BAD SONG SYNDROME
When culture becomes material, when does it become exploitation? Written by Kevin Nnake.
If there’s anything we’ve learnt over the last year, culminating up until now, it is that the music scene in Nigeria has shifted. Not a gradual shift, but one embodied by chaos and vibrance. Songs began to feel louder, messier, and more unserious. Lyrics leaned into jokes. Visuals looked rushed. Hooks felt repetitive. For many listeners, the initial reaction was confusion, irritation, and intrigue.
Still, these songs kept showing up. They were on social media, in memes, skits, comments, and everyday conversations. Even when people complained about them, they knew the words. Even when they were dismissed as “bad,” they travelled further than expected.
This evolution has shifted the behaviours of industry players, from artists and executives to fans. It’s clear now that there is no single path to fame; The usual markers, polish, technical excellence, and emotional depth no longer guarantee attention. Instead, a different approach was taking shape, one that prioritised being present in culture over being perfect in sound. There is the newfound ability to tap into the current pop culture landscape to communicate their message.
That strategy is called cultural relevance.
This new wave of artists has found a way to intertwine mundane cultural tropes with their music, creating a body of art that resonates with the typical Nigerian. This has split opinions. Whilst some are inherently tapped into the new wave and have considered it commonplace, some factions believe that this is genuinely just bad music. That the artist is ragebaiting.
In this context, cultural relevance is concrete and tangible. It is built from specific, repeatable choices. Language is local and exaggerated, meant to feel familiar rather than polished. Humour replaces sincerity, relying on irony and inside jokes that reward those already connected to the culture. Timing is as important as sound, with music released to align with an existing online moment instead of creating one from scratch. Visuals are deliberately rough, but instantly recognisable, focusing on recall rather than perfection. The music creates space for the audience to engage, whether through parody, dance, or remix. Relevance here is intentional; it is designed. These artists function less like traditional musicians and more like content creators, making songs meant to circulate through culture and not sit above it.
But beneath taste lies a bigger question:
When culture becomes material, does it become exploitation?
These artists have veered from traditional industry standards to which people are accustomed, into new terrain identifiable by unseriousness, chaos, and meme-driven work that resonates with people chronically online. The unserious tone complicates criticism. If something is framed as a joke, can it still be dishonest? Or is the exaggeration the point? Cultural relevance does not happen by accident. It is built deliberately, often from things so ordinary they would otherwise go unnoticed. These artists pull from daily Nigerian life, not as commentary but as material. A throwaway joke, a familiar complaint, a phrase heard online or on the street becomes the centre of the song. Danpapa GTA’s “Ikeja (No Go Thief)” is a resonant example of taking a shared experience, in this case, the punishment given to those who steal at Computer Village, Ikeja, and making it the focus of the song. “Who dey check am?, no go thief for Ikeja” to the untrained ear, or one unfamiliar with the culture, it may sound meaningless, but to those who know, it is a comic reflection of the prevalence of theft in the area. The listener is not introduced to a new world; they are placed back into one they already recognise. Artists also take note of social media trends and turn them into anthems. The mimic joins a moment already in motion. It reflects the culture in itself.
Unseriousness plays a key role here. By leaning into humour and chaos, these artists disarm critique before it arrives. When a song presents itself as light or absurd, it lowers the standard by which it is judged. If it is mocked, it still spreads. If it is embraced, it spreads even faster. Either way, attention is secured.
The shield of humour can protect creativity, but it can also hide intention.
The audience is no longer passive. These songs invite participation through repetition, imitation, and reinterpretation. They act as soundtracks to moments rather than standalone pieces of art. The humorous take on class distinction in Nigeria, seen in the Nepo, Mapo, and Lapo babies trend on Nigerian TikTok, was highlighted by NO11’s “HOW FAR.” The song worked hand in hand with content creation, showing different levels of comfort and lifestyle. It was funny, but it also revealed something real. When wealth disparity becomes a joke, is it being criticised, normalised, or simply repackaged for virality?
There is also the quiet discomfort around wealth itself. If an artist subtly flexes inherited wealth in a country where many struggle, does subtlety make it acceptable? In a place where conversations about stolen wealth are common, visibility carries weight. At the same time, music has always carried aspiration. What feels different now is proximity. Social media makes the music immediate.
This culture-first approach has also drawn Nigerian artists in the diaspora closer to home. Distance has not diminished cultural specificity; it has sharpened it. Artists based abroad treat Nigerian culture as an anchor rather than a decoration. Sonically, this is evident in the return to familiar rhythms, slang, and cadence. Lyrics shift between accents and languages, blending foreign tones with Pidgin and local references that signal belonging, as in “KAPOW” by Igwe AKA and Tochi Bedford, where the visuals and sound blend local rawness with the refinement that comes from artists who honed their craft in the diaspora.
Yet even here, balance matters. When diaspora artists lean into roadside imagery, informal fashion, and communal spaces, is it homage or is it aesthetic mining? For some, it is a genuine reconnection. For others, it risks turning lived realities into props. Intention may be sincere, but perception depends on power and position.
Visually, the choices are deliberate. Football jerseys, local fabrics, exaggerated accessories, Android-shot clips, grainy visuals, and dusty streets. Styled less for luxury and more for recognition. These are strategic decisions. By aligning with the same chaos and cultural shorthand driving the wave at home, diaspora artists place themselves inside the culture rather than beside it.
In the end, Bad Song Syndrome is not about music getting worse, but about music changing purpose. These artists are not chasing perfection or longevity; they are chasing presence. Their songs are built to thrive in places where culture already exists, such as online, in jokes, in shared experiences, and in everyday conversation.
The ethical questions remain. Cultural relevance can be a connection. It can also be commodification. It can highlight disparity and, at the same time, soften it into humour. What sounds unserious is often carefully thought out, shaped by an understanding of how attention works in today’s world. Whether it is exploitative or honest depends not only on the artist’s intent but on what they choose to amplify and who bears the weight of it.
This shift shows that relevance now matters as much as sound. Whether based in Nigeria or abroad, artists who succeed are those who embed themselves in culture rather than stand apart from it. Songs no longer end at release; they continue through videos, trends, humour, and audience participation. In that sense, the artist begins the work, but the culture completes it. And as long as music remains rooted in shared experience, questioned and consumed in equal measure, this era of so-called bad songs will continue to define how Nigerian music moves, spreads, and connects.
About the Writer:
Kevin Nnake is a writer, film enthusiast, and cultural commentator focused on Nigerian art, music, and culture. His work explores these spaces through grounded, accessible perspectives that encourage more honest and progressive conversations. Find him on Substack @kevinisamisfit and Instagram.