Afrobeat’s origins are inseparable from the streets of Lagos, where Fela Kuti ignited a revolution through rhythm. Emerging in the 1970s against the backdrop of military rule, economic injustice, and postcolonial tension, Afrobeat became more than a genre — it was a sonic uprising. Fela blended traditional Yoruba percussion, American jazz, and funk with searing political commentary. The result was a visceral, unapologetic sound that disrupted not just ears but systems. It was born in protest and nurtured in community.
The genre’s diaspora journey was seeded through migration and memory. As Nigerians and West Africans settled in cities like London, Berlin, and New York, they carried their cultural heritage with them — cassette tapes, radio shows, and oral storytelling. Afrobeat pulsed through immigrant homes and dance halls, connecting first-generation youth to ancestral rhythms while adapting to their new cultural surroundings. In this way, Afrobeat became a transatlantic bridge, linking identity to sound.
In London, Afrobeat found a home in community radio, underground raves, and multicultural festivals like Notting Hill Carnival. DJs such as DJ Edu and collectives like Afrobeat Vibration brought the genre to wider audiences, blending it with UK grime, dub, and electronic music. Local artists began incorporating Afrobeat influences into their work, leading to new genres like Afroswing, which fuses Afrobeat with British rap and Caribbean dancehall.
As digital platforms exploded, Afrobeat’s reach widened. YouTube, SoundCloud, and Audiomack allowed Nigerian artists to bypass traditional Western gatekeepers. Suddenly, tracks like Wizkid’s “Ojuelegba” and Davido’s “Fall” were viral hits not just in Africa but in Toronto, Tokyo, and Buenos Aires. Streaming platforms gave Afrobeat artists visibility, but they also introduced new challenges around cultural authorship and economic control. Algorithms may carry the beat, but they don’t always protect the context.
The globalisation of Afrobeat has been both empowering and precarious. On one hand, it has brought African storytelling, rhythm, and artistry to unprecedented prominence. On the other hand, it raises critical questions about ownership and authenticity. Western brands and pop stars now tap into Afrobeat aesthetics, but how often do they platform African producers, engineers, or lyricists? The genre’s visibility has increased, but the structures of cultural extraction remain largely unchanged.
Still, Afrobeat persists — and adapts. New diasporic collectives like the African Diaspora Dance Association and the African Diaspora Group in Canada use Afrobeat as both an artistic language and a political tool. In these spaces, youth remix traditional moves with vogue, house, and twerking, creating diasporic choreographies that reflect Afro-futuristic identities. The music becomes not just entertainment but embodied memory, a language through which to claim belonging and challenge erasure.
For many like Lola M., a 24-year-old British-Nigerian dancer, “Afrobeat means dancing your truth. It’s how we move through a world that often refuses to see us.” Afrobeat’s journey from Lagos to London is not linear — it is cyclical, rhythmic, and resilient. It carries within it histories of exile, joy, resistance, and return — and in every bassline, the heartbeat of a people.
Fela’s Fire: Music as Protest, Legacy, and Lifeforce
To understand Afrobeat’s essence, one must begin with Fela Anikulapo Kuti — not merely as a musician, but as a movement. Born in colonial Nigeria in 1938, Fela was deeply influenced by both his Yoruba upbringing and his education in London and the United States. Exposure to jazz, Black radicalism, and the Civil Rights movement laid the groundwork for his return to Nigeria, where he began crafting a new musical language — one rooted in African rhythm but fiercely global in its ambition.
His legendary venue, The Shrine, was a crucible of political energy and cultural innovation. It was there that Fela fused his ideas with sound, using music to critique Nigeria’s military dictatorship, corruption, and neocolonialism. Songs like “Sorrow, Tears and Blood” and “Zombie” were not just artistic — they were indictments. The Nigerian state saw this and responded with violence. Fela was beaten, jailed, and censored repeatedly. Yet, he never stopped. He sang not just for entertainment but for liberation.
Fela’s influence is not merely historical. Contemporary artists echo his spirit in both subtle and explicit ways. Burna Boy, often dubbed Fela’s musical heir, samples his rhythms and themes of injustice. “Monsters You Made”, for instance, critiques colonialism, echoing Fela’s critique of imperialism. Tiwa Savage and Seun Kuti continue the legacy, challenging societal norms, patriarchal structures, and state violence with fearless artistry. Afrobeat today retains that urgency, even as its forms diversify.
