The Burden of a Legacy: Is Kenyata Hills a "Deadbeat" or a Musical Son Keeping the Flame Alive?

A-I illustration of Joseph and Kenyata Hills

The world of music was struck by a profound loss with the passing of Joseph Hills, the iconic voice and spiritual anchor of the reggae band Culture. His death while on tour in Germany was a tragedy that echoed across the globe, leaving a void in the hearts of reggae lovers. In that moment of crisis, a figure stepped from the shadows into an almost impossible spotlight: his son, Kenyata Hills. Taking the microphone, he helped steer the grieving tour to its completion, a move seen by many as an act of profound courage and filial duty.

Yet, recently, a harsher, more dismissive label has been hurled at Kenyata: "deadbeat." The accusation, often reserved for those who shirk parental or financial responsibilities, seems jarringly out of place when applied to a musician carrying his father's torch. This provokes a necessary debate: what exactly do we owe our parents' legacies, and by what measure do we judge a son like Kenyata?

Those who level the "deadbeat" criticism, while perhaps using inflammatory language, are likely speaking to a deeper, more nuanced disappointment. Their argument hinges on a specific definition of respect for a legacy: preservation, not evolution.

From this perspective, Joseph Hills was not just a singer; he was a vessel for a message. His songs, like "Two Sevens Clash" and "International Herb," were anthems of Rastafari, social justice, and spiritual awakening. The fear is that by simply performing these songs, Kenyata risks reducing a sacred canon to a cover act. Is he interpreting the message with the same lived experience and revolutionary fire? Or is he trading on his father's name, commercializing a legacy that was built on anti-commercial principles?

The term "deadbeat" here is a crude shorthand for the accusation that he is failing in his duty to be a true *custodian*—that he is benefiting from the inheritance without adding the sweat equity of original creativity that made that inheritance valuable in the first place.

To dismiss Kenyata Hills as a "deadbeat" is to ignore the immense weight of the responsibility he shouldered at his father's lowest moment. When Joseph Hills passed, the tour—and the livelihoods tied to it—faced collapse. Kenyata did not run from this crisis; he embraced it. His decision to continue was not an act of opportunism, but one of necessity and respect for the band, the crew, and the fans who had traveled to see Culture.

Furthermore, what is the alternative? Should the music of Joseph Hills fall silent? For countless fans, Kenyata’s performances are a living memorial, a chance to experience the power of his father's words in a live setting, delivered by the one person with a biological and spiritual claim to them. He is not merely a tribute act; he is a direct lineage, a thread connecting the past to the present.

In many cultures, particularly those with strong oral traditions, it is the duty of the child to preserve and share the stories and wisdom of their ancestors. By keeping these songs alive, Kenyata is fulfilling a sacred filial role. He is ensuring that new generations can discover the message of Culture, a service far from the idleness implied by "deadbeat."

The accusation of being a "deadbeat" is not just harsh; it is fundamentally misplaced. It conflates financial or parental neglect with a complex artistic and filial dilemma. Kenyata Hills is demonstrably not idle; he is working, touring, and performing under the immense pressure of a legendary name.

However, the sentiment behind the criticism should not be entirely dismissed. It speaks to a fanbase’s deep love for Joseph Hills and a protective fear that his message might be diluted. The challenge for Kenyata is not to prove he isn't a "deadbeat"—a task he has already accomplished through his actions—but to navigate the delicate balance between preservation and personal expression.

Perhaps the path forward is one of gradual evolution. Maybe his ultimate tribute will be to use the platform his father built to eventually weave his own voice and his own messages into the fabric of the performance, honoring the past while proving he has his own unique contribution to make.

In the end, Kenyata Hills is not a deadbeat. He is a son who answered the call in a moment of tragedy and continues to serve as a keeper of the flame. The debate around him is less about his work ethic and more about the eternal question that haunts all children of icons: How do you walk in a giant's shadow without disappearing into it? That is a journey he is still on, and one he deserves to undertake without the burden of a deeply unfair and simplistic label.

