So, looking for reliable income and new fans, Davido is
making arrangements outside of Nigeria. In January, he flies to New York
to finalize a deal with Sony Music Global, which will release his
much-anticipated second album, tentatively titled
Baddest. Davido
has already spent two years and around $1 million of his own money on
the record, and the timing seems right. “There is a massive renaissance
going on,” says Ugwu, pointing to the international success of
OMI’s
“Cheerleader” as an indicator of fans’ widening tastes. “There’s interest. Music is traveling.”
The Sony deal, which was brokered in part by Nigerian-born,
U.S.-based A&R Efe Ogbeni, will provide him with new resources to
reach American and European fans. Davido envisions snagging an opening
spot on a prime U.S. tour, a big push for a crossover single, and other
traditional major-label marketing.
Baddest will feature
non-African artists—Future will appear on at least one song, Davido
says—and strike an overall balance between Nigerian pop and
American-inspired hip-hop. “I know what kind of songs work. The music
should have everything in it—Jamaican, African, American, everything.
Something like
Wizkid’s
‘Ojuelegba,’ it has a cool feel to it,” he says, nodding to the song remixed by
Drake and
Skepta in 2015. “But are foreigners going to come to Nigeria to listen to that all the time? No. It has to have a pop influence.”
For any Nigerian artist with international ambitions, the pressure to
succeed is amplified by a fear that global audiences might not welcome
more than one African star at a time. And even that’s not
guaranteed—Davido tells me a story about a time before the ultimate
demise of D’banj’s G.O.O.D. Music deal, when Kanye West called D’banj
producer Don Jazzy, already wildly successful in Nigeria, into a tiny,
uncomfortable room with 20 other producers. “I don’t want that to be
me,” he says. “I wanna be that one African nigga, where it’s like, ‘Call
that African nigga. Let’s get him on the hook.’”
That sense of competition underlies a long-running feud between
Davido and Wizkid, former friends and collaborators turned rivals, who
have spent the past few years subliminally dissing each other in songs
and across social media. “Me and Wizkid, we’re the best,” says Davido.
“If one telecoms comes to me, the other one will go meet him. If Coke
comes to me, Pepsi goes to him. Whether or not it’s true, they make it
feel like it can only be one of us. I think there’s enough for all of us
to eat, but then sometimes it can feel like only one person will win.”
Wizkid, 25, is perceived as a kid from the hood who made his way to
the top on his own, a story admired in a country where hustle is a
virtue and a survival tactic. Davido, on the other hand, is respected
for his smart choices: working as his own A&R for years before he
was in the major label system, he’s enlisted the help of songwriters in a
country where they’re not commonly used, aligned himself with an
experienced management team, and released an unabating string of singles
to stay relevant between albums. “My business decisions, they’re not by
accident,” Davido says. “I have a father that’s made billions [of
Naira]. When he tells me, ‘Make this move,’ I listen to him.” But that
can also backfire. For all his popularity, Davido’s family money and
custody battle have also made him an avatar for what some consider wrong
with modern Nigerian society: the dissolution of traditional values and
a culture that favors the rich while the poor get poorer.
In reality, Davido and Wizkid may have more in common than it
appears—in January, Wizkid faced his own scandal, after a woman claimed
he’d fathered her son and was a deadbeat dad. Recently, the two have
made overtures to come together. At a December concert in Lagos, they
spontaneously gave a
joint performance
before a stunned crowd. When both artists arrived at the venue, there
was no clear direction from the promoter as to who would headline the
show and, by effect, leave with a sense of victory. Tension built
backstage until Davido, cleverly recognizing a chance to force Wizkid’s
hand in public, invited his erstwhile rival to share the stage. They
wound up going back-and-forth for several songs.
A week after that show, I’m in the passenger seat of Davido’s Porsche
Panamera Turbo S, driving to his brother’s house with his manager,
Kamal. The sun has set, but the streets are still clogged with Friday
rush-hour traffic, as pedestrians and vendors compete for sidewalk real
estate. We weave through tiny streets and major throughways, drawing
waves and claps from a cluster of squeegee kids who recognize the white
sportscar as Davido’s. As we drive, Kamal’s two phones buzz nonstop with
requests. Someone asks about a fashion endorsement. Idris Elba is in
town for a movie premiere and wants to talk about recording a song
together. When one call comes through, Kamal answers gruffly, then warms
up. “Nah, bad boy!” he exclaims, simultaneously teasing and
complimenting the caller. It’s Wizkid himself, asking whether Davido
might be down for some sort of collaboration, an official end to the
stalemate. Days later, Davido remains enthusiastic about the
possibility. “We’re gonna give them
What a Time to Be Alive—African version,” he says, a grin creeping across his face.
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