A Quick Ting On: Afrobeats

PREFACE

Ever since I began my author journey, a lot has happened within and around this thing we call Afrobeats. As a fan and keen observer this has been both exciting and inspiring. It is after all a writer’s dream (or nightmare) to have the subject you are writing about develop so rapidly. To my knowledge this is the first book on Afrobeats as a whole. I have been writing on the subject for over 10 years now and seeing the world catch on is something that fills me with joy.

This book will examine and celebrate the diversity of this cultural phenomenon - its key moments, its central figures, its internationality, and its likely legacy. Much will continue to develop within Afrobeats, it may even be the case that by the time this book is published, many things in the scene will be different, but my hope is this book will assert the vitality and importance of a musical culture that has made a glorious dent in the world.

The term Afrobeats over the years has become an interestingly loaded term, with connotations and meanings as diverse as its sounds and history. For me, as the son of Ghanaian migrants, born and raised in the UK, Afrobeats in many ways is part of who I am.

Afrobeats represents many things (which we will get into). It is deeper than a musical genre, it is a profound cultural fusion, one that encompasses the intersection of being born in the West whilst being raised in a West African home. Its foundation is rooted in reimagining what it means to be young, gifted and Black in the 21st century.

For the children of African migrants who are fluent in their mother tongue or at the very least understand the key phrases, Afrobeats presents a powerful space. It is a visceral and enticing opportunity to engage with our culture in an accessible and unapologetic manner far removed from any academic ‘higgy-hagga’.

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For diasporic West Africans, Afrobeats is the sound that connects the past to the present. A marriage of the new to the old. It personifies long standing traditions told in iconic West African songs but in new and invigorating ways. When inspecting traditional West African tracks, we often find they are tributes to truth, at times providing social commentary on socio-political issues or giving listeners valuable life lessons.

Before we continue I must assert that there is a difference between Afrobeat and Afrobeats, which will be expanded on as the book continues.

Simply put for now, Afrobeat (without the S), led by the legend that is Fela Kuti, is the musical parent who left Africa and found solace abroad in the confident African-American cousins of funk and soul. Afrobeat defined what it meant to be unapologetically African within the continent and abroad. Afrobeats (with the S) is its youngest offspring, which acknowledges the past via classic samples and familiar drum patterns in hybrid electronic form whilst maintaining the sentiment of African pride.

The genre and its many branches are centred around the world’s second biggest continent. For those that share a direct connection to Africa or are floating in oceans of ambiguity as an ‘other’, retracing their steps back home, Afrobeats makes you proud to say you are indeed an African.

Typically, we have had to fight to have our story told correctly and respectfully. Whether it be the lazy mispronunciations of African names on the school register. Or the ease of which Band Aid and Comic Relief shaped popular discourse on the relationship between Africa and the West. Or the ignorant questions African children faced in school, ‘does your family live in a hut?’ or, ‘is it true you live with animals?’

These perceptions of Africa and Africans coloured our experiences growing up, seeping into the subconscious of our young minds. We would hold our breaths in angst hoping it would not be our parents’ country mentioned in an urgent broadcast appeal this time round. As children of West Africans, we were made to feel ashamed of our parents’ strong accents and culture. At times, this embarrassment would lead to youngsters denying their African heritage and instead claiming to be from the Caribbean. This was the cultural burden placed on many first-generation British-born youngsters of African heritage. Despite our parents’ upbringing and their assertions that our motherland was to be heralded with pride, everywhere else told us otherwise. It would be some years before it was cool to be African.

Originating from West Africa, with London at the epicentre, Afrobeats reflects the nuances of the Black experience a few generations after our parents struggled to settle abroad. With its foundation rooted far from the bustling city that is London, Afrobeats is a vibrant musical culture bouncing to and from cities like Lagos and Accra, amongst many others.

I hope the words in this book will resonate with those who have memories soundtracked by music their African parents played. This is for the kids who couldn’t ‘learn the language’ but were swayed by the hypnotic melodies and magic drums of African music. This is for the people who grew up silently watching family and friends dance in hall parties before they felt confident enough to do the same. This is also for those curious to follow the lineage of Afrobeats from the motherland, recognising its popularity is much more than the ‘hottest new thing’. Afrobeats has depth, sunshine and an unwavering glow, providing the reality and dynamism of what it means to be an African irrespective of one’s birth place.

