Music in Nollywood has never merely filled silence, it has spoken when dialogue fell short, wept when characters held back tears, and lingered long after the credits rolled. In a landscape defined by emotion, morality, and memory, music became more than ambiance; it evolved into the heartbeat of the Nigerian cinematic experience. From the earliest VCDs passed around in nylon sleeves to the global premieres streaming on Netflix and Prime, what stays with the audience, often more than the plot itself, is the sound that framed it.
This isn’t incidental. The roots of Nollywood’s sonic identity run deep in African tradition, where music and storytelling have always been inseparable. Long before the camera arrived, griots and oríkì singers stitched oral histories into rhythm and verse, passing truths and legends down in melody. In villages, marketplaces, and family gatherings, stories were told not just with words, but with drums, chants, and call-and-response. Nollywood inherited this rhythm, not as an accessory, but as a foundation.
Yet, how did this ancient synergy evolve into the cinematic form we now recognize? How did music in Nollywood rise from being a supporting note to becoming the very force that defines a generation’s emotional archive? From the haunting synths of Karishika, to the militant choral themes of Issakaba, and the spiritual orchestration of The Figurine, the journey is neither accidental nor aesthetic, it’s deeply cultural, fiercely intentional, and profoundly generational.
This is the story of that music. Not the songs alone, but the spirit behind them.
The Role of Music in Nollywood Films
Before a word is spoken or a scene unfolds, Nollywood films often whisper their intent through music. Whether it’s the foreboding strings that signal tragedy or the jubilant drums that herald love or triumph, soundtracks have become an unspoken language setting the tone, building tension, and rooting the viewer in emotional truth. Over the decades, music in Nollywood has transformed from a functional afterthought into a powerful storytelling device that now defines mood, memory, and meaning.
To understand how music grew into this pivotal role, we must trace its journey, from the early days of home video and indigenous musical influence, to the rise of iconic soundtracks, unsung composers, and the streaming-era evolution that brought global ears to local rhythms. This is how music became the heartbeat of Nigerian cinema, and how certain soundtracks came to define a generation.
The Early Days (1990s): The Birth of Soundtrack Consciousness in the Home Video Era
Before the polished soundtracks and cinematic scores of modern-day Nollywood, there was a raw, makeshift, yet deeply intentional era of music-making, one that shaped the emotional DNA of Nigerian cinema. To truly grasp how music began to matter in Nollywood, we must return to the early 1990s, a period when the home-video revolution exploded and necessity birthed innovation in ways no one could predict.
That revolution began with Living in Bondage, released in 1992 under NEK Video Links, a company owned by Kenneth Nnebue. The film, directed by Chris Obi Rapu and written by Kenneth Nnebue and Okechukwu Ogunjiofor, was shot in Igbo and distributed straight to VHS. It wasn’t just Nigeria’s first blockbuster; it was the blueprint. At the time, there was no formal film industry, no cinema pipeline for indigenous films, and absolutely no structure for music licensing or sound production. Filmmakers were forging paths in real time, using what they had and creating everything else from scratch.
That scarcity forced creativity. Without the option of licensed commercial tracks or access to global music libraries, producers either recycled public-domain sounds or created basic, often original compositions in-house. Sound design, though rudimentary, became an emotional tool. In Living in Bondage, for instance, while there’s no documented name tied to its soundtrack, the film’s haunting use of eerie synths and sparse audio cues added psychological depth to the storytelling. The tension in scenes depicting guilt, spiritual possession, or hallucination was made more visceral by that lo-fi soundscape. It wasn’t about technical perfection, it was about emotional realism.
As this approach took hold, production houses like NEK Video Links and later Wale Adenuga Productions began to embed sound more deliberately into their process. These were the years of analog audio consoles, basic Yamaha or Casio keyboards, and reel-to-reel edits. Yet what they created often carried a raw emotional weight that modern high-budget soundtracks sometimes miss.
Wale Adenuga’s productions in particular, especially through television hits like Papa Ajasco, leaned hard into exaggerated sound cues, comical blips, cartoonish slaps, and rhythmic stingers. These sounds weren’t just background effects; they became part of the viewing culture. They helped jokes land harder, made scenes more memorable, and quickly etched themselves into the audience’s memory. Children and adults alike could mimic them, they became shorthand for comedy.
