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Shatta Wale "Melissa" (Youtube)

The 11 Best Ghanaian Songs of the Month

Featuring Shatta Wale, E.L, Sarkodie, Darkovibes, Kwesi Arthur and more.

Here are the best tracks that came out of the buzzing Ghana scene in August.

Follow our new GHANA WAVE playlist on Spotify here and Apple Music here.


Shatta Wale 'Melissa'

The Ghanaian dancehall and afrobeats titan has released about 40 songs so far in 2019. Anyone who knows Shatta Wale knows that that's perfectly normal for him—let loose and see what sticks. Well something has finally stuck, as Melissa gives him his first solo mainstream hit this year. Coupled with his Beyoncé feature, it's safe to say the outspoken controversy magnet is back to dominating the airwaves. —Nnamdi Okirike

E.L & A.I. 'Adwuma'

Needy and affecting, A.I's guest verse and hook is perfect fodder for E.L whose husky talk-rap on "Adwuma" earns the otherwise clunky title of "afro-dance." —Sabo Kpade

Joojo Addison 'Remedy ' feat. Xrusade

The new kid on the block is back once again. The follow up single to his last release "Yessa Massa" and his wave-making debut "Guy Man," the buzzing Guy Man Music act continues to forge ahead with another tune in his signature blend of contemporary afrobeat music. —N.O.

Sarkodie 'Do You' ft. Mr Eazi 

"Do you ever think about the sex? / do you ever think about going back to your ex?" wonders Sarkodie on "Do You," even when unprepared for an answer to his confessed insecurities and helped by an unshowy guest hook from Mr Eazi. —S.K.

Darkovibes 'Different'

The La Meme Gang member, Darkovibes, sings the praises of a special someone in his dreamy tenor vocals, on an atmospheric, mid-tempo afrobeats backdrop produced by Uche B. —N.O.

Kojo Funds 'I Like' ft. WizKid

The leading tastemakers of afropop and afroswing—Wizkid and British-Ghanaian Kojo Funds—combine effortlessly on "I Like," helped by nostalgia for the production on Donell Jones' "All The Love," a fine example of the enduring influence of American R&B on much of the continent's pop output. —S.K.

DopeNation ft Medikal 'Confam'

The Lynx Entertainment signed duo DopeNation take part in an afrobeats artist rite of passage, a one-off impression of a gospel artist. Assisted by rapper Medikal the brothers sing out to their Creator, asking for all the good things of life and all the trappings of success. —N.O.

Omar Sterling 'Exotic Flow'

What starts out as an assortment of free association bars soon finds focus with the injection of biographical material: "Mom said she'll be back / never came, never showed" raps Omar Sterling with neither bitterness or pride, choosing instead to praise his father's steadfast love and care. "Goddamn I wrote a song for you" exclaims Sterling as if still realising how deeply he's affected by it. —S.K.

Kwesi Arthur 'See No Evil'

The star rapper delivers another single off his recently dropped Live From Nkrumah Krom Vol. II project.Kwesi rap-sings his way through, repelling bad energy in his verses as the video depicts the faces, activities, joys, and struggles of daily African life. —N.O.

Bryan the Mensah 'Grease' feat. Blaq Bonez

The young Ghanaian rapper Bryan the Mensah alternates between quickfire raps and confident singing to deliver a public statement about being all about his paper, as he recruits the buzzing Nigerian rapper Blaq Bonez to reinforce his claims. —N.O.

Adina Thembi 'Sika'

"Show me something deeper" demands Adina of a lover who may have hoped to woo her with money completely underestimating her resolve to find love. —S.K.


Follow our new GHANA WAVE playlist on Spotify here and Apple Music here.


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Collage by Ta'Ron Joyner

I Would Rather Breathe Than Think Outside the Box

South African artists were already working for little to no pay, but the pandemic has unleashed a flood of exploitative work requests right when we need money the most.

This essay is part of OkayAfrica's SA Reframed series, featuring personal writing from some of South Africa's best young writers edited by Verashni Pillay.

On the radio the other day, I heard a small business owner of a costume design company being interviewed and asked how they have managed to:

a. Reinvent themselves during this period, and

b. Think outside the box while doing so.

Their conversation made me think about how I have not managed to wrap my head around any sort of future, or reinvention outside any kind of box—beyond the one that wraps itself around my immediate reality. When the lockdown was announced, three friends and I withdrew to a remote area where internet access was dubious and, most times, simply not available. I would need to walk a bit of a distance to locate a spot under a tree or up a mountain to be connected for thirty minutes, or so.

