It’s fine. You can say it. This is a safe space and I understand you; you don’t get it. The colors, the rambunctious music, the “weird” outfits, and the cryptic lyrics. Maybe it was too underground for you or you were too mainstream for it. Or maybe, just maybe, it was never really meant for you.
From 2016 to 2019, Alte was everywhere. The movement had its own rules: individuality over conformity, and experimentation over structure. At its peak, everyone wanted a piece. Global publications like Dazed, The Guardian, and The Financial Times covered it. Nigerian artists who were otherwise struggling to break into the mainstream found themselves rubbing shoulders with the elite of global alternative music. For a moment, Alte looked like it was destined to define the next era of Nigerian music.
But then, it didn’t.
And that’s the paradox of Alte. It is a cultural phenomenon that claims to want to break every rule and introduce inclusion to the Nigerian space. And truthfully, the alte movement has made space for many subcultures that are now widely celebrated in Nigeria—the skating community, LGBTQ+, and artists all found home in the alte community. Yet, alte still manages to be “too cool” for the people it claims to represent.
As someone who was at the best age to witness the alte movement, I was inspired by it. The thing about Alte that you have to understand is that it was never just music. At least it was never supposed to be just music. It was a movement. From the distinct fashion to the DIY attitudes, Alte represented freedom. The original coiners of the sound like BOJ and BlackMagic were known for their risque and honest lyrics. The modern renditions of this style were known for establishing their own beliefs and presentation regardless of the current climate of their society.
At least that’s what I thought.
And that’s where things got complicated. As much as Alte artists supposedly championed individuality, they couldn’t help wanting the success that comes with being global stars. It’s ridiculous to pretend they didn’t. And it’s even more ridiculous to expect them not to. They worked hard on their craft and their sound and their community. No one can forget Odunsi’s magnificent run from 2017 with the release of Desire feat. Funbi and Tay Iwar to his Rare album featuring Runtown AND Davido to his single with Raye, a UK act which is not only big for an underground artist but any Nigerian artist. From 2016 up to 2020, these artists dominated international media. Santi (now Cruel Santino) and Wurld were heralded as the next big thing to come out of Nigeria. They were signed to international labels—sometimes quietly to maintain an illusion of independence. For a moment, it seemed like Alte was going to rewrite the rules of Afrobeats and make all our artists just a little bit more interesting.
But that didn’t happen.
What happened was, with the increasing commercialization, the cracks began to show. They were all rich kids who schooled abroad and came to show us how cool they were. Or at least that’s what everyone said and the alte community – in true gen-z fashion – counteracted with a sarcastic, “Duh” Do you think studio equipment is cheap or Burna Boy is singing about popping bottles because he just loves popping bottles so much? It could have only been a privileged few that would have had the time and resources to re-imagine a music genre. Surprise surprise, most artists are nepo babies. Welcome to our capitalist world where its only generational wealth that provides time for anything that is not maximum production like art.
The truth is; that’s not really what people are talking about. People could tell that many of these artists were talking the talk but not walking the walk. I loved the movement and especially I could tell. The music, while experimental, often lacked the consistent emotional resonance and accessibility that built artists like Wizkid and Davido(who has an ultra privileged background). Even as early as 2018, people debated whether the alternative tag was just that, a tag.
And so it began.
Eventually artists like Rema, Ayra Starr and Omah Lay, crawled out of the pots they were cooking in and Alte had already lost its hold. These new stars took the movement’s essence—its individuality, aesthetic experimentation, and global appeal—and infused it with the familiarity of struggle Afrobeats. They were able to give us the “weirdness” of Alte without abandoning the rhythms and melodies Nigerians love. Something Alte artists refused to do.
The damage was truly done when key figures began distancing themselves from the movement. Artists like Lady Donli explicitly stated they weren’t Alte. Others, like Santi and Odunsi, refused to engage with the term, even when international media attempted to define it for them. This distancing wasn’t just confusing; it hurt the movement’s potential to scale. How can a concept gain momentum when even its pioneers won’t claim it?
And that’s how we got where we are.
Fast forward to today and Joey Akan is declaring it’s end and I am here detailing it’s history. It was a short but vibrant run…is what i would write if I agreed but I don’t. Believe or not, I think Rema’s existence is proof of Alte’s dare I say, success. Alte isn’t dead. Admittedly, it isn’t what it used to be. It’s pioneers didn’t manage to scale in the way they expected but the communities they created are thriving. Alte festivals and artists are popping up by the minute. More “regular” people are willing to claim the title regardless of the fact that the progenitors are not.
It’s impossible to ignore the blueprint alte left for mainstream artists that they have used to push Nigerian music to new heights. Quote me anywhere, if Santi did not happen, neither would HEIS. The movement gave us a new aesthetic, a new way of thinking about individuality in music, and a reminder that innovation can be found in Nigeria. The movement may not have conquered the world, but it left it’s mark and today, just like Joey said, we’re all a little bit alte.