Meanwhile, directors like Andy Amenechi brought more attention to atmospheric sound layering. In his later film Egg of Life (2003), the sound design, was used to shape perception, often combining ambient tones, naturalistic environments, and percussive rhythms to support suspenseful moments. Whether in a forest ritual scene or a palace setting, the sound wasn’t merely decorative; it was immersive. It guided the viewer’s emotions.
One of the most remarkable things about this era is how audiences embraced it. These weren’t clean, Dolby-level mixes. There were abrupt cuts. Hums. Static. Reused effects. Yet those imperfections became part of the aesthetic. If you walked past a Lagos home in the late ‘90s and heard the chants of Karishika or the militant chorus from Issakaba echoing from a TV, you immediately knew the mood, the scene, even the dialogue. That was the power of sound in that era, it created a language that lived in people’s heads.
What began as a workaround became culture. Improvised soundtracks turned into a philosophy. The 1990s laid the groundwork for what Nollywood music would become, not an accessory, but a character in the film. It was storytelling through sound, a technique born not from luxury, but from an urgent need to make stories feel alive.
And the legacy endures. By the time Living in Bondage: Breaking Free was released in 2019, the contrast was stark. The sequel featured a formal soundtrack album produced by Larry Gaaga, with appearances from Nigerian music giants like Flavour, 2Baba, Davido, and Patoranking. The music was no longer improvised, it was a key marketing and narrative tool. The film went on to win awards for Best Sound Editing and Best Soundtrack, further validating how far the industry had come.
Yet, it was those early, often uncredited pioneers, the nameless keyboard players, the editors layering sound manually, the producers using intuition rather than formal training, who gave Nollywood its audio soul. They didn’t just fill silence; they gave it meaning. They didn’t have modern studios or plugins. But they understood mood. They understood fear. They understood laughter. They scored emotion.
They didn’t just score scenes, they scored our memories.
Cultural Soundtrack Identity: Traditional Music Meets Urban Drama
When Nollywood began to explore the emotional interplay of tradition and city life, its music evolved into a powerful storyteller. In the late ’90s and early 2000s, composers started weaving Igbo highlife rhythms, Yoruba percussion, Hausa spiritual chants, and Christian/Islamic gospel motifs into narratives that reflected society’s dual pull between ancestral roots and modern ambitions.
Karishika (1996): The Chant That Haunts Still
Karishika, a 1996 supernatural horror, remains etched in memory thanks largely to its soundtrack. Stanley Okorie, the era’s most prolific soundtrack composer, wrote and produced the iconic chant:
“Lucifer, Lucifer, Prince of Darkness, Karishika, Karishika, Queen of Demons.”
This refrain, backed by haunting synths, fused Western horror elements with a local, visceral intensity. It didn’t merely scare, it embedded itself into collective memory, evoking dread at its utterance.
Okorie’s early career began humbly, his first soundtrack was reportedly compensated with a bottle of Sprite, but by Karishika, he had established a signature style that married street-level storytelling with ethereal menace.
Issakaba (2001): Choir as Judicial Force
Moving into the 2000s, Issakaba (2001), directed by Lancelot Oduwa Imasuen, became legendary for its choir-driven soundtrack. Centering on the Bakassi Boys vigilante group, the music’s militant, gospel-inspired chants framed spiritual warfare as frontier justice. In Igbo communities, the soundtrack transcended the film, becoming an aural symbol of mystical retribution and communal power.
Traditional Instruments: Cultural Anchors
More than just vocal motifs, films began using traditional instruments; talking drums, ogene gongs, ekwe drums, and flutes to infuse scenes with authenticity. These sounds functioned emotionally and narratively: a talking drum sequence might signal ancestral intervention; an ogene crash could foreshadow spiritual peril. Together, they grounded urban stories in Africa’s deep musical heritage, lending scenes a spiritual depth Western orchestration alone couldn’t provide.
