A Short History of the Relationship Between Water Bodies & Nigerian Music

For decades, there's been a creative alliance between the music coming out of Nigeria and its depiction of water bodies. This short history connects the sensual, the spiritual and the sociopolitical.

There’s no denying that Nigerian music is packed with symbolism. Several aspects of our sound echoes important beliefs in our collective philosophy, imbibed for as long as we’ve breathed this air and learnt its reality. Of them all, water shares the closest alliance with music, intertwining in the private lives of musicians and variously explored in their songs over the years. Even as technology pervades the music industry, the strength of this symbol hasn’t dwindled, rather strengthened over the years to feature prominently in afro pop’s undeniable place among the giants of global pop music right now.

Tracing water’s connection with popular Nigerian music goes back to the emergence of Highlife in the 1920s, over in neighbouring Ghana where players paired Afro-Caribbean calypso culture with an array of local styles. The lyrics for these rhythms were inspired by the activity of coastal areas which made for the most interesting stories. When the sound crossed over to Nigeria, it made sense that Lagos, a coastal state, was the first destination. Highlife would become the soundtrack of the state’s nightlife, played at hotels by musicians who made a fortune and were the biggest stars of the day. Bobby Benson’s legacy in Western Nigeria influenced the rise of future greats like Victor Olaiya and Roy Chicago, who started out playing in his band. 

Throughout the sixties, Highlife spread to other parts of the country where it seeped the mythologies of these places. In Eastern and Southern Nigeria, the wavy sound perhaps reminded the players of their water spirits and ritual music. Water would come to be a recurring image in the lyrics of masters like Chief Osita Osadebe, Oliver De Coque and Sir Victor Uwaifo, who sketched the most memorable confluence of water and Nigerian music. The story of “Guitar Boy” was told to almost every magazine of the day, a musical folklore that forms one of the earliest national memories on Nigerian music. Sir Uwaifo received a gold plaque for the song, a bonafide nationwide hit. 

Although he narrated the story many times, there was an air of mystery about his eluding of peculiarities. Only the elementals of the narrative were grasped: one evening on a beach, a mermaid came to him while he played the guitar and though he was afraid, she asked him not to run, but keep playing. The chorus—“if you see mammy water eh, never run away”—was especially telling of his perspective after then. 

Decades after, the record somehow managed to soundtrack parts of my childhood. Growing up in 2000s Lagos, my father stacked lots of Highlife CDs beside our DVD speakers and would religiously listen to them every Sunday morning. I don’t remember Uwaifo being among his favorites but “Guitar Boy” nevertheless got its spin. Sometimes I randomly heard the song outside the house, its majestic strings immediately capturing my attention. I also lived in a part of Lagos where tenants would gather during early evenings to discuss everything which caught their interest over the course of the day or their entire lives. 

Someone once told the story of a young man who’d been playing a game with other male friends, and was suddenly enchanted by a young lady passing by, following her with the obvious ploy to engage her. He was never seen again. There was a river nearby, and the neighborhood folks believed he’d been taken to that spirit world, for better or worse. Another tenant began singing the lyrics to Uwaifo’s song and made the implicit argument that mermaids were mostly harmless and had lived in compliance with humans for a long time. Drawing from folklore, the person did say they—the mermaids—loved music and were usually attracted to places with a presence of music and activity. 

Last year, the connection was again highlighted after the release of Larry Gaaga’s “Egedege.” Contemporary artists Flavour and Phyno may have been more popular, but the soul of the record was Queen Theresa Onuorah, whose eighties song was interpolated into the newer affair. Its unchanged chorus was a call to play, and was quite popular back in the day. Another section of people narrated their experiences of Onuorah’s music, how they were forbidden by their parents from listening or dancing to it because she was a traditionalist whose musical prowess allegedly came from the water. She was rather a conduit for the centuries-old culture of Unubi, her Anambra hometown whose musical troupe (also named Egedege) she has led since the seventies. 

Then again it’s wise to consider the social climate of the country at the time. Though traditional worship is immersed in our several cultures, the state of postcolonial Nigeria and the widespread angling towards modernity made it so uncool to be among ‘the other’ —which was what a country of largely Abrahamic faithfuls saw traditionalists as. Any music which referenced their philosophies and imageries was not permitted for young children or family time. Highlife musicians still found ways to represent an influence in their art but they weren't engaged seriously, rather thought of as eccentrics who would say anything to be perceived as special. 

It wasn’t until the early 2000’s when water bodies again resurfaced in popular Nigerian music, this time under different circumstances. Whereas the former representation bordered on spiritual awareness, now it was being captured as an aesthetic choice, a depiction of the country’s richness and beauty. Musicians flanked by vixens would shoot their videos on beaches, obviously living it up by being so close to one of the most desired locations for many. Indeed many of us grew up hearing of the sea’s expansive blue, its mesmerising rage and calming tides, the unpredictability of its mannerisms. And, more importantly, we were entranced by the beach's ability to fashion a surreal, enjoyable experience from these natural occurrences. 

