With his debut album, Prince of the Street, Ayọ Maff attempts to solidify his reputation as one of Nigeria’s most emotionally vulnerable street-pop voices. Unfortunately, the album fails to live up to its ambition. It’s plagued by his uninspired writing, perfunctory collaborations, and his flat vocal performance.
Before this album, Ayọ Maff had built a reputation as one of the few young artists confronting grief, poverty, and the unforgiving realities of street life — subjects heavily discussed in Nigeria’s street-pop, though often mixed with escapism and prayer for breakthrough.
Few Nigerian artists sound as burdened as Ayọ Maff. Beyond his autobiographical and socially realistic lyrics, his soft, unvaried tone, often melancholic, amplifies the weight of his narratives. This is especially evident in his earlier singles — the sombre, grief-laden “7 Days”, dedicated to his late friend Ojo who died after spending time in police detention, and the brooding “Jama Jama”, where he sings about his family’s financial difficulties that made him drop out of school despite his academic brilliance.
His decision to keep sharing the harsh realities of his life earned him a hit with his Fireboy-assisted break-out song, “Dealer”, on which both artistes sing about seeking solace and escapism in weed and prayer when overburdened by troubles.
Though this emotive approach lends his songs a confessional quality, it also reveals a flaw. His monotonous vocal delivery in most of his songs makes his music one-dimensional blurring the line between heartfelt confession and dreary jeremiad.
One would have expected Prince of the Street to build on this honest, emotionally direct style by offering a more nuanced depiction of street life, hardship, love, and small victories. Given the autobiographical depth of his earlier singles like “7 Days”, “Jama Jama”, “Are You There”, and the huge impact of “Dealer”, this debut should have expanded those narratives, providing clearer glimpses into Ayọ Maff’s world. Instead, the album leans on worn-out ideas, making it an underwhelming debut.
Weakened by Ayọ Maff’s cliché ridden songwriting and too-familiar melodies, the songs on this album feel recycled, offering nothing new. Take “Felony” and “Hello”, for instance. These are supposed to be songs about unrequited and unconditional love, but it is hard to connect with their messages, since they aren’t well-defined and come across as mere discursive declarations with no purpose. These tracks feel lazy, devoid of emotional brilliance, unlike “A BEAUTIFUL SONG” and “Are You There”, off his MAFFIAN EP.
The guest features, meant to bring variety and star power, deliver bland verses and forgettable performances. Given the reputations of BNXN, Seyi Vibez, and Chike as versatile collaborators, expectations were high to hear them on this project. “Oshimiri” featuring BNXN and “Gang” with Seyi Vibez are uninspiring and lack lack the energy to uplift the album beyond Ayọ Maff’s struggling performances on many of the songs.
‘Baddo’s Song’ with the South African musical duo Jazzworx and Thukuthela, a supposed homage to rapper-singer Olamide, does a disservice to his towering reputation in the Nigerian music scene. Why collaborate with artists not attuned to Nigerian street-pop or Olamide’s musical brilliance and influences on a tribute song? It’s no surprise the track is lacklustre, and unworthy of its intended status. It would have worked better had Ayọ Maff looked inward, collaborating with homegrown artists who truly understand the Nigerian street scene and Olamide’s cultural influence. That said, “Realness”, featuring Chike, stands out slightly for its modest variation in lyrics and delivery.
Throughout the album, the subjects and rhythms shift restlessly, but Ayọ Maff’s mood and vocal delivery remain locked in the same languid tone. This drains even the serious songs of emotional depth and examples include – “Igbalode” and “Lazy Baby”, which are about existential angst and perseverance, and “9 Days”, a contemplative piece about wealth, life, and death. His delivery lacks the emotional rigour and tonal modulation needed to push his stories, making the songs flat, colourless, and forgettable.
Ayọ Maff’s storytelling, rooted in the challenges of poverty, love, escapism, and the fight-or-flight life of the street, is his defining strength. Some listeners find these songs captivating, while others are weary of their unrelenting themes of suffering and survival. A few months ago, a popular social media influencer and creator, Naijashimadun, criticised Ayọ Maff’s music, saying that “suffering is too much in the songs” and that he’s too young to dwell on hardship. Unbothered by the opinion, Ayọ Maff incorporates the critic’s voiceover in the opening track, “Beginning”, to re-emphasise his musical concept. He remembers how he started and won’t stop telling his truth, regardless of people’s perceptions. This defiance defines his artistry, though it increasingly risks alienating listeners craving thematic or sonic variety.
Like the opening track, the coda “Remind Me” aims for introspection on Ayọ Maff’s rise from nothing to something. But it lacks the meditation and narrative focus to tie the album together. It becomes a routine closer that fades out without impact.
With its average production and tepid lyrics coupled with Ayọ Maff’s monotonous, unconvincing vocal performance, Prince of the Street fails to push the street narrative into something convincing. The album should, ideally, represent a coronation for Ayọ Maff, commemorating his rise from the street to a place of influence. Or reflecting on the cost of that ascent.
It, however, lacks a coherent, defining arc. Instead, it leans too heavily on unimpressive love songs, bland contemplative tracks, and generic street-dance tunes, thus flirting with forgettability.
***Michael Kolawole is a screenwriter, playwright, poet and cultural journalist/critic. Catch him on X @mykflow