Why It Resonated
These soundtracks did more than support visuals, they communicated, often more powerfully than dialogue. Across the country hearing the Karishika chant or the Issakaba choir caused instant recognition. That music connected viewers to something deeper; ancestral fears, spiritual justice, rural rituals, wrapped up in cinematic storytelling.
By blending indigenous rhythms with compelling narratives, Nollywood didn’t just create films, it created cultural soundscapes that resonated beyond cinema, shaping collective memory and emotional identity across Nigeria.
The Rise of Soundtrack Albums
In the early days of Nollywood, especially throughout the ’90s and into the early 2000, music was often an afterthought. Producers would hire someone to come in and create a few moody instrumentals, or they’d loop pre-programmed beats on a keyboard. The music served the film, yes, but it didn’t exist outside of it. It wasn’t packaged, it wasn’t named, and it certainly wasn’t sold.
There was no such thing as a “soundtrack album” the way we now think of it.
But around 2002, something began to change.
Stanley Okorie and the Soundtrack Revolution
If there’s one person who truly embodied the shift, it’s Stanley Okorie. By the early 2000s, Okorie had become one of the most prolific soundtrack creators Nollywood had ever seen. And we’re not talking about a few scattered tunes in the background. This man was writing full sets of original songs, songs with verses, hooks, emotional transitions, and lyrics that reflected everything from heartbreak to juju, betrayal to divine justice.
He didn’t just create music to decorate a scene. He built emotional subplots through music. His ballads gave voice to heartbreak. His choral chants ushered in terror. His comedic ditties added irony to already ridiculous plot twists. These weren’t just songs, they were emotional companions to the narrative. And most importantly, these songs were being compiled, produced, and distributed as full-fledged albums.
Take Karishika, for example. Released in 1996, it wasn’t just the movie’s demonic tension that people remembered, it was that now-iconic soundtrack:
“Karishika! Queen of Darkness!”
Stanley Okorie didn’t just write it. He sang it. And that haunting rock-infused gospel-meets-demonic track made people freeze. It wasn’t a one-time jingle. It had verses. It had arrangement. It was a song, and for many people, it was the first time they saw a Nigerian horror movie lean that hard on music.
Then there was Return of the Billionaires, which featured Okorie’s “Onye Ji Cash”, the now-viral “I get money before, no be property…” hit. Again, Okorie didn’t just compose this track. He performed it himself. The lyrics weren’t filler; they spoke to the heart of the story, greed, envy, betrayal. The song outlived the movie. People played it at parties, remixed it on TikTok years later, and even turned it into social commentary on wealth and class.
And he didn’t stop there. Stanley Okorie wrote over 10,000 songs across 5,000+ Nollywood films, according to his own interviews. He would sometimes write 20 to 30 original songs per film, sequencing them around the emotional arc of the story. Love ballads would accompany romantic subplots. Choral pieces introduced ancestral spirits. Upbeat tracks scored comic relief. And if karma was lurking around the corner? Expect a moral song with a warning chorus.
This was the era where the soundtrack album became an artform, and Okorie was at the center.
“I Go Chop Your Dollar” and the Cultural Crossover
Then came 2005. The Master. A film starring Nkem Owoh. But it wasn’t the plot that exploded, it was the soundtrack.
Stanley Okorie wrote and recorded “I Go Chop Your Dollar”, the now-legendary scammer anthem.
“I be the actor, I dey act film… I go chop your dollar…”
While Nkem Owoh lip-synced it in the film, it was Okorie’s voice on the track. The beat was catchy. The lyrics were satire at its sharpest. The song wasn’t just playing in the background, it was the spirit of the film, bold and unrepentant.
And then something happened. The song outgrew the movie. It was played on radio. Burned on CDs. Sent over Bluetooth. Shared on early YouTube uploads. Banned by the Nigerian Broadcasting Commission. Embraced by street culture and Internet comedy. The movie faded, but the song? It stayed.
That was the confirmation Nollywood needed: soundtrack albums didn’t just support the film, they could be bigger than the film. That one moment changed everything.