I remember well the video of VIP and 2Face’s “My Love,” which was one of the early Ghana-Nigeria collaborations of the modern pop era. The Ghanaian group was established in Ghana for their mellifluous fusion of Rap and Highlife, and their collaboration with the premium Nigerian superstar tapped from that spirit. The video was reminiscent of scenes which unfolded in the early days of Highlife: people having a good time amidst the backdrop of the sea, giving the viewer something to marvel at even as the performers play out their own activities. On “If Love Is A Crime,” it would seem 2Face returned to the source, shooting the video in Ghana and being shot in scenes where he’s overlooking the water, momentarily caught in its bliss. 

Many other times the Benue-born musician shot water-appropriating videos. Whether it was on “Only Me” or “Raindrops,” he depicted the introspection that can be inspired by being in those spaces. Other times his freewheeling vocal delivery mirrored the flow of water, breaking into immaculate pockets and rhythms, replenished by an almost spiritual force. His might have been a philosophic vision but the music industry was headed for its own destiny, one where water wasn’t primarily seen as a source of soulful encounters but an excellent visual prop to be exploited to the depths. 

Think about it: the flashiest videos used to be shot in nightclubs which were supposedly high-end locales and like much of our music, visibly influenced by popular American culture. Musicians donning suits and playing the role of smooth-talking secret agents were all too common on our screens and held fascination for a hot minute. Things changed when water came into the picture. 

The remix of P-Square’s “Beautiful Onyinye” had a mammoth feature in Rick Ross and the Clarence Peters-directed visuals, entirely shot on a boat cruise, effusively complemented the hype. Flawless in their whites, it was a classic representation of the opulence that can be generated if properly matched with the element of water. There’s also a chance that such videos—having eliminated the need for multiple locations or professional lighting—were cheaper to make than those shot on land, and so directors would come to favour the Lagos waterline and beaches, say, over the scene of a crowded house.   

As African music began moving towards international acclaim in the 2010s, the imagery of Lagos—as its cultural hotspot—was strengthened by its coastal affluence. The Mainland-Island dichotomy tilted in favour of the latter, as the cultural events and musicians thronged closer to the posh areas of the Island. It didn’t matter that the music was mostly inspired by conditions on the mainland—the influences around the music industry left it. 

The island's beaches played a part. They were the biggest symbols for the softness associated with life around the area. For all the pleasures of living within Ajegunle, you couldn’t just wake and seek the sea’s presence. You’d have to go to the island, hopping multiple buses or boarding a boat.  Musicians also shot so many videos on sea it seemed as though they’d set up permanent residence there.  

Nowadays, the beach doesn’t wield as strong an appeal but they’re still well frequented, especially during festive periods. When visiting, you would be beholden by a huge crowd, music blasting from giant speakers and within other corners. Artists who live around the island are also known to visit the beach on free weekdays to chill, quietly sit with their thoughts and create when inspired. 

The most popular of them all would be Wizkid, who’s frequently sighted on beaches whenever he’s in Ghana, a country that’s emerged as the prime tourist hub of West Africa in recent years, largely because of its coastal history. Where Lagos offers an unrestrained show of wealth, Ghana’s beaches inspire calmness and introspection, often into the history of black bodies passing across the Atlantic Ocean. 

If our music was destined for international acclaim, it makes sense that at the time it was most poised for success, people began to ponder the history of exporting blackness. Ghana, with its preserved locations and sense for detail, filled a crucial role in connecting the diaspora with these sensibilities. The next—and currently ongoing—phase of water’s representation in popular Nigerian music had begun by then too. 

Before colonialism changed the course of Nigerian history, the dealing in slaves had been orchestrated through the seas. Official reports are most times underwhelming, but it is believed that at least four million Nigerians were sold into slavery, enduring the evils of the middle passage and settling in their new residencies, more product than human. 

Some of the ways they preserved their cultural essence was by observing religious rituals and playing music. Both these activities were viciously resisted by white slave-owners but the Africans found ways to engage in them anyways, mostly through syncretism and utilising one’s entire body as a set of musical instruments. In future times, genres such as Reggae, Soul and Blues were founded on the elementals of such music which spoke to the harrowing reality of its creators. 

As for religion, influential groups were formed in places like Brazil and Cuba where there’s a strong sense of the Yoruba traditional religion. Water still symbolises the purity of several gods and goddesses of the sea, of which the most famous is Yemoja. In the context of all genres of black music being connected through our shared origins, water emerges as the most powerful symbol for showcasing our power, charged with the imagery of our ancestors who succumbed to the sea. 

