This writer is an ardent believer in the power of creativity as a political tool, and part of that belief is acknowledging that a platform is not a neutral entity; it is power, reach, and the ability to shape what a community sees, hears, and believes is important. Nigerian event producers who have built audiences of tens of thousands, who have created cultural spaces that people genuinely trust, who have demonstrated again and again that they understand the relationship between space and meaning — these producers have leverage. Real, tangible, exercisable leverage. And too many of them have been passive with it. When xenophobic violence flares and a platform says nothing — books the next flight, posts the next flyer, runs the next event without a word about what is happening to Nigerians in South Africa, that silence communicates an underlying message that the culture inside these walls is insulated from the suffering outside them. It says that the community’s pain does not interrupt the programming. It says, functionally if not intentionally, that business continues as usual, and that in itself is a political statement; it just happens to be one that nobody is owning. Having said that, we also have to face the truth that leverage is a complicated thing to hold, especially when the people you serve are already carrying so much. The reason Nigerians show up the way they do, buy tickets, travel interstate against the backdrop of insecurity for experiences and stay until the sun comes up before they depart back to their respective lives is not just about the music, it’s about what the music and experience makes possible for them – those few hours of existing outside the noise, outside the news cycle, outside the particular exhaustion of being a Nigerian living in Nigeria right now. The insulation that these platforms provide is not incidental to their value. In many ways, it is the entire point, the dance floor becomes an avenue to realize catharsis. So when we ask these platforms to speak, to interrupt the programming with the political, to bring the outside world in, we have to learn to hold that ask with some tenderness. For some of them, their silence might be a desire to protect the one space where the community gets to simply breathe, to dance and do nothing else but be. While the tension between these extremes is real, neither of them serves the people who have placed their trust in these spaces. What is now needed is not a choice between sanctuary and conscience, but the difficult, necessary work of holding both at once. The advocacy here is not a boycott, nor is it the consideration of a blacklist. It is a call out for Nigerian event producers to use their platforms intentionally, their social media reach, their stage time, and their cultural credibility. It is a call out to be vocally, explicitly, and unambiguously clear about where they stand on xenophobic violence against Nigerians. Not as a footnote but as a real, sustained, visible commitment that the community can see and hold them to.

The history of culture as a tool of political pressure is long and instructive. From the international boycotts of apartheid-era South Africa — again, the very country at the center of this conversation — to the role of music in the Civil Rights movement, to artists who have used their platforms to demand accountability from governments and institutions, the creative community has always had the capacity to shape public consciousness and apply social pressure in ways that legislation and diplomacy cannot always reach. Nigerian event producers sit inside that tradition whether they claim it or not. The platforms they have built are not just entertainment infrastructure, they are cultural institutions that shape taste, community, identity, and, when used with intention, political will. The answer is not less exchange; it should be more nuanced to reflect an intentional exchange that involves not shutting South African DJs out, but inviting them in with full consciousness of what that invitation means and what it can demand in return. The answer is Nigerian platforms being loud and unambiguous about where they stand, so that every event, every lineup, every flyer becomes not just a cultural offering but a political statement the community can stand behind. Honestly, this feels like a big ask, but the truth is if you have a platform, you have leverage. The only question that remains is whether you are willing to use it — openly, intentionally and without apology.