If you walked by Afra Mall in Khartoum in the early 2000s, you’d probably see a bunch of youngsters rap battling as if they’re in the Bronx. These were the capital’s cool kids, inspired by US hip-hop culture and trying to emulate its way of life.
“We can say that the most notable successful start of local Sudanese rap was through the comedic group Hila Hoop,” Sudanese artist Mohamed Babiker Ali tells OkayAfrica. “Then, a revolutionary current emerged that was more conscious and linguistically complex.”
This second wave was marked by the group Nas Jota (Arabic for “Chaotic People”), who pioneered conscious rap in the early 2000s before being forced into exile by Sudan’s dictator Omar al-Bashir in 2004.
After Nas Jota, hip hop remained an underground movement of boom bap, FL Studio beats, and outdoor rap battles. In 2017, a new scene formed around names like TooDope and Soulja, graduating from freestyling in the streets to higher-production-value music videos. What had begun at Afra Mall was finding resonance across the country, and rappers started performing as opening acts for other musicians.
“2018 was a great year, man was doing shows in Dubai and flexing on things,” TooDope remembers in an interview with OkayAfrica. “Since then, there’s been protests, Covid, an overthrown government, war, and now everybody is [scattered] everywhere. Considering the circumstances, we’re doing very well.”
From niche art form to commercial career
“During the revolution, myself and many others decided to take art seriously. We were optimistic,” says Sudanese visual artist Adil Elnaim, who co-founded the music collective and indie record label Space in 2020. “At that time, rap was booming all over the region. We liked that it gave people the ability to express themselves while creating something beautiful.”
Artists like O’d named their songs after popular hashtags, like #shokranhamdok, and wrote lyrics that spoke to the moment of upheaval and hope, ushering in a third wave of Sudanese rap that started making numbers.
“There’s no music industry in Sudan,” says Elnaim. “Some artists get views and likes, but they don’t make a lot of money, so Sudanese music is not commercialized yet. We have a lot of work to do to build an infrastructure that transforms art into profit.”
The prospect of turning rap into a career has shifted many artists’ approach to hip hop. “The golden era was in 2019-2022,” says Elnaim. “I don’t like the new music. Everyone’s following a formula to make a song that can blow up on TikTok. Unique projects have become rare. There are some good artists, but they’re not pushing boundaries because they’re focused on streams.”
“With the appearance of some commercial successes, most rappers started leaning toward what the audience wants to hear, and the lyrics became more superficial and simplistic,” agrees Ali.
Filmmaker Ibrahim Snoopy doesn’t necessarily agree. “I started listening to them more recently, because the new music is catchier and fuses local Sudanese music with rap,” he says. “It’s evolving lyrically and sonically, and as long as it portrays reality, it’s fine.”
The question of authenticity
Sudanese society is generally conservative and rooted in tradition. Rapper Montiyago tells OkayAfrica that his father never considered his music aspirations a viable career option. Once he had reached enough success for his family to get behind the idea, he faced a new responsibility: managing the impact of his words amongst Sudanese youth.
“Rap is a tool you can use for building or destruction,” says Elnaim, giving the increasing use of the slur “bitch” as an example. “With everything that’s going on in Sudan right now [rampant gender-based violence], using this type of language can be very destructive.”
“A lot of these guys don’t even talk like that, but they think this is what you’re supposed to do,” says TooDope. “When I was younger and ignorant, I had a moment when I’d use it, but I grew out of that.”
Rappers should be allowed to say whatever they like; it was the fall of the dictatorship and its censorship that helped the art form flourish in the first place. At the same time, a war is destroying the country, so should contemporary Sudanese rap not speak to the lived experiences of the country’s youth, rather than conjuring up imaginary women and luxury cars? Can their music retain its depth when it seemingly lacks authenticity?
“Sudanese rap, and other rap outside the US, is more like a fan club for Black American culture,” says Ali. “The lyrics don’t necessarily represent the life of a Sudanese youth.” They do, however, represent the aspirations of these young people. Is escapism authenticity in its own right? Or are these capitalist aspirations a symptom of Westernization, and that’s why they feel removed to many Sudanese listeners?
“Rap, to me, represents the streets,” says Snoopy. “But people don’t always want to listen to your suffering. Soulja told me that he makes commercial music because that’s what some of the fans want.”
“There are lots of insane lyricists, but they’ll never make it in the mainstream, because they’re not songwriters,” says TooDope. “You need to be able to do both, or do you want to be the guy that was true to the art but got left behind?” Artists who want to make a living off rap need to be in conversation with their audiences and cater to the market. As audiences grow, this conversation becomes more difficult.
“I’m less interested in Sudanese rap now than five years ago,” says Elnaim. “I’d be interested again if someone rapped about real motivation. I need something to motivate me to get up early in the morning and go to my shitty job every day. You know the saying, ‘when life gives you lemons, make lemonade’? We need lemonade music at this time.”
“I want to hear more women's voices and issues that I can relate to. I don’t feel like Sudanese rap has had a positive impact lately, except for the hype it’s been getting,” echoes poet Logain Ali, who first started listening to Sudanese rap on Khartoum’s Capital Radio 91.6 FM. “The scene is full of misogynistic men who get opportunities that women wouldn’t get.” She pauses, then says, “I’ll still introduce other people to Sudanese music any day. I like it. I just want it to grow and encompass other people.”
A nascent scene on the rise
TooDope and Babiker Ali believe that the current evolution of Sudanese rap is the natural progression of a marginalized group finding success. It mirrors the history of hip hop in the US. “Everyone used to do their own thing when it first started, but now there’s pride in showing that everyone can jump on the same type of beat,” says TooDope. “Eventually, the pendulum is going to swing back, and it will balance out.”
Elnaim is more cautious. “Most Sudanese rappers deal with one label, EMPIRE. Being from such a poor country and potentially making money with your music is a dream, so these artists are in a weak position,” he says.
“Most Sudanese artists don’t have resources to invest in themselves; that’s why they need to compromise on their sound once record labels interfere,” agrees Snoopy.
Despite these concerns, the community is happy for Sudanese music to be noticed and celebrated by a wider community. Against all odds, Sudanese rappers have come out of disastrous years strong and created a hype around their sound. But at what cost to the art form? That remains to be seen.
