Nigeria’s Campaigns Of Rhythm: How Praise-Singing Drowns Party Ideology & Governance Debate

IN Nigeria’s increasingly theatrical democracy, the microphone often speaks louder than the manifesto. From campaign grounds that resemble concert arenas to coronation ceremonies turned into political stages, music has become both the heartbeat and the distortion of political communication. What began as creative cultural expression has evolved into a system of political patronage — where praise-singers, not policies, dominate the discourse of governance.

Across the country, the transformation of politics into performance has blurred the line between civic engagement and entertainment. Musicians, both traditional and contemporary, now serve as the unofficial mouthpieces of politicians, amplifying personalities rather than principles. As these melodies echo through marketplaces, motor parks, and social media feeds, they reshape public perception — often replacing critical reflection with rhythm and spectacle.

A Historical Blend of Rhythm and Rhetoric

Nigeria’s political music tradition runs deep. From independence-era anthems that celebrated nationhood to protest songs that challenged military rule, rhythm has long been a tool for political mobilisation. Yet, the turning point came in 1993, during Moshood Abiola’s “Hope ’93” campaign. Abiola’s team revolutionised political messaging, commissioning professional producers to craft multilingual jingles of hope and unity. Those infectious tunes became sonic symbols of inclusion, transcending class and ethnicity.

Since then, campaign songs have evolved into multimillion-naira productions. They are no longer simple choruses of support but highly produced commercial jingles tailored to audience demographics. In the early 2000s, Fuji and Highlife dominated political music; by the 2010s, Afrobeats and hip-hop had taken over, powered by youth engagement and social media virality.

As Abuja-based producer Chibueze “Beatplug” Okoro explained, “Young people don’t listen to radio jingles anymore — they live online. The goal is to make campaign songs go viral like club hits.” This strategy was central to the Labour Party’s 2023 campaign, which transformed Peter Obi’s candidacy into a cultural movement. The “Ellu P” chant — born spontaneously at a polling unit — became an anthem of youthful defiance and civic energy.

The Business of Political Sound

Political music has also become a lucrative industry. Producers disclose that campaign songs can cost anywhere between ₦500,000 for local contests and ₦10 million or more for governorship or presidential projects. Beyond the money, these songs carry political value — shaping narratives, defining candidates, and sustaining emotional connections with voters.

In Lagos, Fuji legends like King Wasiu Ayinde Marshal (KWAM 1), Saheed Osupa, and Pasuma Wonder have lent their voices to political rallies. In the North, artists such as Dauda Kahutu Rarara have become near-official praise-singers for ruling parties. In the East, Highlife musicians once serenaded regional power brokers, while in the South-South, gospel-inspired tunes reinforce populist imagery.

This marriage of music and politics reflects both creativity and compromise. While it brings entertainment to the masses, it also reduces political discourse to applause lines and dance steps.

Politics as Theatre: The Coronation in Ibadan

The coronation of the 44th Olubadan of Ibadanland offered a vivid example of how music now shapes even traditional state events. Fuji artist Taye Currency turned what should have been a solemn cultural ceremony into a lyrical battlefield, performing songs laced with political subtext and mockery. His controversial line, “Werey l’a fin wo werey” (“madness cures madness”), drew applause from some and rebuke from others, symbolising how music in Nigeria’s politics oscillates between wit and provocation.

Observers at the event noted that the performance subtly mirrored the PDP–APC rivalry in Oyo State. Governor Seyi Makinde’s camp reportedly encouraged the performance, while supporters of APC’s Minister of Power, Adebayo Adelabu, viewed it as a political jab. Thus, a royal ceremony morphed into a campaign stage — a reminder that in Nigeria, no platform is immune to partisan theatre.

From Katsina to Rivers: The National Symphony of Sycophancy

Across Nigeria, similar trends play out. In Katsina, Dauda Kahutu Rarara has become the north’s most prominent political musician, producing songs that praise the APC and President Bola Tinubu. In Bauchi, two groups — KABASA and Kaura Independent Singers — glorify Governor Bala Mohammed’s administration while attacking opponents through music.

