heard in joyful and social settings like festivals, praise singing, get-togethers, and dance-focused performances. As a rhythmic support instrument, it emphasises energy and groove over solemnity or restraint. Its existence frequently denotes vitality, transparency, and group involvement. Shekere is featured in many ensembles in Yoruba land, especially ensembles that perform at festivals, rituals, celebration, and other happy settings but it is always exempted from some ensembles in sorrowful settings.

The adage "Ṣhẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀ kì í lọ s’ọ̀dẹ̀ ìbànújẹ́" does not suggest that the Ṣhẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀ is unable to produce quiet or subtle sounds. Instead, it reflects a deeper cultural sense that certain emotional roles are linked to specific instruments. Particularly when death or profound mourning are involved, sorrow (ìbànújẹ́) necessitates a sound setting that supports silence, introspection, and emotional control. In contrast, vitality, responsiveness, and interaction are culturally linked to the shekere. Its performance style encourages obvious movement, and its sound is textured and animated. As a result, it represents transparency and external vitality.

Yoruba musical culture views instruments in terms of occasion and function. Every instrument has social, emotional, and occasionally spiritual connotations that influence its use and timing. As a result, context, not taste, determines how music is made. The instrument selection is just as crucial as the performance itself. There are some instruments that are closely associated with public expression, celebration, and praise. Others are set aside for serious occasions, ritual observance, or spiritual and ancestral communication. The Ṣhẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀ falls into the former group because of its lively tone and movement-based style of performance.

Another way to interpret the saying is symbolically. It implies that some energies are inappropriate for particular environments. Certain sounds must be avoided during times of grief, just as laughter may be suppressed. The Ṣhẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀ serves as a vehicle for communicating more general cultural norms regarding decency, compassion, and group consciousness.

The Ṣhẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀ is a unique example of gender-inclusive participation in Yoruba musical practice because it is an instrument that both men and women can play. Anyone who has been taught its rhythms and movements can play it, unlike some instruments that might be restricted by social status or gender. People of all ages and genders can participate in performance and dance because of its accessibility, which promotes social interaction.

However, the emotional specificity of the instrument tempers this inclusivity. The Ṣhẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀ can be played by anyone, but because it is so closely linked to happiness, energy, and social contact, it is not suitable for situations involving loss or mourning. The Ṣhẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀ thus exemplifies a fine balance in Yoruba culture: participation freedom combined with awareness of the performance's emotional and social context.

Making music is viewed as a social duty in Yoruba culture. It is expected of musicians to understand the impact of their sound on people, space, and time. Music interacts with social norms and emotional states; it does not exist outside of the community. Because of this, restraint is just as important as expression.

This obligation is reflected in the proverb "Ṣhẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀ kì í lọ s’ọ̀dẹ̀ ìbànújẹ́." It implies that musicians need to be aware of when sound might be reassuring, upsetting, or inconsistent with the mood of the crowd. In addition to being a poor musical decision, playing the Ṣhẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀ in a depressing setting runs the risk of upsetting the group's emotional equilibrium.

Performance is given ethical weight in this understanding. It becomes just as important to know when not to play as it is to know how to play. In this way, Yoruba music culture teaches that sound should be used for the good of the community rather than for personal expression. By its very nature, the Ṣhẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀ requires emotional focus, reminding musicians that music is about more than just melody and rhythm.

Modernization and the Expansion of Yoruba Music

Yoruba music has undergone significant transformation in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. The use of Yoruba instruments has changed as a result of urbanization, technological advancement, and international cultural exchange. Traditional Yoruba instruments are incorporated into contemporary ensembles in the Afrobeat and Afrobeats genres, which were pioneered by Fela Kuti and are being maintained by contemporary artists. Frequently used prominently, the Ṣhẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀ gives live performances energy and a rhythmic texture.

The Ṣhẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀, also known as the afoxé, has been incorporated into both religious and secular contexts in Afro-Cuban and Brazilian music, frequently accompanying dance and ritual. It’s unique timbre has led to its adoption by jazz, world music, and even pop groups, demonstrating its versatility outside of Yoruba territory.

The Ṣhẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀'s cultural identity has not been lost in spite of these changes. Even when experimenting with contemporary genres, musicians deliberately refrain from using it in melancholy situations because it still connotes celebration and energy.

Ṣhẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀ kì í lọ s'ọ̀dẹ̀ ìbànújẹ́" — "the Shekere does not go to a place of sorrow

Ṣhẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀ kì í lọ s'ọ̀dẹ̀ ìbànújẹ́

SHEKERE KÌ Í LỌ S Ọ̀DẸ̀ ÌBÀNÚJẸ́: Emotional Boundaries in Yoruba Instrumental Practice

Long before African music reached global charts and streaming platforms, it travelled across the continent through dance halls, radio broadcasts, touring bands, and shared social spaces. Highlife was one of the forms that carried these movements. It emerged in Ghana, spread across West Africa, and was shaped collectively over time. That shared history has now received international recognition.

Ghanaian Highlife music and dance have been inscribed on UNESCO’s Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. The announcement was made on December 10, 2025, during UNESCO’s 20th Intergovernmental Committee session in New Delhi. The inscription marks an important moment not only for Ghana, but for African musical history.

Highlife originated over a century ago along the Fanti coast of southwest Ghana. It developed from the interaction between indigenous rhythms, local performance traditions, and Western musical forms introduced through colonial contact. Over time, it became part of everyday life, performed at social gatherings, public events, and political moments across the region.

As musicians moved across borders, Highlife also travelled. In Nigeria, it influenced the development of Juju music, Nigerian Highlife, and Igbo Highlife. In other parts of West Africa, its musical structures and performance styles were adopted and adapted, contributing to the formation of multiple popular music traditions. Highlife did not remain tied to one place. It became a shared reference point across the region.

UNESCO’s recognition presents Highlife as a living cultural practice, maintained through performance, dance, and transmission between generations. It acknowledges the role of communities in sustaining the music and adapting it to changing social contexts.

As African music continues to attract global attention, the inscription of Ghanaian Highlife encourages a broader reflection on continuity. Many contemporary sounds draw from earlier forms that shaped popular music on the continent. Highlife’s path from coastal Ghana to regional adoption and global recognition highlights its place within Africa’s ongoing cultural history.

Learn more about Ghanaian Highlife: https://www.africanmusiclibrary.org/genre/Highlife

Highlife began in Ghana but travelled across West Africa, influencing multiple musical traditions. UNESCO’s recognition places the genre within Africa’s shared cultural history.

Ghanaian Highlife Joins UNESCO’s Intangible Heritage List

Ghanaian Highlife Joins UNESCO Intangible Heritage List

The 2026 Grammy Awards have come and gone, but the applause still lingers, and the spotlight on African music continues to shine. With 95 categories spanning different genres, one category in particular got us talking in Africa: Best African Music Performance.

The fever and expectations were pitch high. Predictions were everywhere. Fans, critics, and industry insiders all had their favorites. Each, many times different, had its merits. When the moment finally arrived, the winner was South Africa’s Tyla for “Push2Start.”

Congratulations, Tyla, now a two-time Grammy Award Winner. Permit us to say, “Your win is more than an individual achievement. It is Africa's moment. A signal to both established and emerging artists across Africa that the global stage is not out of reach, and that African music in all its diversity continues to command respect and receive due recognition.”

We also extend a big shout-out to the other nominees/artists who made this year’s race a tight one: Burna Boy, Davido, Omah Lay, Eddy Kenzo, (Mehran Matin), Ayra Starr, and Wizkid. Each of you represents a different expression of Africa’s creative power, and your presence alone reinforces the continent’s growing influence in global music culture.

Beyond the celebration, the 2026 Grammy Awards invite reflection. One clear takeaway is that global appeal still matters. While authenticity remains essential, African music must combine local identity with emotion, production, and storytelling that resonates across borders. And as it evolves, the impact will become more visible on international stages.