From Theme Songs to Full Albums: A New Nollywood Format
After The Master, things escalated. Producers realized the songs could be more than sonic decoration. They could be promotional tools. Cultural moments. Merchandising products. Emotional extensions of the story.
Stanley Okorie was ahead of that wave. He’d already been releasing multi-track soundtracks, cassette albums and VCD-linked releases. Now, others followed. Films didn’t just come with background music, they came with curated albums.
One notable example was The Campus Queen (2004), a Tunde Kelani film built like a musical. It featured a youth-focused soundtrack with contributions from Nigerian pop icons like Sound Sultan, built around campus life and youthful rebellion. The songs were narrative tools. Characters sang them. Lyrics matched their internal conflicts. It wasn’t just a film. It was a soundtrack film, the kind you could watch and hum along to.
The High Point: Inale (2010)
The peak of this soundtrack revolution came with Inale (2010), a Jeta Amata musical film set in a fictional pre-colonial kingdom. The film was a love story, a tragedy, a tale of honor and sacrifice.
But what made Inale special was its soundtrack, composed by Bongos Ikwue. This wasn’t just background music. The songs were the story. Characters sang them. Dialogue flowed into melody. The album was released alongside the film. And in 2011, Inale won Best Soundtrack at the Africa Movie Academy Awards.
By that moment, there was no denying it: soundtracks had become the soul of Nollywood storytelling.
Why This Era Mattered
From around 2002 to 2012, Nollywood witnessed a quiet revolution. For the first time, soundtracks weren’t afterthoughts. They were planned. Produced. Packaged. Sold. And, in some cases, remembered more than the movies themselves.
This era gave us:
- Emotional continuity through music
- Additional income streams for producers
- Spotlight for hidden musical talents like Okorie
- Cultural impact far beyond the films
It was no longer about just making a movie. It was about building an experience. Music wasn’t in the background anymore. It was a co-star.
Today, it’s normal for Nollywood to feature curated scores from Netflix-backed soundtracks to cinema-grade original singles. But the blueprint came from this period. And if you trace it all back, if you follow the sound, the thread leads you to Stanley Okorie. To Karishika. To The Master. To the era when films were sung, not just acted.
The Era of Musical Symbolism: When Music Became a Character in Nollywood
There was a time in Nollywood when music was just… there. It sat quietly under the dialogue, following the actors like a shadow. A drum here. A synth there. Maybe a little melody to stretch a scene. But somewhere between the late 2000s and early 2010s, something shifted. Music stopped standing in the background, it started speaking. It began to drive the story, not just support it. Soundtracks weren’t just about vibes anymore, they became emotional architects.
One of the best places to see this shift in full bloom is in Tunde Kelani’s 2011 film, Maami.
Now Maami isn’t just a story about a boy and his mother. It’s a deeply emotional, layered film that deals with memory, loss, sacrifice, and the soul of Yoruba motherhood. And the music? The music didn’t just accompany these themes, it expressed them. Gospel melodies mixed with raw Yoruba folk sounds to create an atmosphere that wasn’t just spiritual, it was intimate. Each time the main character, Kashimawo, slipped into the past, the music followed. Not like background noise, but like a voice. A living memory. It made you feel what he was remembering.
This wasn’t just some generic score pasted over the edit. The composer Adesiji Awoyinka, understood the heart of the story. That mother-son relationship was narrated through sound just as much as it was through dialogue or flashbacks. The gospel choirs carried her resilience. The folk chants echoed her pain. Every note was grounded in culture, in the grit and grace of that world.
Now contrast that with Kunle Afolayan’s The Figurine (2009). Here, we’re in a completely different mood. Where Maami was warm and emotional, The Figurine was cold, mysterious, and haunting. And the music? It followed suit, minimalist, unsettling, tense. The film was scored by Kulanen Ikyo, and his approach was brilliant in its restraint. He didn’t flood scenes with sound. He let silence breathe. He let the dread creep in.
But there was one thing that stood out: the Araromire chant.