Check out my book, How to Become a Music Maestro: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B004H4XQAQ

Afrobeats Slows Down

 By Yiro Abari High

Afrobeats, a contemporary West African music genre that emerged around 2010, quickly expanded its reach to every corner of the globe. It introduced international music fans to artists like Omah Lay, Burna Boy, and Wizkid.

For those who had only heard of new music genres being born but had never witnessed the phenomenon, Afrobeats provided a front-row seat. The genre's simple, fun, and relatable vibe—both in its songs and its dances—captivated fans worldwide. With this appeal, it launched a fiery competition to challenge dominant American genres, taking over nightclubs, radio stations, and concert halls. It generated significant revenue for artists, producers, promoters, streaming sites, and tax authorities.

About a year ago, I watched a YouTube video where the host observed that Afrobeats was slowing down. At the time, I didn't share his perspective, but I now recognize his sagacity. A year later, his prediction has become a reality. To our disappointment, Afrobeats is sliding into obscurity.

Keen observers are asking what went wrong. There are two plausible explanations.

First, Afrobeats is a genre that evolved very rapidly. While evolution is necessary to keep fans engaged by moving away from boring old vibes toward fresh, exciting ones, the genre's last major evolutionary milestone was borrowing from South Africa’s Amapiano. This borrowed element—largely the log drum, with its pounding, infectious groove that drives nightclub crowds wild—has now outlived its novelty. As fans began to expect something new, the tide started to recede. This is one reason Afrobeats has moved from the center stage to the sidelines.

Several months ago, I saw a video interview with Timaya, one of Afrobeats' greats. He observed that it now costs somewhere in the neighborhood of $100,000 to promote a new song. My initial reaction was that this figure was preposterous. If true, however, it explains why new artists are struggling to break through, leading to a thunderous silence across the industry. The moment people saw how much money could be made, everyone raised their fees. This has instilled fear in the minds of record labels, who are now reluctant to gamble such a large sum on an unproven artist, since not every investment pays off. In this way, the industry has tightened the noose around its own neck. This theory is supported by the sudden inactivity of recording labels, which are no longer signing new artists at their previous rate. Of course, new talent will always emerge as long as mothers continue to conceive. The question is whether the industry will still be able to hear them.

 

This topic is explored further in my book, How to Become a Music Maestro, available on Amazon.

Troost-Ekong Remains a Great Player Despite Own Goal

William Troost Eking. Source: Ekong's Instagram Page

The recent World Cup qualifying match between Nigeria’s Super Eagles and South Africa’s Bafana Bafana ended in a 1–1 draw, with the Nigerian goal coming from an unfortunate own goal by team captain William Troost-Ekong. For some, the incident became a talking point, sparking debate over his legacy.

Yet to seasoned football observers, an own goal is a routine accident—part and parcel of the game. It does not diminish Ekong’s reputation or his contributions to Nigerian football. To suggest otherwise, as one social media commentator did, is to overlook the deeper issues confronting the Super Eagles.

Nigeria’s struggles in the qualifiers cannot be pinned on one player. From the onset of the campaign, the team has faltered against smaller African sides, finding itself near the bottom of the table. The draw in South Africa, if anything, was a positive result, given the circumstances. South Africa’s squad, drawn largely from its domestic league, benefits from greater cohesion and familiarity. This approach has proven successful across the continent. Egypt, for example, built its dominance on players from Al Ahly and Zamalek, a formula that has delivered seven Africa Cup of Nations titles. Nigeria, by contrast, has won the tournament only three times, the last under the late Stephen Keshi, who relied heavily on home-based talent.

Today’s Super Eagles, composed largely of diaspora players, reflect a different philosophy—one that has not yielded the same results. The issue is not Ekong’s isolated mistake, but a broader structural weakness in Nigerian football.