Rivers State’s “Wike Band” immortalised the chant “As e dey pain them, e dey sweet us,” encapsulating the fiery populism of former Governor Nyesom Wike. In Zamfara, Prince Mk Baagi’s song “Sun kira ruwa, ya nzu ga ruwa anata dukansu” (“those who called the rain are now being beaten by it”) celebrates Governor Dauda Lawal’s resilience.

This nationwide web of praise music reflects both cultural creativity and political capture. While it energises supporters, it also trivialises governance, replacing policy debate with personality worship.

The Psychology Behind the Music

Why does music wield such power in Nigerian politics? A veteran Lagos producer explains it best: “When people sing, they internalise the message. It’s not just about melody — it’s psychological conditioning.”

Indeed, campaign music exploits emotion over intellect. It transforms complex policy issues into catchy refrains that evoke loyalty rather than logic. The effect is cumulative: voters begin to identify with slogans, not solutions; with rhythms, not results.

As Professor Emmanuel Dandaura of Nasarawa State University observes, “Our democracy doesn’t suffer from a lack of ideas but from a surplus of theatrics. When politics becomes theatre, citizens become spectators, not stakeholders.”

The Hollowing of Political Debate

Former lawmaker Eni Uduma Chima laments that Nigerian political rallies have lost their purpose as forums for issue-based debate. “Today’s rallies are shows of force, not platforms for persuasion,” he says. “Music, drumming, and praise drown the candidate’s message, leaving voters entertained but uninformed.”

This spectacle-based campaigning contributes to voter apathy and shallow civic understanding. Attendees often come for entertainment, not engagement. By the time the music fades, few recall the party’s agenda.

A Culture of Sycophancy

Prof. Dandaura describes the phenomenon as a cultural hijack: “Our traditional praise poetry — oriki and ewi — has been weaponised. Artists once served as the conscience of society. Now they compete to out-praise one another in the corridors of power. Praise-singing has become the new currency of political access.”

He warns that sycophancy masquerading as loyalty undermines democratic accountability. “True leadership doesn’t need drummers; it needs doers,” he insists. “When musicians play for politicians instead of the people, governance becomes a carnival of deceit.”

An Economy of Entertainment, Not Engagement

Beyond the moral decay, there’s also an economic ecosystem sustaining this culture. Many governors maintain “standing bands” — musicians on political retainer, paid monthly to attend rallies and events. Others hire “hype men” or “band boys” to energise crowds, turning public gatherings into paid spectacles.

As Bernard Mikko, a former legislator, explains, “Our political associations focus on crowd mobilisation, not policy strategy. It’s a reflection of a feeding-bottle economy — voters depend on oil revenue rather than civic accountability.”

Until the electorate becomes more economically independent, Mikko argues, entertainment-driven politics will persist because citizens expect fun, not facts, from campaigns.

Restoring Decency to Political Culture

The implications of this trend are profound. When campaign songs replace policy debates, and artists become kingmakers, democracy risks becoming an endless concert — loud, colourful, and meaningless.

Osita Okechukwu, a founding member of the APC, calls it “clowning politics,” explaining that parties now hire their own entertainers to attack rivals and shape narratives. “If you don’t tell your story, someone else will sing it for you,” he says. “But democracy thrives on ideas, not insults.”

What Nigeria needs, experts agree, is a recalibration of its political culture — one that prizes intellect over entertainment. As Prof. Dandaura concludes, “Leadership must model integrity. Our biggest export shouldn’t be oil or Afrobeats; it should be ethics. When leaders act right, the music will follow.”

In the end, the growing culture of political praise-singing mirrors the nation’s larger struggle: the tension between spectacle and substance, between entertainment and enlightenment. If Nigeria’s democracy must mature, it must learn to tune out the noise — and listen instead to the rhythm of reason.