Professor Abdalla Uba Adamu
It seems I am the star of the moment! In November 2025, I granted a talk-in to Hausa Viral and the online studio, where we discussed so many things with the anchor, centered around popular culture. One of the topics was my protégé, G-Fresh Al-Amin, a performance artist in the Rap genre I know and admire. He is now more known for this audacious TikTok content.
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I first met G-Fresh over 10 years ago when he brought his first CD for me to evaluate. It was really good – but I told him I could not make out his lyrics on some of the tracks, either because I am hearing impaired (I am medically deaf), or he has twisted his lyrics too much! I advised cleaner, sharper, and more discernible lyrics.
For instance, when you listen to 2Pac, you are listening to the Leonardo da Vinci of rap. Crisp. Clear. Punchy. We had a good laugh. I even tried to arrange a public launch of the CD, but it was not possible then due to many other intervening things. Then we lost touch.
The next time I heard of him was that he had become a social media influencer on TikTok, drawing millions of views—a lot from people who don’t like his performance, and yet they can’t keep themselves away from watching him! Go figure!
I was not aware that Hausa Viral studio had released cuts of that interview, until about five people sent the link to me, especially the one with a commentary by G-Fresh himself.
He acknowledged my role in his life and had a good laugh about the interview. But the most interesting thing about it was the huge wall of comments on the interview. Many expected him to retaliate abusively – they assumed he had the same low-bred brain as themselves.
Many insulted me as a “useless old man”! Crickey! I really don’t consider myself old at all! Others decried a “whole professor” wasting time on useless people. Yet others said G-Fresh and I are birds of the same feather. Gosh, so many. These, of course, were from BLLs. But I forgive all the insults. Unfortunately, for them, “ban fara ba domin in daina”. Let’s dissect the issues.
Many people wave off Hausa TikTokers and social media creators as unserious—just jokes, dancing, noise, or attention-seeking. But that dismissal misses what is actually happening online.
TikTok, Facebook, and Instagram have become some of the most important places where contemporary Hausa public culture is being shaped, argued over, and sometimes fought out. These platforms are not separate from “real life”; they are where real life now plays out, just faster, louder, and more visibly. Hate it. Loath it. Condemn it. Run away from it. It follows you because you just can’t hide from it. Deal with it, then.
This is more so because what looks like casual content is often a careful performance. Hausa creators know exactly what they are doing. They understand what will travel, what will offend, what must be softened with humor, and what should be left unsaid.
Skits, short speeches, reactions, fashion clips, lip-syncs, and moral commentary are not random—they are ways of negotiating respectability, aspiration, and belonging in a highly watched environment.
A few seconds of video can attract admiration, mockery, warning comments, or outright threats. That alone tells us this space matters. It is a negotiated space for negotiated meanings.
Social media has also become a place of constant public judgment. Comment sections act like open courts where people debate behavior, language, clothing, relationships, and “how a proper person should act.” Praise and condemnation are handed out in real time, often by strangers who feel entitled to correct, shame, or defend.
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This is not new in Hausa society, but the scale is. What used to happen in compounds, markets, or neighborhoods now happens in front of thousands, sometimes millions.
This also brings back memories of my earlier engagement with non-digital Hausa popular culture—many people hated it, I was studying it, not glorifying it, but I was attacked more than those producing it. I did not relent.
Hausa popular culture in the 1990s was extremely dynamic, operating in a unique cultural ecosystem. And people were studying it. But not us, because we were disdainful towards its study. That’s how foreigners became experts on us.
Radio call-ins condemning Hausa films in the mid-years of the industry (1995-2003) were exactly the same as the current digital comments made by Bakin Lunku Louts (BLLs)—Hausa commentators whose brains have been substituted by mushed rotting fecal matter. When they comment, they abuse and condemn because of their inability to process a single rational thought. Just like their masters.
Realistically, the idea that the social media “soki-burutsu” is all “just entertainment” collapses once we notice the consequences. Careers are built or destroyed there. Reputations rise and fall there. Authorities watch it. Families worry about it.
Some creators learn to code their messages with humor or exaggeration; others push the limits and accept the backlash. Either way, these platforms force people to constantly read the mood of the public and adjust themselves accordingly.
It is also important to note who gets the most attention—and the most criticism. Young people, especially women, carry the heaviest burden of visibility. Their bodies, voices, laughter, and silence are endlessly interpreted. What they wear, how they move, and what they joke about become public property. That level of scrutiny tells us that something serious is being negotiated, not something trivial.
Social media is now a primary site of contemporary Hausa public life. For large segments of our societies—particularly youth—religious expression, debate, authority, and community formation now occur first on social media. Ignoring these spaces means: study society as it was, not as it is.
To pay attention to Hausa TikTok, Facebook, and Instagram is therefore not to glorify them or condemn them. It is simply to admit the obvious: this is where today’s Hausa public culture is being rehearsed, contested, and reshaped.
Anyone who wants to understand where social values are heading—what is tolerated, what is punished, what is admired, and what is feared—cannot afford to ignore these digital spaces. Dismissing it as unserious (and what should the “serious” be, who determines seriousness?) is easy. Understanding it takes more effort.
But if we want an honest picture of contemporary Hausa society, this is one of the places we must look. Warts and all. And we are the best to look at it because it operates within the same cultural ecosystem as we do. We are the denizens of its depth. We live in the Mariana Trench of its cultural production and negotiation. If scholars don’t want to study it because it is “unserious”, fine. There are a lot of serious things to study. For those who want to forge ahead, ain’t no stopping us.
I end with two things – a memorable line from G-Fresh and Al-Ameen’s original performance, “Kano To California,” taken from the CD, “Forget Your Enemies,” to demonstrate his lyrical power. The remix with late Lil’ Ameer was undoubtedly one of the best Rap tracks in Hausa rap history. And a memorable record of an encounter with G-Fresh, an encounter full of fun and laughter.
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“G-Fresh and Al-Ameen / We the Mafias /
Shout out to my Niggas / BUK and ABU Zaria” /
The CD was appropriately titled “Forget Your Enemies”. Ride on, bro. Ride on.