At the center of this problem lies the Nigerian Football Federation (NFF). The body has long faced criticism for administrative lapses, opaque hiring practices, and persistent financial irregularities. Stories of unpaid salaries, delayed bonuses, players reusing jerseys, and ex-players funding basic logistics have damaged the credibility of the federation.

Talent development has also suffered. In earlier decades, when Nigeria excelled at youth level, coaches scouted talent nationwide, uncovering players who rose to prominence on the international stage. Today, screenings are centralized in Abuja and compressed into a week, excluding many young players from disadvantaged backgrounds. This system inevitably narrows the pipeline of talent available to the national team.

If Nigerian football is to reclaim its former glory, reforms at the NFF are essential. Without transparency, accountability, and investment in grassroots development, the same challenges will persist regardless of who wears the captain’s armband.

William Troost-Ekong remains a distinguished professional who has represented his country with pride and consistency. His career should not be overshadowed by a single own goal. Instead, recognition must be given where it is due—both to his leadership on the field and to the urgent need for systemic reform off it.

 

Waiting for Duncan Mighty: A Reflection on Music, Memory, and Unread Messages

Duncan Mighty. Source: Duncan Mighty's Instagram Library

Duncan Mighty is a Nigerian artist whose name I first encountered through his single Port Harcourt First Son. In the song, he acknowledges prominent figures from Rivers State, his home region, thereby establishing both his identity and his connection to his roots.

I first saw him perform during former President Goodluck Jonathan’s campaign tour, shortly after the passing of President Umaru Musa Yar’Adua. The rally took place at the Rwang Pam Township Stadium. Before any political speeches were delivered, Duncan Mighty opened the event with a performance of Port Harcourt First Son. It was evident that the performance served a dual purpose: to entertain and to promote his music. There must certainly have been fees involved, as Jonathan was well known for supporting Nigerian artists. Timaya, another Port Harcourt musician, has often spoken in interviews about being a beneficiary of this generosity.

On that day, Duncan Mighty left a lasting impression. With his long dreadlocks, black leather jacket, and denim jeans, he commanded the stage. His performance was energetic and expressive—at one point he clenched his fists, thrusting them to the left while extending one leg outward, the other firmly grounded as if anchoring him to the stage. It was an arresting dance move that conveyed passion and intensity. That was the moment he etched himself indelibly in my memory.

Over time, I developed my own skills in music production, with a particular focus on reggae. While reading Duncan Mighty’s Wikipedia profile, I discovered that his music also bears reggae influences. Inspired by this, I experimented with his work, using a stem-splitter to isolate the vocals of Port Harcourt First Son and reworking it into a reggae version.

Because of my personal connection to Port Harcourt—I lived there for six years—the song holds special significance. Naturally, I wanted my reggae version to gain visibility. I initially shared it with friends in Port Harcourt via direct messages, but they were too preoccupied with their own concerns to respond. As a result, I decided to approach Duncan Mighty himself by sending him messages on Instagram. Unfortunately, as is often the case with such platforms, a recipient must first accept a message before it can be read. If only he would accept and listen, the remix might reach a wider audience and even go viral.

For now, however, I remain waiting.

Yiro Abari is the author of How to Become a Music Maestro:  a Handbook for Intending Music Artists. By it on Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/B004H4XQAQ

Between Shelter and Safety: Rethinking Tenancy and Family Protection

When we think of housing, most of us see it as shelter. But a home is more than four walls and a roof — it shapes how families live, how safe children feel, and even how they grow up. Download pdf here

Between Shelter and Safety: Rethinking Tenancy and Family Protection

When we think of housing, most of us see it as shelter. But a home is more than four walls and a roof — it shapes how families live, how safe children feel, and even how they grow up.

Why Family Safety Matters in Housing

Families don’t just rent any house. Parents worry: Will my children be safe here? Is there enough privacy? A father may think about his daughters being protected from predators, or his sons avoiding negative influences. Even the comfort and privacy of a wife matter.

Self-contained apartments can offer security and privacy, but when houses are squeezed too close together, problems arise. Sadly, in today’s market, many landlords try to use every inch of land to build something. The result is cramped apartments — sometimes so small that only a young bachelor just starting life would tolerate them.