The origin of this book has two layers. One that involves a talented friend and music producer, Brendan Opoku Ware aka Hagan, who recommended me to Mags aka Magdalene Abraha, a writer, publisher and friend who was on the search for a writer who could tell the journey of this evolving phenomenon and its influence.

Then there is the other layer that started over 10 years ago when I began actively connecting with my African heritage post-university. So in that sense this is the book I have been working toward my whole life.

I remain grateful to Afrobeats for many reasons, for one, this music was able to eloquently capture my experience of occupying a dual identity despite being based in one location. Afrobeats for many of us became another facet of home. When my peers and I would attend university raves it was the explosive Afrobeats set that would set the crowd ablaze, yet the charts and the music industry did not reflect this. Instead we found solace in social media platforms where viral videos of people azontoing or shaku-ing to the latest Afrobeats song would be shared far and wide.

For further context, this period of the early Noughties was a strange time for me and my friends, as far as music was concerned. I distinctly remember a number of grime and UK rap artists deciding to alter their sound to cross over to the pop market. It was a dramatic change to say the least and one that at the time I found perplexing. This musical identity crisis coupled with the World Cup being in South Africa—the first time the tournament was hosted on the continent—were huge catalysts for me and, I imagine, other children of African migrants to reconnect with the culture further.

From a British perspective, Afrobeats has given the children of West Africa a new roar. Now, almost everywhere we look we see artists who look like us, have African names like us and who dance like us climbing the charts. Afrobeats provides us with something contemporary and cultural to be proud of. Something that means when the next generation of west Africans are asked, ‘where are you from?’ they will reply proudly.

This book seeks to acknowledge and link the landmark moments that have influenced West African singing style and rhythms, exploring how they have effortlessly crossed over to become a global juggernaut. A Quick Ting On: Afrobeats pays homage to the growing musical discography of a mighty subgenre, from its mesmerising dances, to its equally enthralling adlibs and melodies. Most of all, I hope to inspire ownership of our narrative as Black people, specifically when it comes to the representation of African art and culture.

Afrobeats was loved by us before she became mainstream, before your favourite rapper jumped on one of her songs, before labels and music institutions saw her financial lucrativeness. We heard and saw ourselves in Afrobeats, we heard and saw our parents in Afrobeats, our siblings and our friends. It has grown with us and taken us to places we never imagined.

From West Africa to the world—here we are.

1

MY PERSONAL RELATIONSHIP WITH AFROBEATS

Long before our communities required us to refer to our elder family friends as aunties and uncles. Long before we assumed our default roles as the official in-house translators for our parents. Long before the heated debates over which rice grain tastes better in jollof (hint: It rhymes with Illuminati). Nigerian Afrobeat and Ghanaian highlife were the roaring soundtracks that aided many West African migrants when settling into new and often cold lands.

For children of West African migrants, weekends were two-day retreats to reconnect with ‘aunty’, ‘uncle’ and your favourite of their children. These days would be filled with warm memories of family friends who pronounced your full name with the vim of your mother. The music played at these family functions would be laced with classic proverbs and subtle metaphors, staying true to the oral storytelling tradition of Africa. In these safe spaces of home, hope was marinated so deep into consciousness that racial microaggressions and stereotypes about Africa wouldn’t affect the newer bodies our parents were to birth and nurture abroachie (abroad in Akan language).

Our parents christened us with names that provided us with a grounding, a root to a place where the majority look just like us.

Hyphenated identities like Black-British, Black-African, or Black-other for us, would become the required way to describe our heritage on awkward census forms. Questions surrounding our identity would grow louder as we grew up in countries that didn’t celebrate us like we were celebrated when we were at home, church and hall parties.

Who are we?

Who are we?

Who are we?

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FROM BROADWATER FARM TO LAMBETH TOWN HALL: THE HALL PARTY EXPERIENCE

This was the sound of sunshine; it vibrated from each corner of the hall. This hall, however, was no ordinary hall. No, this hall was carved out especially for us, with rich smells of a cuisine that we couldn’t wait to consume and women who looked so joyous, you couldn’t help but smile. Awkwardly, we would stare into the VHS camera, where the ‘videoman’ would zoom in à la Google Earth (owing to alcohol intolerance). This was the hall party of all hall parties and there I was in my oversized Sunday best, assured by my extended family that I would ‘grow into it.’ I was Mumsy’s No. 1 non-mover, stiffly perched against the wall perusing how the bodies of my family and friends magically moved to the hypnotic drum patterns of our music. Eventually the ancestors would warmly push me into the periphery of the dancing circle. They would pull my limbs and shoulders in an attempt to capture the rhythm needed for the skanking* showdown I was to partake in.