Consistency also plays a critical role. African artists who remain present through regular releases, touring, performances, and international collaborations are more likely to stay relevant in the global conversation. Grammy recognition is rarely the result of a single moment; it is often the outcome of sustained visibility and long-term positioning.

Equally important is the structure surrounding the artist. Behind every Grammy moment is a well-coordinated ecosystem.  The right managers, labels, distributors, publicists, and digital platforms, an ace mix! Talent opens the door, but strategy, timing, and alignment determine how far that door stays open. For African artists, investing in strong teams and global strategies is no longer optional.

Perhaps most encouraging is the continued recognition of diversity within African music. This year’s nominees reflect a growing understanding that the continent’s sound can't be under one umbrella - World Music, or even Afrobeats.

The 2026 Grammy Awards was not just a celebration, but a checkpoint. Africa’s presence on the global music stage is stronger than ever, but the journey is far from complete. With strategy, more investment, and confidence in our own stories, the next Grammy season could mark an even bigger leap forward. The light is already on Africa. The task now is to ensure it continues to shine brighter.

Africa didn’t just show up at the Grammys 2026. It made a statement.

Africa at The Grammy Awards 2026

Africa at The 2026 Grammy Awards

Nigeria, Africa’s most populous nation with over 240 million people, characterized by a strikingly youthful demographic and deep socio-economic inequalities. Nearly half of the population reside in low-income informal settlements commonly referred to as “Trenches”, spaces marked by limited access to formal opportunities, overcrowded environment, and unhealthy living. Yet, this environment is filled with creativity, resilience, and cultural innovation.  In recent years, social media, particularly TikTok, has become the central stage through which young people from these communities articulate joy and survival, expressing their creativity and resilience. TrenchTok emerged within this context as a grassroots digital movement where dance, humor, music, and street aesthetics function not merely as entertainment but as a tool for coping, communal bonding, and the reimagination of everyday hardship.

Mara dance which is inseparable from the Mara music movement which emerged from the Street-Pop, a subculture of Nigerian popular music (Afrobeats) that emphasises fast tempos, percussion beats drawing some sonic elements from House music and EDM, and the improvisational interaction between DJs, dancers, and local communities. In contrast to mainstream Afrobeats, Mara music frequently emphasises deep basslines, abrasive drum samples, dense, polyrhythmic percussion, and atmospheric synths that evoke both intensity and trance-like grooves, usually between 140 and 160 beats per minute and it is usually on 4/4 time signature. The kinetic energy of the streets where it originated is reflected in this sound palette, which is intended not only to complement dance but also to compel physical participation.

Mara music, also known as Street House, originated in Lagos, where DJ Khalipha is credited with creating the genre. Cruise beats, which DJ YK Mule created in 2019, are said to have served as inspiration to its creation. Mara sets itself apart with emotive melodies that blend Electronic House, Nigerian Street Pop, and moody Lo-fi piano chords, in contrast to Cruise Beats, which mainly rely on light-hearted samples and playful audio clips. Following its breakthrough in 2023, the sound swiftly gained popularity, with songs like "Mara Pass Mara" receiving millions of plays. In order to avoid the "Mara" moniker becoming overused and to highlight his goal of expanding the genre beyond regional street culture into a worldwide EDM, DJ Khalipha later rebranded the style as Street House. Street House stands out in Nigeria’s developing electronic music scene, its upbeat groove, which reflects in the catalogue which samples Brazilian funk, Chinese Guoyue, and even Russian Melodies.  Now there are many Mara music producers: Dj Mob, Dj Mayor kay , Azzi on the beat, and a few others.