If you’ve seen the film, you remember it. That low, spiritual hum that pops up every time something eerie or fateful is about to happen. It wasn’t just a chant. It was the curse itself. It symbolized the goddess Araromire’s presence, whispering into fate, rearranging lives. That chant became a spiritual language in the film. You didn’t need to see her. You just needed to hear it. That’s how powerfully the music was woven into the narrative.
What was happening here wasn’t accidental. Directors like Tunde Kelani, Kunle Afolayan, and Izu Ojukwu had started doing something different. They were giving their composers access to the script, not just the final cut. That’s huge. Because it meant the music wasn’t being slapped on after the fact. It was being built with the story from the beginning.
This changed everything.
Composers weren’t just sound designers anymore. They became co-storytellers. They weren’t just reacting to scenes. They were shaping them. They could build emotion into a moment before the actors even opened their mouths.
In Maami, the music was practically a third main character. In The Figurine, it was fate itself. In other films from the era, especially those directed by Izu Ojukwu, the music served as a map of emotional highs and lows. It would rise before a character made a life-altering decision. It would fall quiet in the face of grief. It would speak when silence carried more weight than words.
This was musical symbolism in its purest form.
And it’s worth saying, this kind of approach isn’t easy. It requires trust. It means the director has to see the composer not as someone who fills space, but as someone who can hold space. It means thinking about music as a voice, not a vibe.
That’s what made this era so unique. Music wasn’t just a mood board. It was a language. A spiritual translator. A narrative device. And for a while especially between 2008 and 2012, Nollywood embraced it fully.
This was the era where composers became storytellers. Where sound became symbol. Where chants and choirs and traditional rhythms weren’t just added in, they were baked into the storytelling. And the films? They felt different. Richer. Deeper. More layered. You didn’t just watch them. You felt them sing.
And we still remember the songs.
Soundtracks That Defined a Generation
Let’s be honest, Nollywood gave us more than stories. It gave us songs that became part of our growing up. Tracks that didn’t just accompany scenes but followed us home, stayed in our heads, lived in our hearts. If you were watching Nigerian films between the 90s and now, there’s a high chance you can still sing some of those songs word for word.
This wasn’t about soundtracks being “added”, it was about soundtracks becoming part of the storytelling. They were character, atmosphere, culture, and memory all in one. Let’s dive deep into seven soundtrack moments that didn’t just support their films, they defined an era.
1. “Osokupa” – Living in Bondage (1992)
If you grew up watching Living in Bondage, that eerie sound, Osokupa still sits somewhere in your bones. Composed by Bode Ogunmola, the track wasn’t just a theme. It was a presence. It followed Andy from the initiation scene to his downfall like a spiritual witness. You didn’t just hear it; you felt its weight.
And what made it unforgettable wasn’t complexity. It was intention. A mix of local flutes and synth created this chilling spiritual soundscape. It was one of the first moments Nollywood proved that music wasn’t an accessory, it was the voice of the unseen.
This one sound built the template for how Nigerian spiritual thrillers used music from then on. Not just for effect, but to invoke something greater than what was on screen.
2. Stanley Okorie’s Golden Run – Karishika, The Billionaires’ Club, The Master
Stanley Okorie didn’t just compose music. He spoke for the films. By the early 2000s, he was the unofficial voice of Nollywood. From Karishika’s demonic anthem; “Karishika, Queen of Darkness”, to The Billionaires’ Club’s moral hymns and The Master’s infamous “I Go Chop Your Dollar,” Okorie’s soundtracks were so catchy they escaped the screen.
People sang them on the streets. Burned them onto CDs. Played them at home, in markets, even at parties. And he wasn’t dropping random tracks. These were narrative songs. They told you exactly what was happening in the film. Love songs for romance scenes, warning songs when karma approached, and full-on comedy when things got absurd.
And the most iconic? “I Go Chop Your Dollar.” Originally written for The Master, it turned into a nationwide hit. It mocked 419 culture while becoming a song that even scammers ironically adopted. That’s the kind of layered cultural moment that only Nollywood soundtracks could create in that era.
3. The “Araromire” Chant – The Figurine (2009)
Now, if Living in Bondage gave us dread and Stanley Okorie gave us narration, The Figurine gave us suspense with precision. Kunle Afolayan’s supernatural thriller didn’t just use music, it let music do the whispering.
