The phenomenon known as hypemen first caught public attention in 2015, when a history student at the University of Lagos delivered a presentation on a 16th-century Chinese dynasty so magnetic that his peers began calling him Toby Shang. The nickname stuck, and his knack for energising crowds—honed as a high-school “ginger-man” in a three-piece band and as a private tutor—soon morphed into a full-blown performance style that would help define a new sub-genre of African music.
Today, the term Afrohype (sometimes dubbed “lamba”) describes a hybrid of Afrobeats rhythms and the high-octane ad-libbing of hypemen. The style blends rapid vocal fire-works, onomatopoeic chants, and crowd-participation chants over instrumentals ranging from home-grown beats to remixed classics like the Nigerian version of the 1996 French hit “Ameno”. Patrons often celebrate a hypeman’s entrance by showering cash—an age-old Nigerian custom that turns the floor into a glittering rain of notes.
From oral traditions to the modern atalaku
The roots of hyping stretch back centuries across the Atlantic. In West Africa, storytellers called griots preserved history through call-and-response singing, while enslaved Africans in the United States nurtured similar patterns in Negro spirituals. These practices converged in the Democratic Republic of Congo during the 1980s, giving rise to the atalaku tradition (Kikongo for “look here, look at me”). Congolese luminaries such as Koffi Olomide and Awilo Longomba carried the vocal bravado into the new millennium, inspiring a wave of imitators across Central and West Africa.
When the Congolese style reached Côte d’Ivoire, it merged with coupé-décalé’s flamboyant cash-throwing and the viral chant “Tout le monde galope, kirikata kirikata” from DJ Arafat’s 2003 tribute. The phrase later echoed in hits by Nigerian artists Flavour N’abania and Skales, cementing atalaku’s influence on contemporary Afrobeats. Television network RTI even ran an atalaku talent contest, where Ivorian-Malian Lili Djely won the 2006 edition, demonstrating that women could also dominate a field often seen as male-centric.
Toby Shang and the Lagos hype revolution
Born Tobi Michael Adeyeye, the 32-year-old Lagos native turned his campus fame into a career after graduating. His viral catchphrases and the breakout track “Shedibalabala” propelled him into the limelight, and he now proudly admits, “Even my mother calls me Shang.” Since leaving university, Shang has organised his own rave, dropped two EPs, and launched the School of Hype a one-day masterclass paired with online mentorship that has birthed several emerging artists.
Shang’s impact extends beyond music. He describes hypemen as “the missing link that convinces a 60-year-old woman to dance like a teenager.” In his view, a good hype not only pumps adrenaline but also offers a brief promise of financial optimism, a morale boost in challenging times. His own performances now command fees of 5-8 million naira (approximately £2,844–£4,550) for a 30-minute to one-hour set, a reflection of how the market values vocal energy as much as a headline DJ.
Commercial boom and growing criticism
The post-COVID-19 landscape saw artists’ booking costs soar, prompting promoters to lean on hypemen as cost-effective crowd-pullers. What was once dismissed as mere “voice-over” work now commands six-figure contracts, and the profession has solidified into a recognized career path across Nigeria, Ghana, and the wider African club circuit.
Nevertheless, the surge is not without detractors. Critics argue that hypemen can exacerbate noise levels, encourage superficial displays of wealth, and occasionally fail to tailor lyrics or tempo to the specific atmosphere of an event. Some observers label the practice a “nuisance” that masks a lack of substantive musical talent. Despite these concerns, the demand for high-energy vocalists continues to rise, underscoring the cultural appetite for anthems that blend celebration with instant gratification.
In the broader conversation about African music’s global perception, hypemen embody both continuity and innovation—linking ancient oral traditions with modern club culture. Whether hailed as the new heartbeat of Afrobeats or dismissed as flash-in-the-pan, their presence on Lagos waterfronts, wedding after-parties, and corporate galas signals a lasting shift in how rhythm and rhetoric intertwine on the continent’s dance floors.