Mara music has grown into a culture of fusion, where producers seamlessly mix Afropop, amapiano, and other global genres into its street-rooted beats, creating a sound that feels both familiar and experimental. This results in a sound that is both familiar and experimental. Mara is adaptable enough for both local parties and international playlists thanks to this blending, which preserves the raw, percussive energy of street EDM while carrying the emotional depth of Afropop melodies. Azzi on the Beat, a rising Mara producer is striking example of this innovation as he bridged tradition and modernity by incorporating the traditional Eyo chant in one of his Mara beat. Mainstream celebrities like Rema, who used Mara's mesmerising groove for songs like Ozeba, have also been influenced by the genre, demonstrating how Street House can effectively support Afropop's worldwide trend. Mara continues to develop as a street anthem and a worldwide soundscape by fusing electronic experimentation with cultural identity.

The Mara dance movement uses the body as a site of negotiation, resistance, and redefinition to address issues of gender equity. Hypermasculine performances that emphasise toughness, restraint, and physical dominance have historically dominated Nigerian street dance venues and the larger urban "trench" environment.  By normalising expressive movements that transcend socially constructed gender codes, such as hip articulations, fluid torso movements, and performative gestures traditionally associated with femininity, mara dance subverts these norms. Male and female dancers alike challenge inflexible gender binary distinctions by embracing these embodied expressions, claiming dance as an equitable medium where talent, originality, and emotional authenticity transcend gender norms.

From the trenches to TrenchTok, Mara dance is rewriting gender rules and street culture in Nigeria.

Mara Dance

Mara Dance: Breaking Gender Boundaries in Nigeria’s TrenchTok Movement

A true African performance tour would not begin with charts or ticket sales. It would begin with rhythm. With memory. With movement across the arteries of the continent where music has always traveled faster than borders.

The takeoff would be Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of Congo, a city that breathes rumba and dance. Kinshasa is not just a starting point, it is a statement. From there, a short crossing to Brazzaville, where the Congo River splits yet unites two cities that share the same music bloodline. The band would play, rest, then cross again, carrying the echo of guitars and voices downstream.

From the Congos, the tour would move south to Luanda, Angola. Here, semba, kizomba, and kuduro live side by side. Luanda would add swing to the setlist, reminding everyone that African music is never static, always evolving. The road would then lead to Johannesburg, South Africa, where the stage becomes bigger and the sound sharper. Amapiano basslines would meet guitars from the Congo and drums from West Africa, creating a conversation only Africa can hold.

The journey would then turn westward, touching Lagos, Nigeria, the engine room of modern African pop culture. Lagos would not just host a show, it would test the tour’s energy. If the crowd in Lagos moves, the tour is alive. From Lagos, the road would carry on to Accra, where music feels lighter but no less powerful, shaped by dancehall, gospel, highlife, and the Atlantic breeze.

From Ghana, the tour would move inland to Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, where music still feels communal and unfiltered. Here, performances are not spectacles, they are gatherings. Then back to the coast in Abidjan, Ivory Coast, where coupé-décalé reminds everyone that dance is its own language.

East Africa would call next. Addis Ababa would slow the tempo, pulling the tour into the world of Ethio-jazz and ancient scales that refuse to bend to Western tuning. From there, Nairobi would bring modernity back into the frame, blending hip-hop, Afro-fusion, and underground scenes that feel like the future rehearsing in real time.

The final arc would land in Dakar, Senegal, where drums speak first and lyrics follow. Dakar would feel like a return to the source, a reminder that performance in Africa is not entertainment alone, it is tradition and joy woven together.

And then, the crown of the tour would be Lagos, Nigeria.

The return to Lagos would not be repetition, it would be arrival. Everything learned across the continent would pour into one final performance. The guitars from Kinshasa, the swing of Luanda, the polish of Johannesburg, the soul of Addis, the grit of Dakar, the energy of Nairobi, all meeting on one stage. Lagos would hold it together, loud, chaotic, and perfect.

This is what a performance tour across Africa would look like. Not a straight line. A circle. A loop of sound, history, and people, reminding us that African music is not a genre, it is a journey.

What would a performance tour across Africa look like if it followed rhythm instead of borders?

What Would a Performance Tour Across Africa Look Like?

