Ghosts in Gold: The Headies 2025 Proved That Legacy Isn’t Always Loud

May 01, 2025

When the spotlight swirled through Landmark Events Centre on April 27, 2025, it didn’t just land on Nigeria’s finest musical acts—it settled momentarily on their ghosts. And no, this isn’t about smoke machines or emotional ballads. This year’s 17th edition of The Headies wasn't just another night of glittering performances and teary tributes. It was a mirror—flashing brief, uncomfortable reflections about how Nigerian music chooses to remember, reframe, and sometimes reduce.

Yes, there were winners. There were chart-toppers and fan favorites. But there were also absences—conscious omissions, quiet sidelining, and a haunting silence that echoed louder than the cheers.

Mohbad, the Myth, and the Machinery of Memory

Among the loudest moments of the night was also one of its quietest: when Chike and the late Mohbad’s “Egwu” bagged both Viewers’ Choice and Music Video of the Year. Posthumously, Mohbad was named Best Street-Hop Artiste for his 2023 hit Ask About Me. It was a sobering win, not just because it felt earned—but because it felt like a consolation prize from a system that didn't protect him in life.

There was no mistaking the irony. The very machinery that sidelined Mohbad’s pain now polished his memory into a trophy. It felt poetic. It also felt performative.

In a night built on performance, Mohbad’s ghost lingered—not on stage, but in every beat that made the crowd scream his name. Not because of a eulogy. But because of a guilt we’re all still trying to autotune.

The Rising Class and the Declining Categories

Odumodublvck’s Next Rated win wasn’t just a career milestone—it was a culture signal. Nigeria’s rap scene, often viewed as niche within the Afrobeats dominance, now finds its sharpest edge in artists who refuse to be boxed. With Cast, a fiery collaboration with Shallipopi, also winning Best Rap Single, there’s a quiet revolution happening. Rap is returning—not as a genre but as a temperature check.

Yet, for all the celebration of new acts—Qing Madi, Zerrydl, Llona—the awards themselves seemed to suffer an identity crisis. A staggering ten categories were left out this year. Best Collaboration, Best Inspirational Single, Best Performer (Live)—scrapped. For a show meant to celebrate depth, this editorial pruning felt shallow.

Is this a cost-cutting move? An oversight? Or a quiet declaration that certain parts of our music culture no longer fit the new narrative?

Because if we stop rewarding collaborations, are we telling artists that individuality is more valuable than synergy? If we skip live performers, are we saying virality matters more than stagecraft?

And more worryingly—if lyricists don’t make the cut, who exactly are we writing all this music for?

Women Sang, But Who Was Listening?

On paper, Tems, Ayra Starr, Simi, and Liya had a powerful showing across categories. Tems took home Best Recording for Burning. Qing Madi won Songwriter of the Year. Liya snagged Best Vocal Performance (Female). But if you were watching the show—not the winner list—you might have missed them altogether.

There was an eerie quiet around the celebration of female artistry. No rousing montage. No bold moments of empowerment. In a year where Nigerian women redefined sonic boundaries and broke international ceilings, The Headies offered muted applause.

It raises a question: are women in music only celebrated when they come attached to a male feature or meme-worthy chorus? Are they trophies or trailblazers? The industry, this night, wasn’t quite sure.

The Rise of the Visuals—and the Vanishing Credits

Music Video of the Year went to “Egwu” directed by Director Pink, a name many outside industry circles may not recognize. This is a problem. Because Nigerian music has fully transitioned into a visual economy. A good song isn’t just heard—it’s seen. In fits of choreography, camera movement, and editing rhythm.

Yet, directors—especially those behind the biggest viral visuals—still remain faceless. Director Pink, TG Omori, Dammy Twitch—these names matter. But beyond the Headies stage, their credit often disappears into captions.

As our songs go global, it's time to ask—why do our visuals trend but our visual artists don’t? Why do we honor the face but not the frame?

Davido, Rema, and the War for Digital Relevance

Davido’s Digital Artiste of the Year win marks something deeper than social media dominance. It’s a testament to how Nigerian stars are now battling for supremacy not just on the charts—but in timelines, algorithms, and streaming dashboards.

Rema took home Album of the Year for Heis, and his global edge continues to push the boundaries of what Afrobeats sounds—and looks—like. In contrast, Davido's dominance online (from music to memes to merch) signals that the new war isn’t just about music—it’s about media mastery.

Our musicians are no longer just competing on vibes. They’re competing on bandwidth.

Who Was Honored, and Who Was Used?

Special Recognition Awards went to Alex Okosi, Amaju Pinnick, and Governor Babajide Sanwo-Olu. For contributions to music? Culture? Infrastructure?

Again, the Headies made no real effort to clarify. This vagueness makes it easy to read between the lines. Politics, power, optics. The recognition of non-artists at a night meant to honor creative labor left a taste. Not necessarily bitter—but certainly bland.

Because in a show where Tems sings about burning and Asake dreams of the top, handing out plaques to politicians without context feels off-key.

What’s the Future Sounding Like?

If the Headies 2025 told us anything, it’s this: the music is growing faster than the metrics. Genres are melting. New stars are lighting up. The street is no longer underground—it’s the main stage. But our awards? They’re still catching up.

The Headies is no longer just an award show. It’s a cultural ledger. A national archive of sound, sentiment, and struggle. When it cuts corners, the industry bleeds. When it forgets categories, it forgets people. And when it remembers the dead but ignores the conditions that killed them? It writes history in vanishing ink.

So here’s to the ghosts. To Mohbad. To the missing categories. To the artists who sang but didn’t trend. To the producers who bled beats without glory. To the women who carried hooks and harmonies but got silenced on stage.

And to the truth—louder than the applause—that in Nigeria’s music scene, talent alone is never enough.

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