The only difference is that now, the 32-year-old Nigerian musician’s wrists weigh down Van Cleef bracelets and a diamond watch. And his music is no longer the property of several fans throughout the diaspora. Wizkid, born Ayodeji Ibrahim Balogun, is reclining in an office chair, zen but visibly unfazed by a day of interviews, a new album release and recently welcoming a second child with his manager and partner, Jada Pollock. They met in 2012. He has four children in total. “Now I’m more careful about what I put in my songs,” he says with a laugh. “Because my kids listen to my songs.” Up to a point. His new album, More Love, Less Ego, is a quintessentially border-crossing offering that marries melodic Afrobeats and bright Caribbean sounds with babymaking R&B. Wizkid admits to having an unorthodox approach to music, recording everyday and regularly scrapping entire albums if it doesn’t feel right. “That’s always my process,” he says matter-of-factly. “Make one, wipe it. Make another one, wipe it. Until I find the right one.” It must be an intense exercise. “It is, man. But I have a lot to say.” Much of it, as always, is about love, women and sex. The new album refines the formula he perfected on his fourth album, Made in Lagos. An ode to his homeland, its October 2020 release catapulted him firmly into the mainstream. It was his first album to reach the UK Top 20 and became the highest charting Nigerian album of all time on the Billboard 200, peaking at No. 80. Last year, he was one of the most streamed artists in Africa. Wizkid at the Royal Albert Hall in 2017. Photo: Christie Goodwin/Redferns His rise to household name seems to be long overdue. For many Black Britons, it is also personal. That’s why the announcement of a Wizkid concert always has a Hunger Games feel to it, no matter what country you’re in. His three nights at the 20,000-capacity O2 Arena in London last year sold out in two minutes: the diverse crowds sang along to the Yoruba and Pidgin lyrics word for word. In his shows, Wizkid often talks about the consistency of his discography, how he has “too many hits”. That’s no exaggeration: fans go wild every time the opening chords of any of his songs drop. With world domination finally on the cards, Wizkid’s biggest concern is not letting it go to his head. “Everybody’s struggling with their ego and that’s where I’m at,” he says, when I ask him about the album’s title. “I’m still trying to get rid of my ego, like everyone else.” He’s prone to quasi-spiritual responses like these, eschewing the boastfulness of his lyrics for a humility that borders on apathy. He is also under no illusions about his impact, often speaking of his success as something he never doubted, the outcome of the event and a “purpose” beyond his own understanding. “I’m a very spiritual person,” he says. “I know I’m breaking a lot of club records, but I feel like a pastor, really.” Perhaps it was no surprise to the congregation that he discovered his love for music. The hymns taught him “how to feel,” he says. He was the youngest of 11 children, raised by a Christian mother and a polygamous Muslim father who had three wives. The only son of his mother, he grew up in a “chaotic but fun” female-dominated home in Surulere, a neighborhood in Nigeria’s bustling cultural capital. Although the area is largely middle class, it is not immune to the hardships of the city. “Music was more than a hobby for me, more than a talent,” he says. “It was my escape. I was in the hood. It was either [music] or turn to crime. That’s why I don’t joke about music.” He and his cousins were choir boys at his grandfather’s Pentecostal church. He recorded his first song more than 20 years ago as part of a group with his church friends, the Glorious Five. Even then, he was trying to make a name for himself as a rapper and was soon taken under the wing of producer OJB Jezreel (who passed away in 2016). He had Wizkid attend sessions with Afrobeats artists who were dominating the emerging scene. When he skipped school to attend the studio, his older sisters covered for him. “My parents wanted me to be a lawyer or a doctor,” he says. “It was a very difficult conversation when I said I wanted to make music. I just had to prove it [myself] to them.” Was there a definitive moment that he felt he had? Thinks. “Now?” he says with a hint of uncertainty. He shakes his head and laughs. “They still look at me and think, ‘Ah, that boy!’ How many years did it take me!” Admittedly, Wizkid hasn’t had a break so much as a rise to the waves. Some fans first know him from the deep drums and catchy lyrics of 2011’s Don’t Dull. For others, they were introduced to him through his 2016 Drake feature, the funky house-referencing hit One Dance, which gave the Wizkid his first No.1. And during his sold-out concerts in London last year, DJ Tunez teased so-called “Essence warriors” – recent converts who only learned about him after his 2020 duet with fellow Nigerian musician Tems. He released his debut album, Superstar, in 2011, a title that quickly became a self-fulfilling prophecy. His international peers soon took notice: he first found global success when Drake and Skepta remixed Ojuelegba, from his second album, 2014’s Ayo. He reunited with Drake on his third album, Sounds From the Other Side in 2017, and two years later, he got the kind of thing that can make an artist’s entire career when he featured on Beyoncé’s Brown Skin Girl (from The Lion King soundtrack) and won his first Grammy in the process. “I just want to live a normal life.” As with Beyoncé, there is a level of disconnection between Wizkid’s public and private identities. In an old video, she describes the difference between “Wizkid” and “Ayo Balogun” in similar terms to how Beyoncé discussed her old alter ego, Sasha Fierce. That brokenness is still necessary to navigate fame, he says. “Cure [Wizkid] as a million dollar company, man. It’s a business, not me. As I get older I would love for people to get 100% Wiz Ayo Balogun. To give people one [person]the real me in my truest form.” Despite his famous display, he still struggles with visibility. “Most of the time, I don’t want cameras in my face,” he says. “But I understand why you have to. This is one of the things I still struggle with. I just want to live a normal life.” Unfortunately for Wizkid, Essence has put to bed any hope of obscurity. It became the inescapable global earworm of the summer of 2020 and the first Nigerian song to appear on the Billboard Hot 100. It spent 21 weeks in the UK charts and peaked at No. 16, launching Tems to a wider audience. A polarizing remix featuring Justin Bieber has appeared on the deluxe edition of Made in Lagos. As Wizkid’s popularity has become more global, so has his sound. His collaborations usually resembled a who’s who of the musical diaspora: Damian Marley from Jamaica, Sarkodie from Ghana, HER from the US, Skepta from the UK. His lyrics play up to this melting pot, calling out the ladies from specific parts of the world. “Because I know these girls, man,” he says with a smile. “I know hot girls from Ghana, I know those girls from south London. I’m not just saying that!”. The sweet harmonies of his music contrast with the harsh internet diaspora wars – the digital infighting between the world’s black communities that takes place mostly on Twitter. Wizkid was part of a golden era of Afrobeats in the 2000s that inspired a new sense of belonging and pride in young Nigerians. (On Ojuelegba, Skepta recounts his time at school when “being African was a diss.”) But these days he’s a unifier, openly embracing all things black and beautiful. The idea of diaspora wars baffles him. “I’m not feeling all that,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “I was in Jamaica for a month making music and I couldn’t because I was enjoying it so much. I see people as one. Black, white, green: all are one.” In a reversal from the usual path of musicians, the more fame Wizkid has found, the more he seems to have mellowed out. He’s cool as a cucumber – at least until he takes the stage for his filming performances. In his youth he was hotter, sparring on Twitter with his former manager and producer. Back then, it was a big part of his brand. he was the first Nigerian artist to reach 1 million followers. It is partly how he gathered his loyal fans, Wizkid FC, who regularly go to battle online on his behalf. Not long ago they targeted Nigerian singer Burna Boy after he called them “delusional”. Wizkid mostly stays off the platform, leaving his tweets to his team, although in 2020 he briefly ended his hiatus to take aim at Nigeria’s president, Muhammadu Buhari, as part of protests against the anti-terrorist task force. robbery (Sars). It ended in a heated online exchange with a Buhari aide. “I’m going to kick their ass this election,” he says, referring to the upcoming vote in 2023. Buhari’s term will end for good and of the four men vying to replace him, the youngest is 60. “All these old people are leaving power this time. They should go to a nursing home and relax.” On stage at the Hammersmith Apollo in London in 2012. Photo: Christie Goodwin/Redferns/Getty Images Wizkid is part of a generation deeply disillusioned with Nigerian politics. When the #EndSars protests started at the hands of Nigeria’s youth, it pushed back the already delayed release…