The guitar is so deeply woven into African music today that it feels almost indigenous to the continent. From Ghanaian highlife to Congolese rumba, Nigerian juju grooves to Senegalese mbalax, the guitar is not just one of those instruments trying to find a footing in these genres. Although not of African origin, its journey here is a story of adoption and adaptation.

The guitar’s purported first reported appearance on African soil was through colonial contact. Portuguese sailors arrived on the West African coast as early as the 15th century, carrying stringed instruments such as early guitars, lutes, and vihuelas. These instruments found their way into port cities, mission schools, and trading posts. But Africa did not simply adopt the guitar; it translated it. African musicians believed they had heard something familiar in its strings. The plucked patterns echoed those of the kora, the ngoni, the xalam, and other ancient string instruments endemic in African music. In many ways, the guitar did not arrive as a stranger, but as a long-lost distant cousin.

There is a popular myth across West and Central Africa that the guitar was remembered rather than learned. Elders say Africans already knew the instrument in spirit, and when it arrived, the hands woke up. This myth persists because of how African musicians reimagined the guitar, tuning it and playing it horizontally, percussively, rhythmically, and melodically all at once. Western harmony was secondary; rhythm was king.

By the early 20th century, the guitar had settled into urban Africa. Sailors, railway workers, and soldiers carried it inland. In Ghana, palm-wine guitarists such as Kwame Asare (a.k.a. Jacob Sam),  E.T. Mensah, and E.K. Nyame, laid the foundations for highlife. They blended folk melodies with syncopated guitar patterns that danced around the beat. In Nigeria, the guitar became central to juju music. King Sunny Adé and Ebenezer Obey transformed it into a talking instrument, mirroring Yoruba tonal speech and drum conversations. Their guitarists created cascading, cyclical lines that turned repetition into trance.

In Central Africa, the story took another turn. Congolese musicians heard Cuban records brought by sailors and radio broadcasts, recognized African rhythms returning home through the diaspora, and built soukous and rumba around the guitar. Franco Luambo Makiadi, Dr. Nico Kasanda, and later Papa Wemba and Diblo Dibala elevated guitar playing to orchestral levels. The lead, rhythm, and mi-solo guitars weaved endlessly around one another, driving dancers into motion for hours.

In Senegal, the guitar entered mbalax, but not as a dominant voice at first. Over time, players like Mbaye Dieye Faye adapted it to match the complex sabar drum patterns, making the guitar punch, snap, and converse rhythmically rather than sing. In Cameroon, makossa guitarists such as Nelle Eyoum, Lobe Lobe Rameau, and Toto Guillaume, alongside Manu Dibango and Petit Pays, infused funk, jazz, and highlife sensibilities into sharp, dance-driven lines.

Across the continent, masters emerged who expanded the guitar’s possibilities. Ali Farka Touré played it like a desert griot, revealing the deep blues connection between Mali and the Mississippi Delta. Djelimady Tounkara refined the Bambara guitar style into something both ancient and modern. Oliver Mtukudzi in Zimbabwe made the guitar speak Shona proverbs, while Zimbabwe’s sungura players turned it into a fast, bright, communal engine of joy. In South Africa, musicians like Philip Tabane and later Madala Kunene fused jazz, spirituality, and indigenous harmony into deeply expressive guitar traditions.

What makes Africa’s guitar story unique is not just the adoption, but the reinvention. African guitar styles are not copies of Western forms; they are rooted in local rhythm, language, and social life. The guitar became a drum, a voice, a storyteller, and a bridge between eras. It absorbed the village and the city, the sacred and the dance floor, the past and the future.

Today, from Afrobeat to alté, from desert blues to Afro-rock, the guitar still carries this history in its strings. It is proof that instruments travel, but culture decides where they belong. And in Africa, the guitar didn’t just arrive; it found home, built a family, and learned how to speak in a thousand tongues.

The guitar arrived in Africa as a traveler, but it stayed as family. What's the story and the journey?