But what happens when those same tiny flats sit next to family homes? It can create tension. Teenagers living side by side with restless young men — exactly the kind of situation parents dread. In the end, families avoid such homes, and landlords are left with empty buildings.

The Dilemma Parents Face

To shield their children, many parents go for detached, fenced houses. This way, kids are mostly at home, in school, or at church. It sounds safe, but it comes with its own problem. When children realize they are being heavily restricted, curiosity kicks in.

I once heard a story from a commercial driver. A teenage girl, on her way to sit for JAMB, told him that her parents never let her out. Boldly, she asked him to pick her up after her exams. He admitted he was tempted, but stopped himself — remembering his younger sister was about her age.

That story shows how restriction alone can backfire. Sometimes, the very rules meant to keep kids safe make them more eager to explore risky behavior.

When Risks Become Real

A single reckless encounter — a one-night stand with a stranger — can change a young girl’s life. If she becomes pregnant, the identity of the father might never be known. Beyond shame and confusion, such situations leave lasting scars on families.

Finding Balance

So, what’s the best way to protect children while renting in today’s housing market? Restriction has its place, but it can’t be the only tool. Families need homes designed with safety and privacy in mind. Landlords, too, must think beyond profit. A poorly designed house may never attract responsible tenants, no matter how cheap the rent.

Housing should not just be about making money. It is also about building an environment where families — and especially children — can feel safe, grow well, and thrive.

 

Multichoice and Warranty in Nigeria

I bought a GOTV decoder. Two days later, the power adapter stopped working. I wasn’t worried—after all, there’s always a warranty. I knew I only needed to take the faulty equipment back to the office where I purchased it.

At the office, I queued for almost an hour and a half to be attended to. There weren’t enough staff handling complaints and subscription payments. When it was finally my turn, the lady at the counter said, “The warranty doesn’t cover this. You will have to pay N500 to get another one.”

“Why doesn’t the warranty cover the power cable—for a big international company like Multichoice?” I protested. I wanted to continue arguing but realized it would be unwise to make so much noise over N500. So, I told her, “I’ll pay, but only because I don’t want to waste energy over N500.” I paid, and someone from the store handed the adapter—unwrapped—to the staff, who then gave it to me.

The whole process felt unprofessional and lacking the corporate ambience one would expect. First, the device wasn’t packaged; it was handed to me bare, as if I were buying crawfish from Kugiya Market. Second, since I had paid for it, there should have been a receipt. I wanted to uphold the Nigerian standard of a gentleman transaction. Third, the adapter wasn’t tested to confirm that it worked. This made me suspect that the warranty might actually cover such items, but the staff were exploiting the loophole to make some extra cash.

Multichoice has long been known for quality and high standards—whether in the clarity of their visuals or the reliability of their hardware. However, recent events suggest a decline. The company has faced challenges in Nigeria, from customers migrating to cheaper competitors to public protests over sudden subscription hikes of up to 20%. Each time, many thought the company would fold, yet it managed to survive.

Survival may have come at a cost. The company redesigned its decoders, opting for lighter, smaller versions made of cheap plastics with less appeal. Worse still, manufacturing was outsourced to a Chinese company. While Chinese firms are bold in mass production, they often compromise on quality.

In Multichoice’s earlier days of prestige, their hardware rarely failed within the warranty period. Companies usually issue warranties confidently because they trust the durability of their products. So when a company excludes items like power adapters from warranty, it signals they are aware of potential quality issues and want to avoid constant replacements, repairs, or refunds.

This raises a key question: should giant international companies be allowed to sell products without warranty coverage? Governments are expected to protect their citizens from exploitation by enforcing strict warranty requirements.

Warranties benefit both companies and customers. They reassure customers about product durability, motivate manufacturers to improve quality, and build trust between brands and consumers. Without them, customers are left vulnerable, and companies risk eroding their reputation.