Yet Fela was not without contradictions. His complex relationship with women — often seen through his polygamous lifestyle and objectifying lyrics — has led to critical reassessments of his legacy. Feminist scholars and musicians have rightfully interrogated the gender politics embedded in his art. Afrobeat was and often still is a male-dominated space, and challenging that legacy is necessary for its evolution. As cultural historian Dr. Bukky Olagunju puts it, “We must celebrate Fela’s fire without becoming blind to its shadows.”
Globally, Fela’s mythos continues to grow. Musicals like FELA! on Broadway and documentaries like Finding Fela bring his message to new generations. University courses from Lagos to Los Angeles now teach Afrobeat as part of world music and political history curricula. The annual Felabration festival in Lagos attracts tens of thousands — a modern-day shrine for both celebration and reckoning.
But Fela’s most enduring contribution may be his insistence on music as a method — a method for truth-telling, remembering, and rebuilding. He showed that art can be revolutionary, not just in what it says but in how it gathers people. In The Shrine, a blueprint was formed: rhythm as ritual, sound as protest, community as resistance.
As Nigerian poet Chigozie Obioma once said, “Fela didn’t just play music — he moved the people’s spirits.” That spirit now dances through the speakers of every Afrobeat set around the world. It is a fire that cannot be streamed or commodified, only carried forward — beat by beat, voice by voice.
Beats of Belonging: Diaspora, Gender, and Cultural Power
Across the African diaspora, Afrobeat has become a tool for cultural reclamation, identity-building, and intergenerational connection. For many second- and third-generation Africans living in Europe, North America, and South America, the genre offers more than just musical pleasure — it offers a bridge back to heritage. Its lyrics, languages, and rhythms act as a counter-narrative to assimilation pressures, allowing diasporic youth to craft hybrid identities rooted in both ancestral memory and present realities.
In cities like London, New York, and Toronto, Afrobeat nights are not just parties — they are cultural interventions. Venues like Recess (UK) host community-led events where Afrobeat is played alongside conversations about Black joy, resistance, and collective healing. These spaces often centre not just African diaspora voices but also Afro-Caribbean, Afro-Latinx, and Afro-Indigenous perspectives — expanding the genre’s reach into a broader Black transnational context.
Afrobeat also serves as a site of gender negotiation and reimagination. While historically dominated by men, the genre is being redefined by a new wave of women and gender-diverse artists who are reclaiming narrative space. Artists like Tems, Ayra Starr, Yemi Alade, and Amaarae are subverting the male gaze and inserting nuanced explorations of self, love, and power. They infuse Afrobeat with softness, assertiveness, and vulnerability, complicating its traditional expressions of masculinity.
Despite these gains, structural inequities persist. Afrobeat festivals, streaming playlists, and media platforms still heavily prioritise male acts, often sidelining female producers, engineers, and DJs. Queer artists in particular struggle to find visibility in a genre that, while rhythmically inclusive, remains ideologically conservative in many mainstream iterations. Online, however, queer fans continue to build alternative Afrobeat spaces — remixing lyrics, curating inclusive playlists, and dancing through erasure.
These grassroots movements often emerge in online platforms like Twitter Spaces, TikTok, and Clubhouse, where diaspora youth host live conversations about Afrobeat’s cultural politics. Here, the music becomes a launchpad for discussions on colonial legacies, migration, and mental health. For many, this community-building aspect is just as essential as the sound. Afrobeat is not just heard — it is lived, debated, and redefined.
Afrobeat also intersects powerfully with language and linguistic pride. As songs in Pidgin, Yoruba, Igbo, and Twi dominate international charts, non-Western languages are no longer treated as peripheral. This linguistic shift empowers African communities to see their languages as globally valued while encouraging non-African listeners to approach Afrobeat with cultural humility and curiosity rather than consumption.
As DJ Abeni from Lagos notes, “Afrobeat doesn’t ask permission. It comes with pride, power, and playfulness. And if you’re listening with your whole self, you’ll feel that you belong somewhere — even if you’ve never been to Lagos.” In this way, Afrobeat becomes a rhythmic passport — not to a fixed geography, but to a shared emotional and political space.
Remixing the Future: Fusion, Ownership, and Cultural Continuity
Afrobeat has always been defined by adaptability — a genre in motion, in conversation with everything it touches. Its recent iterations have seen it fuse with genres like hip-hop, trap, reggaetón, drill, electronic dance music, and even indie folk. This genre-blending not only highlights Afrobeat’s musical flexibility but also its cultural elasticity — its ability to speak to and with a multiplicity of lived experiences.
