Before considering the sound, it is important to note that Show Dem Camp are the country’s premier bastions of social perspective. They are renowned for the Clone Wars series, but increasingly have consecrated into the Palmwine Music tapes their keen sense of observation. This was previously muted for the beer-sweet ease of the palm wine sound, which is a subgenre birthed from Latin guitar styles layered over sparse instrumentation from Ghanaian Highlife. On No Love In Lagos, they pick up the thematic density of their best projects, continuing from the narratives of love, lust and abandonment expressed on Palmwine Music Vol. 3, which was touted as the final project in the series. 

Quite audibly, the Show Dem Camp duo of Ghost and Tec are the captains of the Lagos ship, although the other four sailors do a pretty good job as well. It’s quite apparent that without the elevated craft and candour of their musicianship, No Love In Lagos wouldn’t be the accomplishment it is. In the album’s intro, the dreamy vocals of Horus Al Sagnia flow into a spoken word piece that ruminates on the ‘greatest burden’ that is wanting love. ‘Don’t watch me bleed / For a basic decency, to be loved by me,’ she pleads, the wistful production bubbling around her. 

It’s an admonition—to be loved, regardless—that flows through the different pockets of the album. As the setting, the stories of Lagos take central precedence in its thematic landscape. And if one has kept their ears on the ground, it’s apparent that the dominant narrative of Lagos right now is its sexual deprivation, its harrowing lack of nuance, its grotesque and somewhat understandable depiction of lust, everywhere. So when Benjamin Okorie of The Cavemen sings ‘dem no dey love for Lagos,’ it’s a line that carries biographical heft, resonant for those who understand the Lagos story. 

The album operates on two different wings: The Cavemen’s role, achieved through breezy vocals and Igbo enunciation, is to bring the listener into the sonic world of the album. It’s like small chops; a precursor to the main meal, but when the samosa tastes so good and filling, where’s the temptation to eat rice? Just joking. There’s enough temptation to go around because the arrangement and warm vocals of the Highlife duo only ground the rappers in rich sonic material, and delivering with expected mastery, each verse beams brilliantly. 

Distinct in their rap styles, the haughty verbosity of Ghost contrasts sharply with the everyman wit of Tec. In combination, it’s a fine depiction of the linguistic parameters of hip-hop, especially as a conduit for Nigerian narratives. On the titular ‘No Love In Lagos’, the first verse is delivered by Tec, who views the Lagos dating scene from the perspective of a sceptic, an old timer who’s still fazed by how much things have changed. He makes a compelling case for abandoning romantic ideations in that fabled city, starting with the realization that, ‘Everytime I fell in love in Lagos, I just knew that I was lost / Feels like everybody came to chop…’ 

Ghost advances the journalistic clarity of his partner with signature cheekiness, inserting himself directly into the narrative, but of course through the eccentric musings of a persona. That persona comes up intermittently throughout the LP, in this instance a sleek-tongued harbinger of Lagos tales, a money-oiled practitioner in their body-shaped contours. As the verse progresses, in time we’ll get to know a seemingly popular truth: ‘See in Lagos, they say love is like the WiFi / The further you go from your babe, connection dies right?’ 

Yes, yes, the Lagosian would be eager to respond. Pre-album single ‘Johni’ was quite the easy listen, an early demonstration of the jazz-inflected direction of the album. But in the album’s context, it’s a crucial piece—putting the musicians into an epistolary form, it showcases the other side of the Lagos story: its hustle, its vibrancy. The naivety of the Johnny-Just-Come character has survived generations of Nigerian pop culture (for good reason?), and here its spirit is invoked and revoked, with the musicians putting a spin on its homonym. ‘Johnny just go, but last last, we journey,’ sings The Cavemen on the chorus, a sobering reflection that emphasizes the importance of movement. 

Tec, whose biographical name is Wale Davies, also works as a co-manager of global superstar Tems. The breadth of that role, and its associative influences, has spurred his plain, realist take on rap music, and on ‘Johni’ he asks one of the tape’s most reverberating questions: ‘Shey na Lagos you go choose if dem born you again?’ It’s likely more than a few people will respond yes, but Show Dem Camp understands that on the other side of the thrilling exuberance, sociological life continues. So, when Ghost quips in his verse, ‘Excuse me, is that too deep? / Forgot you came here to faaji and cruise peeps,’ it is punchy and satirical, a recognition that the average Nigerian would rather avoid the soft centres of sensitivity.