3 years. 3 long years of sinking every atom, every iota of my being into the pursuit of this dream. Double that if you count the time I’ve spent actually (rather obsessively) writing music. And yet, when I looked at my Spotify Wrapped this year, I, alongside many others I’m sure, found myself feeling as if all that time had meant absolutely nothing.
Spotify Wrapped For Artists, for the uninitiated, is a marketing scheme where Spotify gleefully shows artists their stats for the year and encourages them to share those stats so they can compare dicks with everyone else. But what do you do when you’re looking at the number of listeners you had this year and they are almost the exact same as what you had the previous year? When you’re still working a 9-5, still making ends meet whilst living in your mother’s house, still a black man in a white world, earning almost nothing financially from the very thing that is costing you almost everything to make.
When I saw those multi-coloured letters cheerfully spell out my failure, I was crestfallen. How could I be trying this hard to stay in the exact same place? My fanbase had apparently dug its heels in and refused to grow, stubbornly ignoring the fact I’d spent the last couple of years crafting a 2-part narrative EP that was the most layered and detailed thing I’d ever created, and also contained my beating heart. The positive side of my brain admitted that I’d only released 1 part of that EP so far, but the other side of my brain told me to shut up, because the numbers don’t reflect that. If I had supposedly improved my craft so much, why was I still here?
I had the release party for part 2 of the aforementioned EP that same week. Like many Nigerian households, I had grown up with the understanding that failure wasn’t an option, so in typical “me” fashion, I had gone all in with it. I’d curated a rising star studded line up of all the artists who had featured on the EP, I’d chosen a venue and created posters that matched the recurring imagery and motifs of the EP, and I was selling merch that I had designed specifically for the event. And yet, the day before the show, I had only sold 50% of my tickets. Once again, I found myself reflecting on the first year of my career, where I had somehow managed to sell out a similarly sized venue for my first headline show. So, as I lay in my bed the night before the release party, fighting off an exhaustion-induced cold, the same voice in the back of my mind screamed louder and louder: why am I still here?
I got my answer the next day. As more and more people slowly filtered into the venue, I got to see the faces behind those supposedly stagnant numbers, the oars pushing those steady streams. As I watched my warm up acts, I felt my heart light up, as if it threatened to raise my whole body off the ground, as if it was pulling each goosebump on my skin to the height of the notes that electrified me. I felt the sheer power of music on me, in me. And then I looked around, and realised I was not the only one experiencing it; every single face in this increasingly packed room was bonded together by that power, by the transcendence of the experience unfolding before our eyes and ears and souls.
And then, it was my turn to create that experience, in a way only I, of all the musicians in the world, knew how to do, because this was my experience; this room full of people were here to hear my story. And so I told it, with every ounce of presence I could muster. I brought my art to life, and in return, I had the numbers I had formerly scorned brought to life before me. Each one of their eyes focussed on me, each one of their voices joining mine, each one of their hearts opening to me, as mine was to them.
It was then that I really understood why I was still here. Because if my art is able to touch even one person’s life, it is worth creating. If even one person can see themselves reflected in my experience, then that art has fulfilled its purpose. And that is something to be grateful for. Which is why, even now, I hope any artist, any creator, reading this article, will see themselves reflected in me, and understand that behind the seemingly soulless followers and views on our cold screens, lie entire lives that we have touched, that we have connected with in some way. That is the magic of art; its ability to allow a mixed-raced man from East London, an outcast who has never felt accepted anywhere, to be seen, to be understood; because as you see yourself reflected in his art, you are also seeing him. You become part of his world, as he becomes part of yours. And whether that connection happens with one person or one billion, it is no less of a miracle every time.