Sundays after Catholic Church were for respite. A much needed pause before the imminent mist of Monday and the new school week. Uncle** Francis aka Money Matters entered the narrow corridor of our flat. His high top was freshly cut, his eyes redly stern and his fetish for black leather clearly visible as his long trench coat laced the floor of the corridor. The Sankofa Santa brought brown paper bags filled with imported CD’s (remember ‘em?). With sheer enthusiasm, he would exclaim, LATEST whilst pulling a new CD from the bag.

His eclectic collection had it all, it was African music in a bag! Almost every album cover was illustrated with Windows ’97 Word Art fonts featuring colours that made no sense whatsoever. This was our family’s weekly music session. We would all bond over lyrics that my siblings and I didn’t always understand, but that never mattered because the familiar foundation of polyrhythms, organ chords and digital brass were home to us. This would become an early intensive course in music criticism for me and siblings. These CD’s would be played at an array of forthcoming family celebrations including but not limited to birthdays, christenings, graduations, weddings and everything in between.

In hindsight some of the safest spaces I have ever experienced were decaying church halls, overcrowded living rooms, the Broadwater Farm Community Centre and anywhere else that had a framed picture of the Akwabba*** woman pinned to the wall. These spaces were all epicentres of a mini GH****. Even though we were immersed in an African environment at home, our after-school evenings were still spent watching American hip hop and R&B music videos; back then this was the music that appealed more to our young minds. Our palette for African polyrhythms was yet to mature, but our parents would be sure to change that.

Daddy Lumba. Nakorex. Kojo. Antwi. Pat Thomas. George Darko. C.K. Mann. A.B. Crentsil are just some of the names that transport me back to this time.

GOING ‘BACK’ AND COMING ‘BACK’.

Routine summer trips back to Ghana in my late teens humbled me and my brothers. Cockerels and the cries of every church denomination replaced what we knew as alarm clocks. Mosquitoes would feast on our uninitiated fresh skin like we were buffets. It was an experience that meant we walked everywhere, breaking pedometer world records and pit stopping every few metres to greet extended relatives who would stare inquisitively and question our heritage in Twi dialect.

Upon returning to London, hall parties no longer enticed me. Like any clueless teenager, I began seeking independence which brought with it a heavy reluctance to accompany my mum to hall parties, functions on either ends of the Victoria Line. It seemed I wasn’t the only one, my friends had also developed the same disengagement. At the time, I ignorantly thought my love affair with hall parties was over. I had figured this was a natural development of growing up. So, me and my peers would go on the search for alternative activities that aligned with our teenhood and sense of independence away from our parents. In my case this meant immersing myself at music festivals sponsored by cheap lager brands.

THE TEENS TO THE UK FUNKY UNIVERSITY EXPERIENCE

The soundtracks of my formative years were filled with the early rise of a genre called hiplife* with artists like Reggie Rockstone, Obrafour and Tic-Tac. For me, this music was familiar and reminded me of home and because of that it didn’t excite me at the time. It wasn’t until my teens, when my younger sibling introduced me to a new cross-continental sound via his regular mixes and MP3 blog downloads that things began to change. This sound would become known as UK Funky House. This discovery was coupled with the visual representation of the Black Stars, Ghana’s national men’s football team playing at their first ever World Cup in 2006. Strange as it was, this triggered something in me and I started to solidify my bond to the motherland. It was thrilling to watch a football team that looked much like the men I had grown up with. The Black Stars would celebrate goals with infectious choreography which would later be shared across all forms of social media These men moved like the family and friends I had grown up with. They were on the international stage as extensions of us

Then came my university experience, which housed another significant period in the development of my cultural identity. Early UK funky house raves brought the copious catalogue of skanks and bootleg instrumentals converted into air horn anthems. The dance floor finally brought those of African descent to the forefront, after being in the contemporary musical shadow of our West Indian brethren for quite some time. Funky house, sonically, was something we had heard remnants of in our homes. Funky house would become the sound of Afro-Caribbean societies (ACS’s) throughout the country, colouring every Black university cook up, drink up and rave in sight.

UK funky house MCs spraying* in languages such as Pidgin, Twi and Yoruba was reminiscent of the old-school hall party MC. This would be the first time I saw parts of the musical Africanness I was exposed to as a child outside of the home.

Upon leaving university with a clear sense of my