- Some Afrobeats songs use moral language that softens and normalises cybercrime
When former US secretary of state Colin Powell took to a London stage alongside Nigerian artist Olu Maintain in 2008 and danced to a song called Yahoozee, he almost certainly didn’t know that the track is widely understood in Nigeria as a celebration of internet fraud.
The moment became a striking illustration of something my research keeps returning to: how music can carry the moral codes of cybercrime far beyond their origins, laundering them in rhythm, recognition and prestige.
Over the last ten years I’ve studied cybercriminal pathways, romance fraud, victimisation of senior citizens, business email compromise, and the cultural politics of cybercrime.
My latest collaborative study examines 40 Afrobeats songs released between 2023 and 2025, looking for themes.
Afrobeats is the broad label often used for contemporary Nigerian and west African popular music that has come to dominate global streaming culture in the 2010s and 2020s. Driven by artists such as Burna Boy, Wizkid, Davido, Tems and Asake, it has grown from a regional sound into a global cultural force, filling arenas, winning major awards and shaping youth culture far beyond Africa.
Yet some of what travels with Afrobeats is more ambivalent. In the Nigerian context, the cybercrime most often referenced in music is linked to Yahoo Boys, a popular term for online fraudsters involved in scams such as romance fraud and advance fee fraud. In some lyrics, these figures are framed not simply as offenders but as resourceful hustlers or icons of success.
The songs in our study all contain explicit references to online fraud. All were performed by male artists. And all were globally available on platforms like Spotify, Apple Music and YouTube. What we found goes well beyond glorification. Afrobeats, we argue, is functioning as a moral text – one that actively rationalises, spiritualises and normalises cybercrime for millions of listeners worldwide.
In other words, some of this music is doing more than making crime sound cool. It is helping listeners make sense of online fraud as acceptable, even justified. It wraps criminal behaviour in the language of hustle, survival and divine favour, making it feel not just normal, but earned. And because Afrobeats is now heard everywhere, these ideas are travelling with it.
More than just ‘hustle culture’
It is tempting to dismiss fraud themed lyrics as bravado. They can seem like a form of performative edginess, not unlike gangsta rap. Gangsta rap is a branch of hip hop in which hustling, toughness and street survival became both narrative material and cultural style.
But that reading misses the depth of what’s happening. Our analysis shows that these songs use subtle rhetorical moves to present fraud as something other than wrongdoing.
One of the most pervasive techniques is what researchers call euphemistic labelling. Fraud is rarely called fraud in Afrobeats songs. It becomes “hustle”, “grind” or “blessing”. Lyrics frame scamming as honest work blessed by God, stripping away its moral weight. In one track, the phrase “work and pray for the payday” wraps a reference to cybercrime in the language of religious devotion and diligence.
Victims fare even worse. In these songs, they are rarely granted humanity. They become “maga” or “mgbada”, terms linked to the Igbo word for antelope, casting the fraudster as hunter and the victim as prey. In this language, victims are no longer people to be harmed, but targets to be chased: “clients”, “profiles”, even “cash cows”. We argue that this dehumanisation is not incidental. It makes exploitation feel rational, even honourable.
God, juju, and the spiritual economy of fraud
Perhaps the most striking finding in our research is the pervasiveness of what we call cyber-spiritualism. Across multiple tracks, success in online fraud is framed not as a product of skill or cunning but as a matter of divine favour and ritual protection.
This aligns with a broader phenomenon scholars have documented in Nigeria known as “Yahoo Plus” or cyber spiritualism, a variant of internet fraud in which digital scamming is combined with spiritual practices such as juju rituals, charms and incantations. The idea is that metaphysical forces can be mobilised to manipulate victims, attract luck and protect perpetrators.
What is striking is how openly some of these beliefs appear in music. One track includes lyrics invoking Aje – a Yoruba deity associated with wealth – while another frames a ritual object (“soap”) as essential spiritual insurance for a fraudster. Another song merges Islamic thanksgiving phrases with references to successful scam transactions, as if divine gratitude and financial crime can occupy the same moral space. Fraud, in this framing, is not a choice. It is destiny.
Why this matters beyond Nigeria
The genre now circulates across continents, through algorithms and playlists, reaching audiences who may know little about Nigeria’s specific struggles. These include a high unemployment rate, elite corruption, and the longer afterlives of British colonial rule. In some of these lyrical worlds, fraud is not framed simply as greed but as a way of taking back from a global order understood to have first taken from them. Similar justifications also appeared in interviews with active scammers in Ghana.
The fraud narratives in these songs emerge from real and painful structural conditions: blocked opportunities, absent institutions, the pressure on young men to provide for their families. Understanding those conditions is essential. But as these lyrics travel globally, they become detached from their context. For diasporic or international listeners, “maga don pay”, meaning “the senseless animal has paid”, stops being a commentary on poverty and starts sounding like a lifestyle aesthetic, a marker of ingenuity, cosmopolitan hustle and transgressive cool.
Our research also reveals a telling career dynamic. Emerging artists lean heavily on fraud references to establish credibility and street authenticity. More established artists tend to drop them as their careers develop. Fraud talk, in other words, is a currency for those still trying to break through. This makes it all the more concentrated among the youngest, most influential voices in the genre.
What should be done?
I want to be clear: this research is not a moral panic about Afrobeats. The genre is not responsible for cybercrime, and reducing it to a crime soundtrack would be both inaccurate and deeply unfair to its richness and complexity.
But music is never politically or morally neutral. When lyrics consistently dehumanise fraud victims, frame exploitation as a divine blessing and circulate these ideas to hundreds of millions of people, the cultural consequences are real. My previous study on scammers and their allies reports on that.
Streaming platforms must take seriously their role in amplifying these narratives. Policymakers, educators and the music industry itself need to understand the moral ecosystems in which cybercrime thrives.
Suleman Lazarus is of Visiting Fellow, Mannheim Centre for Criminology, London School of Economics and Political Science
@The Conversation