Then I would do a basic comb through my emails and respond to work or requests that were already underway pre-lockdown. I only responded to new requests that either afforded me the opportunity to earn an income or those that allowed me to be productive on my own terms.

I was tired, lowkey grateful for the global pause, and no longer interested in the overly productive, overloaded nature of my previous normal. Something about the forced halt made me realise that I was on the edge of everything—myself included. I turned down anything that required me to join the endless online festivals, zoom panel discussions, Instagram takeovers and live readings. I refused all opportunities that needed me to grapple with any sort of forced normalcy. The ones that offered data or airtime or solidarity as compensation or assumed that I had gone pro bono. I needed a moment. I needed the space and time to re-bargain with the point of it all.

The pause was both useful and scary. It brought to the surface fears and revelations about the shortfalls of our industry and how creatives are positioned within the productivity machinery and economy of South Africa, or rather all the ways we fall outside of it.

As Minister of employment and labour Thulas Nxesi mentioned in a briefing two months ago, "On the issue of freelance workers—unfortunately with the current legislation they fall outside. Maybe what we are going to do is that after this we will have to re-look at it in terms of our legislative amendments and start a debate about that." Why are there laws that have gone unchallenged? Who should be challenging them? Why are artists hearing, out loud for the first time, of convenient loopholes that render us outside of an economy that taxes us like everyone else, and consumes us and our work. Yet, in times of crisis, this same economy engages with our art and our productivity and our products, but still deems us on the margin, outside, and non-essential. If we are not assisted financially, how can we be productive, how can we acquire the resources to produce? How can we apply our minds to anything else outside of survival and scrambling to stay afloat.

Pandemics do not mean that artists have gone pro bono

When you approach an artist with the assumption that they have gone pro bono during this time, when you draft an email to request a collaboration, a commission, a participation, a productivity of any kind, please bear in mind that artists are up against an unconcerned and corrupt government that has failed to provide aid and assistance to their sector during this time.

Theatre critic Sara Holdren says "Art is hard and most of it fails—either in small ways or catastrophic ones." In South Africa, the process of making art is hard, sure, but more than that, the conditions and the context in which we make work fails us in catastrophic ways that will require more than a debate and amended legislation. It will need, for starters, a minister who cares about the arts and understands its soul and mechanisms. This pause has brought about more questions and concerns for me than inspiration to reinvent or think outside the box. I have questions about the box itself and why I feel asphyxiated and trapped by its design.

I would rather breathe than think outside of the box

This pandemic has made me question what my career, livelihood and stability have been built on; what has been propping them up all this time, and what has been allowing me to appear valued and valuable in this economy? What does and will the spectrum of value look like in a normal that has been disrupted and now sits in a near distant future that may or may not be near?

Then I find myself vacillating between hope and concern. My hope is that when the pandemic is no longer with us, artists can have a come-to-jesus conversation about what has contributed and exacerbated this attitude and disrespect toward our practice and industry, I hope we can challenge the legislations that we have been dared to challenge, I hope we can be productive in ways that serve us and make sense for our well-being, that we will be paid our worth and that our society will realize that without the artist producing, there will be no art, or music, or films, or books and things that have kept people entertained and creatively nourished during this time.

My concern is that the "free"content artists are currently creating and the free access to art or performances, will not make this realisation possible, and that this kind of access, that was already undervalued and exploited, will be irreversible. The exploitation dialogue is tiring. Being treated as non-essential is tiring and terrifying too, and while most of the world can slowly start going back to work, most artists will probably have to hang tight until 2021, maybe even 2022.

While artists deal with a hoax of an arts and culture department that is dead to us and a minister who tweets more than he does his job, in an ideal world, I wish that artists could afford to indulge uncertainty, and fear, and pause, in ways that allow them to heed the call made by Nicholas Berger in his piece The Forgotten Art of Assembly [Or, Why Theatre Makers Should Stop Making] "We must lean into this pain. We must feel the grief. We must mourn. Mourn the loss of work, the loss of jobs, the loss of money, the loss of life. Mourn the temporary loss of an art form that demands assembly. Lean into the grief. Lean in. Lean in. Lean in. We must remind ourselves that mourning is a human act, not a digital one."

Koleka Putuma is an award-winning poet, playwright and theatre director. Her bestselling debut collection of poems Collective Amnesia is in its 10th print run and her play No Easter Sunday for Queers Sunday for Queers won several awards.

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