Alte culture in Lagos became the aesthetic wing of nepotism

Alte culture in Lagos became the aesthetic wing of nepotism

Let’s be honest: Alte culture in Nigeria, especially in Lagos, didn’t start with bad faith. It emerged as a necessary disruption of the hyper-commercialized, hyper-capitalist soundscape of mainstream Afrobeats. It said no to formulaic beats, to needing to have 10k followers before being taken seriously. It said no to approval from OAPs, labels, and vibes that felt more Billboard than Bariga.

Think Odunsi The Engine, Santi (Cruel Santino), Lady Donli — kids who blended Naija funk, neo-R&B, alt-rap, and highlife with Western indie sounds. Their visual language? Eclectic, cinematic, laced with postcolonial references, anime aesthetics, and nostalgia for a Lagos that probably never really existed. It was supposed to be for the outsiders.

But here’s the problem: you can’t sustain “outsider art” when access is everything.

Many of the Alte frontrunners were and still are descendants of the middle-to-upper class. Not evil. Just resourced. Their parents had homes in Lekki. They went to British International School or had SAT tutors. They had passports. They weren’t rich-rich, but they were “enough” to take risks. When you’re not terrified of failure, you can afford to be experimental. You can be “weird.”

Nepotism in Alte isn’t just about whose dad is in oil. It’s about soft connections:

• Whose cousin works at a design agency

• Whose mum knows the editor at Native Mag

• Whose dad funded the first EP

• Who could afford to take a gap year and “find themselves” in Nairobi or Berlin

Meanwhile, the truly broke kids with radical ideas are never part of the cypher. They don’t have a stylist friend. They don’t have a family friend with studio space in Ikoyi. They don’t “network” because they’re hustling. They’re not “gatekept” — they were never even invited to the gate.

The irony? Alte sells itself as a space of freedom from traditional class structures. But in reality, it’s just a more tastefully dressed version of the same elite hierarchies.

It’s grime in London all over again — where poor Black kids created a whole genre out of struggle, only for white creatives and rich Black kids to repackage it as “edgy” once it became profitable.

And it’s not just music. It’s fashion.

Why is it that the “Thrifting Queen” on IG is always someone who could afford Nike if she wanted to? Why is “retro Lagos style” only celebrated when shot on a Canon AE-1 with grain added in post? There’s a politics to the aestheticization of struggle — it’s called cultural gentrification.

And let’s talk about the language.

Calling yourself an “outsider” while partying at Zaza or popping into ART X is peak irony.

There’s a certain sanitized “alternative” energy that’s only allowed if it’s palatable. You can be eccentric — but not too poor. Queer — but not too loud. African — but in a way that looks good in a London lookbook.

So here’s the take:

Alte was rebellion. Now? It’s often repackaged privilege — romanticized, stylized, and algorithm-ready.

And if we’re going to build a scene that actually disrupts the mainstream, we have to start inviting the people whose lives aren’t just “aesthetic moodboards.”

We need Alte that comes from Ajegunle. From Mushin. From kids whose art is survival, not branding.

Because if “different” only includes the comfortable, it’s not different.

It’s just elitism in thrifted denim.