The score was haunting, minimalist. But the moment that stuck? That chant. The one that came every time Araromire’s curse stirred. It wasn’t just a background hum. It was the voice of fate. A warning. A presence.
You knew something was coming the moment that eerie sound faded in. That chant didn’t need subtitles. It meant something. It was how the film made the goddess feel real, not through visuals, but through sound. It turned silence into suspense. A classic example of music becoming a narrative force.
4. October 1 (2014) – Nationhood in Sound
Tunde Kelani and Kunle Afolayan knew something that others were just learning, music can build a world.
In October 1, Afolayan wasn’t just telling a murder mystery. He was recreating 1960 Nigeria. And the only way to do that properly was through sound. Composer Kulanen Ikyo delivered a soundtrack that didn’t just underscore the film, it gave it a time and place.
You could hear the colonial residue, the anxiety of change, the weariness of people waiting for independence. Then came voices like Simi, Adekunle Gold, and Cobhams Asuquo, each one layering emotional resonance on top of political tension.
It was careful. Intentional. A historical soundtrack that worked like a photo album, each song capturing a memory of a country trying to breathe new air.
5. Hoodrush (2012) – The Sound of Hustle and Hope
This one often flies under the radar, but it shouldn’t. Hoodrush is one of the most musically daring Nigerian films ever made.
A fusion of drama and musical, it didn’t just use music as glue, it used it as script. Characters sang their thoughts, their dreams, their pain. The film’s songs weren’t add-ons. They were dialogue. This was Nollywood’s answer to Broadway, only rooted in Lagos hustle culture.
And it worked. The soundtrack earned critical acclaim and became the emotional bridge of the story. It was raw, full of yearning, with lyrics that actually mattered. For those who saw it, the music wasn’t something to hum, it was something to feel.
6. “On Fire” – Gangs of Lagos (2023)
Fast-forward to recent times, Gangs of Lagos” (2023) shows the soundtrack legacy lives on. Tolu Obanro’s original score drives the urban, unpredictable rhythm of Isale Eko. Then Chike’s song “On Fire (Pana Time)” produced by DeeYasso, drops in and shifts the energy entirely.
This track wasn’t just an emotional break, it was the soul of the story. After all the guns and betrayals and running, this was the moment the characters and we had to sit still and process everything.
It brought pain and clarity at once. It made you think of loyalty, friendship, destiny. And like the best soundtracks before it, it didn’t ask for attention. It earned it. Suddenly, people weren’t just watching a crime drama. They were feeling it.
7. Aníkúlápó (2022)
Traveling back through Yoruba legend and mysticism, Kent Edunjobi’s soundtrack for Aníkúlápó doesn’t just score the scenes, it summons the spirit of ancient Oyo. Rooted in traditional talking drums, ambient field recordings, and haunting vocal motifs, Edunjobi builds an immersive, time-bending soundscape. Its blend of folk percussion and cinematic tension fully transports listeners into the epic’s mythic world. The track Igba n ba Jo was especially exceptional.
Then the energy shifts again, when the choral and percussive themes swell, sweeping the audience deeper into the film’s magic and emotional core.
What Ties Them Together?
Each of these soundtracks did something that’s still rare: they mattered outside of the film.
- They were sung on the streets.
- Played at events.
- Quoted in conversations.
- Felt long after the final scene.
They became part of the Nigerian experience, not just film culture. And that’s what makes a soundtrack timeless.
Streaming Era & the Global Soundtrack Evolution (2020–2025)
From 2020 onward, something changed in the way Nigerian films began to feel. It was subtle at first, a richer tone here, a haunting motif there. Then it grew louder. And now, five years later, it’s impossible to ignore: Nollywood has entered a soundtrack renaissance.
This evolution wasn’t random. It was driven by streaming platforms like Netflix and Prime Video, who didn’t just bring new money into the industry, they brought new expectations. Higher standards. A global approach to how stories should sound, not just look.