One of the most visible forms of this fusion is the rise of Afroswing and Afrobeats (the commercial subgenre). Artists like J Hus (UK), Fireboy DML, and CKay have cultivated new audiences by blending Afrobeat patterns with trap rhythms and auto-tuned vocals, creating globally viral hits. Meanwhile, Afrobeat’s presence in Latin America — particularly in Colombia, Brazil, and Mexico — has led to a fascinating musical exchange with cumbia, funk carioca, and salsa, forming new Afro-diasporic subgenres in their own right.
Pop icons like Beyoncé, Drake, and Ed Sheeran have also brought Afrobeat into mainstream Western pop, collaborating with artists like Burna Boy, Wizkid, and Tems. While these collaborations have introduced Afrobeat to new audiences, they also raise ethical questions about power, profit, and parity. Who profits most from these collaborations? Whose cultural labour is being platformed, and whose remains invisible?
In response, there is a growing movement to centre African ownership in global music economies. Labels like Spaceship (Nigeria) and collectives like Boiler Room’s SYSTEM series aim to invest directly in African talent and infrastructure. Initiatives such as the Africa Rising Music Conference in South Africa are creating networks to empower producers, writers, and performers from the continent — shifting Afrobeat from feature to foundation.
Moreover, the rise of Afrobeat-inspired fashion, dance, and visual art is extending its influence beyond music. Choreographers like Izzy Odigie and fashion designers like Kenneth Ize are bringing Afrobeat’s energy into movement and materiality. These creatives interpret the genre not just through audio but through body, textile, and architecture — transforming Afrobeat into a multi-sensory ecosystem.
Izzy Odigie
Social media continues to be a double-edged sword. On one hand, it enables virality and platform building; on the other, it risks reducing Afrobeat to trend or background noise in a saturated content economy. The challenge now is to ensure that Afrobeat’s roots remain visible in its evolution — that its growth is not at the expense of its soul.
As producer and sound curator Emeka Ogboh puts it, “Afrobeat doesn’t just travel — it settles, it remakes, it reclaims.” The future of Afrobeat lies not in chasing Western approval but in deepening local ecosystems, nurturing homegrown talent, and maintaining creative sovereignty. Because Afrobeat doesn’t need validation — it needs space, respect, and continued revolution.
Final Movement: A Soundtrack for Justice, Memory, and Collective Joy
Afrobeat’s rise is not simply a story of artistic success — it is proof of cultural endurance. Across decades, continents, and crises, the genre has held space for both sorrow and celebration, critique and community. It has served as a historical archive of Nigeria’s postcolonial struggles, a protest soundtrack for youth movements in the UK, and a sonic balm for diasporic families in exile. In each beat, Afrobeat has insisted: we are still here. We are still dancing.
Its ability to evolve without losing its essence is rare. Even as it fuses with new styles and enters different industries — from Hollywood scores to Olympic opening ceremonies — Afrobeat retains its political undertones and communal call. It doesn’t merely entertain; it demands listening. In that demand, it invites reflection on who we are, where we come from, and what justice sounds like.
Afrobeat’s relevance has been especially visible in the era of digital activism. During the #EndSARS movement in Nigeria, tracks by Fela Kuti and contemporary artists were used to mobilise protests and amplify voices globally. Playlists became protest tools. Live DJ sets became fundraisers. In these moments, Afrobeat once again revealed its function: not just as sound but as strategy — a way to resist silence, violence, and erasure.
For many, the genre is also tied to collective healing and memory work. Afrobeat is played at weddings and funerals, in activist spaces and healing circles. It bridges generations — a teenager dancing to Tems shares a heartbeat with their grandfather who once listened to Fela. This temporal intimacy turns music into a ritual and rhythm into an archive. Afrobeat, in its many forms, offers a way to remember who we are.
However Afrobeat’s expansion must also come with responsibility. Western media often aestheticises the genre while ignoring the material realities of its creators. African musicians still face exploitative contracts, visa denials, and racist gatekeeping. The global music industry benefits from Afrobeat’s popularity but rarely invests in Black-run infrastructure or education. This gap between cultural celebration and economic justice must be confronted head-on.
Rock & Art believes in Afrobeat not just as a genre but as a framework for cultural liberation. Its ability to merge protest with poetry, movement with memory, offers blueprints for other marginalised communities reclaiming their stories. Afrobeat reminds us that cultural power is not inherited — it is built, defended, and remixed by those bold enough to believe in their rhythm.
So, as Afrobeat continues its global journey—from Lagos to London, Accra to Amsterdam, Bahia to Brixton—let us not reduce it to a playlist or party theme. Let us honour it as a political tradition, an emotional language, and a communal inheritance. Whether you’re listening through headphones, dancing at a street festival, or protesting in the streets, Afrobeat is more than background noise. It is a pulse, a memory, a revolution.
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