By Olumide Labulo
Long before the internet, Nigerians already practiced the art of words performed aloud. This singularity, tangled in centuries of oral tradition formed the deep roots of today's spoken word poetry and the attendant slam competitions in cafes, clubs and everywhere. The Yoruba had ewì, oriki and ijala chants woven with philosophy and wit; the Hausa nurtured waka, a rhythm-driven praise poetry; the Igbo filled nights with folklore chants and narrative storytelling. In all these traditions, performance was never just decoration. It was the beating heart of culture, carrying history, wisdom, humour, and moral lessons .
But the modern phenomenon we now call “spoken word poetry” began to take shape in the late 1990s and early 2000s. Around that time, Nigeria’s young creatives were watching the global slam poetry and rap movements, and they were inspired to create something uniquely local. Sage Hassan, popularly called Sage the Poet, is often hailed as one of the earliest trailblazers. His iconic piece “The Poet” became a sort of manifesto—half hip-hop, half verse, entirely electrifying. He made people realise poetry could belong on stage, not just in dusty anthologies. Around the same era, Dike Chukwumerije was sharpening a different edge. He leaned into theatrics, producing large-scale poetry shows such as “Made in Nigeria”, which combined performance, costume, music, and poetry into one seamless storytelling event. These pioneers cracked open the stage door, and the younger generation wasted no time storming in.
As the era saw spoken word develop into a recognisable movement, Efe Paul Azino emerged not just as a poet but as an organiser and visionary. His performances—collected in “For Broken Men Who Cross Often”—were raw, emotive, and deeply Nigerian. But more importantly, he created platforms. In 2015, he founded the Lagos International Poetry Festival (LIPFest), which brought together poets from across Africa and beyond. Suddenly, spoken word was not just a Lagos café hobby anymore; it was an international event that attracted writers, performers, and audiences eager to witness Nigeria’s words come alive. Alongside him, voices like Wana Udobang, also known as Wana Wana, carried spoken word into feminist and personal territory. Her project “Dirty Laundry” was a collection of unapologetic poems on womanhood, trauma, and resilience. Titilope Sonuga achieved a milestone in 2015 by becoming the first poet to perform at a Nigerian presidential inauguration, proving that poetry had climbed the ranks of national significance. Then there was Bash Amuneni, whose charmingly romantic performances like “There’s a Girl I Like” opened doors for audiences who might have found activism-heavy poetry intimidating. In their own unique ways, these figures showed that spoken word in Nigeria could be political, romantic, intimate, or celebratory, and that it could exist on both small and grand stages.
By the 2010s, a youth wave or second generation of spoken word enthusiasts surged in. Platforms like PIN (Poets in Nigeria) and War of Words, launched in 2013, turned spoken word into competition sport, complete with cheering audiences and viral clips. This democratized the art form: suddenly, you didn’t have to know a cultural centre director to get on stage—you just needed courage, talent, and maybe a killer punchline. Young Nigerians jumped in headfirst. Among them was Paul Njoku a.k.a F33zin Paul, whose firebrand activism made his poems rallying cries against corruption, unemployment, injustice and other social vices. He embodied the frustrations of a generation that felt overlooked by governance yet determined to carve its space. Where Njoku carried the torch of protest, Yusuf Gemini carved a quieter but equally powerful path. His work turned inward to themes of identity, cultural pride, and revival. From English to pure Yoruba, he reminded audiences that performance wasn’t only about politics, it was also about reconnecting to heritage and reasserting the value of indigenous traditions in a modern, globalised world. Together, these ones symbolised the multiple energy of the youth wave: one voice raging against broken systems, another voice rebuilding bridges to cultural roots. Other names filled the constellation of rising stars too. Maryam Bukar Hassan (Alhanislam) brought Northern Nigeria’s voices to wider audiences, using her poetry for peace advocacy and youth empowerment and slam champions like Iyanu Adebiyi, Ibquake, Ruth Mahogany, RezthaPoet, and Paul Word made clear that spoken word could be more than a pastime: it could be a career, a ticket to stages and sponsorships.
Like comedy in its early days, this new industry gradually thrived. The ecosystem widened, with events sprouting not just in Lagos but in Abuja, Kaduna, and Port Harcourt. Festivals like Aké Arts and Book Festival and Kaduna Book and Arts Festival (KABAFEST) incorporated performance poetry, ensuring that every corner of Nigeria had a platform. Interestingly, these festivals are no longer niche, they attract investment, audiences, and even tourism. According to reports, some events have self-funded with over ₦20 million. This indicates that individual performers like Ibquake who is already taking the lead, can earn hundreds of thousands, even up to a million Naira, for corporate or government gigs. In fact, she is an ambassador to two distinct brands. That's huge and not bad for an art form once dismissed as “poems read with extra drama.” The digital era has also supercharged things. TikTok, Instagram reels, and YouTube have become stages larger than any auditorium. Poets like Ruth Mahogany have had videos go viral, with lines shared across continents. Suddenly, a spoken word poem performed in Lagos can resonate with an audience in London, Nairobi, or New York overnight.
And what about the future of spoken word in Nigeria? One thing is clear: it will be as unpredictable and dynamic as its past. On the one hand, we can expect more institutional recognition. The Association of Nigerian Authors and the NLNG Prize have historically favoured page poetry, but spoken word’s growing legitimacy makes it difficult to ignore forever. On the other hand, technology is pushing boundaries. Imagine virtual reality poetry shows, where audiences in Lagos and London watch the same performance in real time, or podcasts that turn the intimacy of voice into global storytelling. Spoken word will likely become even more collaborative (because certain works of Yusuf Gemini, Razthapoet, Iyanu Adebiyi, etc have been experimental), mixing with music, theatre, and film, blurring lines between art forms until the categories no longer matter.
But beyond the economic impact or technological future, the heart of spoken word remains the same: young Nigerians seizing language to express identity, pain, hope, humour, and protest. Spoken word is part stage, part therapy, part rally, and part stand-up comedy. It is as capable of raising goosebumps as it is of cracking jokes about NEPA taking the light mid-performance. If written poetry is the quiet cousin reading in the corner, spoken word is the cool cousin who dances, cracks jokes, and still manages to tell uncomfortable truths.
No doubt, the history of spoken word poetry in Nigeria is a story of continuity and reinvention. It began with griots and oral traditions, was transformed by pioneers like Sage Hassan and Dike Chukwumerije, expanded through festivals and global platforms thanks to voices like Efe Paul Azino and Wana Wana, and exploded into a youth-driven cultural force with activists like Paul Njoku and revivalists like Yusuf Gemini. Today, it thrives on both physical stages and digital screens, with poets becoming not just performers but influencers, educators, and activists. The future promises even bigger stages, new technologies, and louder voices. But at its core, spoken word in Nigeria will always remain the art of words alive, words that breathe, and words that insist on being heard. So spoken word isn’t going anywhere. It’s loud, it’s proud, it’s rhythmic, it’s occasionally romantic, often angry, sometimes hilarious or religious, always relevant—and most importantly, it’s ours.
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