Netflix Changed the Game And Kulanen Ikyo Scored It
Let’s rewind to May 2022, when Blood Sisters premiered as Netflix’s first Nigerian original series. The cinematography was fresh, the story gripping, but it was the sound that really caught people off guard. The score by Kulanen Ikyo didn’t just support the scenes, it controlled them. Pulsing underfoot in chase sequences, retreating to a whisper during tense moments, or swelling with orchestral power, it was cinema, not television.
Kulanen isn’t new to this. He’s the same mind behind October 1 (for which he won AMVCA’s Best Sound Editing in 2015) and Lionheart. A physics graduate turned composer, he has always known how to play with space and silence, using absence to create tension, and layering just enough sound to stir emotion without overwhelming it.
Then in 2023, The Black Book arrived. Another Netflix-backed project. Another Ikyo score. But this time, he went minimalist. Sparse piano lines. Heavy atmospheres. Emotional undercurrents that crept under your skin. The music wasn’t showy, it was smart. And for the first time in Nollywood history, Netflix dropped the full soundtrack album on February 9, 2024. That was huge. It wasn’t just background noise anymore. It was a standalone body of work.
The Music Supervisor Era: Finally, Someone’s Curating
Something else quietly began to shift during this streaming boom: music supervision. For decades, Nigerian directors doubled as music pickers. They’d slap a song in during post-production, adjust the volume a little, and move on. But with the budgets and global exposure that Netflix and Prime brought, came a new professional role, one that was long overdue.
Music supervisors started showing up in the credits. Their job? Choose the right songs. License them properly. Make sure they match the emotional weight of the story. This wasn’t just a legal checkbox, it was storytelling curation. The music stopped being “just vibes” and started being narrative architecture.
Aníkúlápó and the Return of Sonic Spirituality
On a completely different note, literally, Kunle Afolayan was building a world of his own. With Aníkúlápó (2022), and its sequel Aníkúlápó: Rise of the Spectre (2024), he wasn’t just telling a Yoruba myth, he was reviving a sonic memory.
Kent Edunjobi, the composer behind both films, didn’t just write music. He built worlds. He travelled to Oyo, recorded the actual ambient sounds of the environment; crickets, market noise, birds, and layered it with traditional Yoruba percussion. Talking drums, chants, deep folk harmonies, all woven into an emotional and spiritual soundscape.
It worked. Aníkúlápó won Edunjobi Best Soundtrack at the 2023 AMVCA. And by the time Rise of the Spectre came out, the expectations for epic Nigerian scoring had shifted. This wasn’t just music, it was atmosphere, language, identity.
Afrobeats & Amapiano: From Clubs to Character Arcs
At the same time, Afrobeats and Amapiano were doing something unexpected, they were evolving beyond the party scene. Starting around 2021, Nigerian rom-coms and dramas stopped using these genres as filler. Instead, they started integrating them into character arcs.
You’d hear a mellow Burna Boy track as two lovers walked home under the Lagos streetlights. Or a slow Amapiano groove fading in while a character processed betrayal. These weren’t musical detours, they were emotional cues. Sound was becoming character.
So, What’s Really Changed Between 2020 and 2025?
The short answer? Everything.
- Composers like Kulanen Ikyo and Kent Edunjobi are now as integral to a film’s success as the lead actors.
- Music supervisors are finally being credited, and listened to.
- Afrobeats and Amapiano are no longer surface decoration. They’re part of the emotional DNA of stories.
- Soundtrack albums are being released. That’s new. That’s huge.
- And most importantly? Directors are now thinking about sound from day one, not as a last-minute add-on, but as a key part of how the story breathes.
What used to be functional is now intentional. Nollywood isn’t just finding its voice, it’s learning how to design it. And for the first time in a long time, our films don’t just look better, they sound like they belong on the global stage.
Conclusion
At every point in Nollywood’s history, music has done exactly what the film needed, whether that was to hold a scene together, deliver the emotional impact, or carry the weight of culture where the visuals couldn’t. It was never just the background. It was part of the structure.
And as the industry continues to grow, one thing hasn’t changed: sound remains a core part of how these stories land, and why they stay with people long after the credits roll.
That role hasn’t faded. It’s only become more deliberate.