The British-Nigerian rapper Skepta has been at the forefront of such thought. Not just concerned with cross-continental collaborations, he's made important steps at connecting with his history. In an event organised for his 2020 EP All In, the rapper said: “Me and Drake’s first meeting musically was on a Wizkid record. That was more important to me than asking Drake to jump on a song of mine”. After connecting through one of the most culturally-relevant collaborations of the 2010s, the duo again collaborated on "Bad Energy", a spritzy number whose visual was crucially shot on sea, featuring effervescent waves and scenes where they're both standing on the body of a ship. Though Black people had passed these shores under the saddest circumstances, here are two members of the new Black world uniting to flex on their greatness. 

The imagery would again be evoked on "Dimension", a collaboration between producer Jae5, Skepta and Rema. Here the artists infuse the subject of blackness by addressing it lyrically as well. The United Kingdom being located to a number of Nigerian immigrants, the tale on the other side hasn't been as ideal as one would imagine. Skepta's verses chart the institutional discrimination and emotional traumas that comes with being black, rapping in the second, "It's the same old story, different occasion; Nigerian, Ghanaian, Jamaican/ Ugandan, Congolese and the Bajan/ You can be a star or you can end up a patient/ Gotta mind how you step, blood on the pavement." While he paints the pain, Rema's direction is ostensibly triumphant, producing the iconic lyric "Bad man don't threaten me, you no fit kill who don die before". 

In recent years, a number of UK-bred musicians like Dave, NSG, Little Simz, Tion Wayne, Ms Banks, Moelogo and Darkoo have strengthened ties with their Nigerian heritage, collaborating with home-based acts and being more aware about the shared influences between our sound and theirs, however subtle they may be. London as well have been touted by many to be the afro pop headquarters, wielding the technological tools to improve on the textures of the music that originated here.  

Three years into the 2020s, Nigerian music is bigger than ever. Decades of hardwork and intentionality have coalesced into the making of a universal behemoth, a sound that is at once recognizable and yet varied, scattered throughout the diverse parts of the country but inspired by similar elements. What’s the flow of water in all this?

It’s quite clear most established artists don’t require its symbolism to flex, not anymore. Not since the emergence of ingenious video directors like TG Omori and Ademola Falomo, who are instead creating iconic pictures from usually exaggerated storylines and archetypes. As well there’s been a receding from water-directed lyrics, especially that which traces from Fela Kuti’s “Water No Get Enemy” down to Timaya’s “True Story” and most recently, Adekunle Gold’s “Water Carry Me”. Nowadays, such tired metaphors are left out of songs. 

A more potent way to carry the symbol into one’s art is visible in the brands of artists who seem to be spiritually-aware, particularly the women. Tiwa Savage’s Water & Garri was one of last year’s most accomplished tapes, succinctly exploring the dimensions of African American sounds like Soul and R&B. The majestic opener “Work Fada” flows with the pace of a calm sea, soulfully evoking the imagery of someone walking along its shores. The scintillating Ayra Starr, signed to Tiwa’s former associates Mavin Records, also channels the symbolism, even more consistently. Known to her fans as a ‘celestial being,’ Ayra’s most iconic pictures are set against the backdrop of the sea. In interviews, she’s stated that her university residence in Cotonou, she frequently visited. On records such as “In Between” and “Sare”, you’d hear the permeating influence of Yoruba-Cuban forms, influenced by traditions of water-appropriating religious practices. 

In 2020 the legendary singer Asa returned to Lagos from France. Her European tour was cancelled because of the pandemic, making it the first time since her debut album that she was fully resident in the state and not some cold city out somewhere in the world. She embraced collaboration and out of that, her new album ‘V’ was created. Asides the kinship of human friends, the album’s soothing feel was inspired by the lake view in front of her house. More practically some records were lined with the sound of water, gently bobbing in the background. On “Ocean”, she poetically likens the joy of being in love to the transcendent quality of being in the presence of the water body. The video also collects colourful experiences from that side of the world, casting blue hues over the heat of black bodies. 

From the south, Omah Lay and Wizard Chan have made an art of the water imagery. For the “Soso” singer, it’s more than imagery—it’s an active participant in the creation of his art, as his inflections often mirror the unpredictable flow of water. Many people—including the Igbo nationalist Obumneme Osuchukwu—have told me that Omah is an nwa mmiri, a child of the water, and even though I’ve often asked why they thought so, somehow it is quite obvious. Chan’s “Earth Song” on the other hand is one of the greatest songs Nigeria have ever heard, a generational record whose Ijaw sensibility forms its indestructible centre. Further entrenching it in musical lore, its visual creates a fine representation of the water bodies so rife within that region, which has influenced its most lyrical poets since time immemorial, from the sage JP Clark-Bekederemo to the 2022 Sillerman Prize winner Tares Oburumu. 

Since time immemorial, humans have sought water bodies as a connector for our small place within the universe. The throbbing of its waves was there yesterday, is still there today, and will outlast the strongest of us. Given the history of Nigeria and the presence of artists who’ll surely turn to their environment as an inspiration, the sea will always continue to feature in our music. It’s the wealthiest gift of nature we’ll come to nurture.