Olamidé: A comprehensive summary of a 15-year career [Album Review]

It began with a space. A quiet that followed a storm. A void left by the thunderous roar of Dagrin's passing. Olamide slipped through like a comet into the cosmos of Yoruba rap with Eni Duro, affirming clearly that he's here to stay. a young man from the streets of Bariga with a fire in his belly and a story to tell. He doubled down, and the once-improbable became inevitable: he bent street vernacular into an instrument of myth. Since 2011 when he was nominated for Next Rated at the Headies Olamide has dropped a project every year except 2022 when the YBNL label clearly focused on Asake.

His debut album Rapsodi, was a raw, unfiltered snapshot of a life lived on the fringes, a testament to an artist finding his voice. But it wasn't his true voice just yet. He spent the next few albums experimenting, a craftsman searching for his perfect tools, honing his wit and humour, and learning how to make his stories travel beyond the familiar corners of Ladilak.

He found his stride with Baddest Guy Ever Liveth, an album where the chaos of youth and the discipline of a true artist finally collided. For so long, his career has been a balance between the gritty anthems of the street, the universal language of pop, and the tender whispers of love. It’s an ambitious balance, and the journey has been anything but a straight line, yet he's maintained unparalleled work rate. 

His discography is a landscape of peaks and valleys—some albums, like YBNL and Lagos Nawa were fleeting moments of sound, while others, like The Glory, Eyan Mayweather, Street OT, and Baddest Guy Ever Liveth, stand as enduring monuments to his creative spirit. Post-2020, he's retired into a laid-back style while delivering experimental styles that merges old style familiar to core fans with new sounds and vibes as we've seen in  Carpe Diem, UY Scuti and recently, Ikigai / 生き甲斐, Vol. 1. 

Now, after all this time, Olamide has done what the greats before him have done. He has lent his name to a body of work. In Olamidé, a man looks back, sings what he has sung before, and in the echo discovers who he has become. It’s a profound, almost philosophical act—a testament to a career so rich in narrative that the artist's name is the only title the work could possibly bear.

This is the same move that marked pivotal moments for artists across generations and genres. Aṣa’s self-titled debut was an entrance into immortality. Sunny Ade did it in 1974, breaking free from his benefactor, his guitars ringing with existential anxiety. Olamide’s self-titled is less announcement than summation—a closing of a circle. It is a statement that says, “This is my journey so far. This is me.”

His new album, Olamidé, opens with a whisper, a question that hangs in the smoky air of a jazz bar:

“wondering… where my dreams take me next. I can't slow down. I can't go back. I feel home at last. This is where I belong.” 

It’s a cinematic prelude, a flash of a life lived in fast-forward. The young, brash rapper from Bariga has become a mogul, a kingmaker, a man who has not only survived but thrived for 15 years in an ever-shifting landscape. He's home, yes, but the hunger remains. 

The Newfound Groove

The prelude is inhalation before speaking. The true speech begins with “Hasibunallah”—Sufficient for us is God—an invocation in Arabic that grounds the album in a deeper sense of spirituality and tenacity. This isn’t just about the hustle anymore; it’s about the divine grace that fuels it. He affirms his place in the world, his grind, and the unshakeable faith that has been his anchor.

When the soulful melody of “Kai” arrives, it signals a shift. This time, Olamide isn't just rapping; he’s singing, a gentle croon that stands in stark contrast to his earlier work with Wizkid on “Omo to Shan.” Back then, his lyrical persuasion was so eloquent it could have made Rumi proud—he was the poet-lover, pleading for a chance. Now, on Kai, the romance is in the subtext. His status and wealth are the silent serenade, a quiet confidence that draws women to him without a word of wooing. He’s not a poet anymore; he's a king, and his kingdom speaks for itself.

On “Luvaluvah,” a mid-tempo dancehall love song, we see the poet-persona return. He’s reverent, tender, and persuasive, a throwback to the romantic whispers of tracks like "Melo Melo" and "Be Mine." He continues this gentle approach on the tender, rain-soaked track "Rain," with Popcaan, where he invokes the spirit of a chivalrous gentleman, far from the braggadocio of a typical street anthem.

The collaborations on this album are deliberate, each a different brushstroke on his self-portrait. Wizkid returns with a more inspired verse on “Billionaires Club,” a track that feels less like a boast and more like an affirmation of their shared calm. These are not men who seek validation; they are simply basking in the aura they've built. The addition of Darkoo adds a final touch of finesse, a different texture to the luxurious canvas.

A Nod to the Streets and the Circle of Life

Olamide’s long-standing tradition of uplifting young artists continues on “Free,” a track that spotlights Muyeez while poetically showing generational link with the addition of Seyi Vibez. This is where the old and new collide. The lyrical wit of old is still there, but it has evolved into something sleeker, a fluid drop of metaphorical entendre that seems like mere name-dropping of Saheed Osupa, Pharrell William, and Nyesom Wike. The crass jokes of Ladilak have given way to a sophisticated rurality, a sound that appeals to a diverse audience while staying true to its roots.

In the cautionary tale "Duro," we see a sequel to the long-forgotten story told in "Baddo Love." In 2013, Olamide was a young hustler promising to return, asking his lover to wait. In this new song, he confronts the painful reality that she didn’t. The youthful optimism has been replaced by a dejected wisdom, a poignant reminder that not all love stories have a perfect ending.

His journey from humble beginnings to a new, polished sound is on full display. The Fuji-lilted pre-chorus is a sigh inside a song. “Special” feels like an Adekunle Gold outtake but holds a kernel of self-myth: a kid who isn’t a god yet but has climbed Olympus. The album’s most unexpected moment is "Indika," where West Coast G-Funk and Palmwine Highlife collide in a glorious, full-circle moment. It's a fleeting taste of what could have been, a testament to his versatility It's Olamide’s grass-to-grace story distilled to one ecstatic line—“abete to a smart home.”

The heart of the album, though, is the house-music inspired "99." This is where the ensemble cast truly shines, with five voices, each confessing aspiration and fear under the guise of party talk—a Dionysian catharsis. It’s a dance party with a hidden melancholy, a celebration of how far they’ve come while acknowledging the stress they’ve left behind.

The End of a Chapter

The final leg of the album begins with the cabaret-styled interlude "Paris," a whispered goodnight from a French-singing FADÍ. "Hybrid" then takes us back to the Olamide of old, a street-pop anthem that feels like a deliberate return to the roots, a signal that he has not forgotten where he came from.

The album concludes with the socially conscious, Boj-assisted "Stronger," where he exalts women, preaching agency and liberation. It’s a final nod to a consistent thread in his discography—the storyteller who uses his platform to give voice to the voiceless, a tradition that began with his early career track, “Woman” ft. Jumoke. 

At 17 tracks, Olamidé is a generous, perhaps even indulgent, gift to his fans. It's not an album of new revelations but rather a comprehensive summary of a 15-year career. A warm glance at the journey so far. But perhaps that is the point of naming the record after himself: not to reinvent but to remember. It is an affirmation of the man, the artist, and the legacy he has built. With over a decade at the pinnacle of their game, artists like Olamide and his peers have entered a new phase—the elder statesmen of the Afrobeats pantheon.