Once upon a sound, Fuji music was a roaring lion. Born from the soul of Yoruba oral tradition, forged in the fire of “were” music during Ramadan nights, and matured in the belly of Lagos street culture. It was the soundtrack of celebration, of struggle, of spirit. It was loud, it was local, it was ours.
But today? The once glorious House of Fuji has become a noisy beer parlour where egos sing louder than talent and bitter rivalry replaces harmony. In fact, it’s no longer Fuji music; it’s Fuji warfare.
In most other global music cultures, veterans become mentors, legends, pillars. In Fuji? Veterans become permanent enemies. No handshakes. No collaborations. No mentorship. Just shade, showoff, subtle insults, and Facebook live fights. One veteran sneezes, another replies with a facebook live show. One is crowned at a birthday party, the other organizes a “coronation” concert same day just to prove he’s bigger. Titles like “Mr. Music,” “King of Fuji,” “Fuji Lord,” “Oluaye,” “Paramount King,” “Alhaji Generalissimo” are tossed around like sachet water, while unity is thrown in the gutter. Meanwhile, the young Fuji musicians; the supposed future are caught in the crossfire, reduced to errand boys for aged kings still dragging microphones like it’s 1985.
Now enter the 21st-century stage of podcasting, where microphones have become truth serum and public court, all in one. Podcasts are the new confessionals, and our Fuji stars are the new talk-happy guests who mistake public platforms for private parlours. It used to be that Fuji beefs were whispered in motorcade convoys, or subtly coded in lyrics. But now? All it takes is a free bottle of Hennessy, one wireless mic, and a camera, and suddenly, these grown men start talking like teenagers in a hostel bunk.
Grievances that were once dead and buried resurface. Old slaps are remembered with detail. Disputes from 1992 are revived with painful precision. In the name of “just being real,” Fuji musicians now expose ancient wounds on global platforms, unable to differentiate between podcast gist and bedroom talk. They confuse microphones with mouth organs and throw maturity, decorum, and discretion into the winds.
They forget that the internet never forgets. They forget that millions are watching, not just their fans but their future sponsors, event organizers, and even their own children. And worst of all, they forget that their words carry bullets because in Fuji, talk is never cheap. So, what happens next? The insulted party sees the clip. Pride kicks in. A “reply podcast” is rushed. Supporters pick sides. Social media catches fire. And commotion is back in the House of Fuji. All because someone couldn’t keep his mouth zipped in a podcast meant for public consumption.
Let’s face the hard truth: when last did Nigeria produce a new Fuji star that commanded and still commanding national attention? Not local bar attention o. National. The kind of energy Fuji creator himself -Late Sikiru Ayinde Barrister,General Kolington Ayinla, K1 de Ultimate, Obesere, Pasuma, Saheed Osupa, Merenge,sefiu Alao, Ayuba once commanded. Where is the new blood? Where is the innovation? Where is the digital transition? Answer: Nowhere. Because instead of building an industry, the House of Fuji is busy fighting over thrones in a palace with no roof.
Afrobeats artistes; many of whom are sons of the same Yoruba soil, have taken the shine. Wizkid, Davido, Burna Boy, Asake, Olamide; these boys united and turned their genre into an international currency. They collaborated. They supported one another. They modernized their sound. And guess what? They didn’t need to fight over who is the “Oluaye of YouTube.”or “Balogun of spotify”. Fuji artistes, on the other hand, are still arguing over who owns the title of “Musical Taliban.” At this rate, even highlife may resurrect and overtake Fuji on the popularity charts.
In the House of Fuji today, K1 is a god but faces constant online jabs from those who feel he’s blocking others. Obesere is forever “back like he never left” but is still more famous for his “Asakasa” sound. Osupa and Pasuma could win awards for longest beef in African music history. And the “younger generation”? They are either trying to sound like their fathers or fighting to inherit their fathers’ enemies. Nobody is building. Nobody is investing in branding. Nobody is packaging Fuji for Gen Z or global stages. No proper management. No streaming strategy. Just Instagram live rants, podcast tantrums, and recycled beats.
It’s 2025. The world is hungry for authentic African music. Traditional, percussive, powerful. Fuji should be leading that charge; exporting Yoruba drum patterns, proverbs, call-and-response rhythms. It should be streaming globally, taught in music schools, sampled by global producers. But what are Fuji artists doing? They are too busy fighting over who started what, who stole which style, who didn’t greet who at the last Owambe. Instead of forming a Fuji Academy, they are forming cliques of quarrels. Instead of organizing Fuji talent hunt, they are organizing insult sessions on streaming platforms. And so Afrobeat, which has no king, no official title holder, and no 1-hour oriki intro, continues to rise while Fuji remains a Lagos/Ibadan traffic jam music.
The commotion in the House of Fuji is unnecessary, embarrassing, and destructive. It is holding back a genre with soul, culture, depth, and international potential. The elders must bury their egos, the younger ones must carve their identity, and the entire house must be renovated from chaos to culture.
And please, to all Fuji musicians: a podcast is not your bedroom. Your mouth is not a weapon. And your legacy is bigger than your beef. Let’s save Fuji. Or let’s admit we failed it.
