“Whoever can make you believe absurdities, can make you commit atrocities.” Nigerian comic, Dexmond quotes the French philosopher Voltaire during the taping of his stand-up comedy special, Servant of the Most High. For a better part of a one-hour set, Dexmond clutches a copy of Chimamanda Adichie’s Purple Hibiscus like a holy book, pacing the podium as a Pentecostal preacher would. He looks the part, too, with unkempt hair, decked head to ankle in a white suit and a pair of black oversized suede shoes. “You know, some of these Christian worship songs are diss tracks to other religions,” Dexmond says, “No wonder they kill you people.” A small audience packed in a middle-class Ikoyi backyard groans, and some people laugh. They are not used to this type of comedy, it confronts without remorse. One would ask, “Where did the entertainment go?” and the comic would retort that the jokes are still funny, but now they hit close to home. 

Nigerian stand-up comedy didn’t start out offensive or daring. It slowly evolved as a side attraction from the days of Alarinjo theaters, where comedy skits were featured between acts of stageplays. Then it morphed into the well-dressed and dapper JC, who owned the first comedy club in Ikeja, Lagos. Stand-up comedy has never been a viable profession. The only breakthrough this facet of entertainment enjoyed was Opa Williams’ Night of Thousand Laughs event which involved Opa touring the country with numerous comedians, each allowed ten minutes onstage to tell their best jokes.

Night of A Thousand Laughs shows were recorded, edited, burnt into CDs, and distributed to nearly every digital store and roadside vendor in Nigeria. This was only possible through the influence of the Alaba International Market, which also (allegedly) pirated heavily. Yet Alaba’s network ensured that these CDs made it into a lot of Nigerian homes and created superstars out of the performers. The Opa Williams-driven renaissance of Night of a Thousand Laughs spanned the mid-1990s to late 2000s. Thereafter, the comedy industry seemed to hit a bottleneck. Save for Bovi and Akpororo, who were heavily co-signed by Basketmouth, Nigerian entertainment experienced a decade of domination of legacy comedians, and no new standup act emerged onto the scene. A shift in consumption habits might have played a big role because smartphones were introduced at this time. Skitmaking became a more viable, low-pressure alternative to the highly risky endeavor that was stand-up comedy. Skit comedy required less charisma, rehearsal, commitment and considerably less humiliation if you failed. 

Despite this creative drought, the art form continued to feature prominently in nightlife and events such as weddings, namings ceremonies, galas…virtually every occasion where people gathered. However this was a double-edged sword for stand-up comedy since it began to shape the perception people had of the craft. It was difficult to take comedians seriously because all they ever did was entertain at parties. To further neuter perception, a lot of comics recycled material and settled for low-hanging jokes to avoid offending their audience or potential sponsors. 

Established comedians saw comedy as a means to an end: they would gain influence telling jokes and then transition into producing movies, acting or even politics. Comedy, for comedy’s sake, had been pushed aside, and it would seem that comedians weren’t proud of the name, preferring the label “entertainer.” This can be credited to A.Y’s overwhelming success, which translated to box office movie hits, production, and directing credits in Nollywood, and once-in-a-year sold-out shows that raked in tens if not hundreds of millions. A.Y. was the blueprint offline, and skitmaking was the viable path online.

By the time Instagram became saturated with content creators, a new crop of young people had begun to take interest in stand-up comedy again. Not just as entertainers, but as artists who believed their opinions mattered. They had seen how Dave Chapelle’s tussle with the transgender crowd created relevant conversation and shaped the worldview of certain topics. They concluded comedy was important, and it wasn’t just a tool for entertainment but also for reconciling their own realities. 

Comics such as SLK, Phage, Ebuka Mic, Parkhage, Ebube, Emechidera, and more studied legacy acts in their youth and dominated social halls in their respective tertiary institutions. There is originality in the approach—they are modern and grounded. They connect with their audiences through shared experiences and employ digital realities their audiences can identify, see, and touch. This approach appeals to a much younger generation that might not appreciate the poverty porn one would expect from an I Go Dye or Klint D’ Drunk, whose perspective teemed with scenarios from the streets of Warri. It is this relatability that has lent stand-up comedy a new breath for relevance again.

However, relatability is only one factor among many that will help trigger a renaissance for stand-up comedians. To see comedy as art, comedians have to create bodies of work that people can consume and dissect. When Richard Pryor is mentioned as a stand-up comedy great, his evolution is paralleled through works like Richard Pryor: Live in Concert (1979), Richard Pryor: Live on the Sunset Strip (1982), and Richard Pryor… Here and Now (1983). The same can’t be said for Nigerian comedy legends whose reference points are five-minute YouTube clips in which visual and sonic quality leave a lot to be desired. Anonymous posters monetise a good number of these videos, however, the situation has become so dire that it is no longer a question of piracy but of preservation of media.

The new comics who make up Nigeria’s comedy circuit have learned from their predecessors. They place more value on intellectual property and the delivery of their art. They want to create bodies of work they can be remembered by, and have taken the time to piece together their thoughts into 45-minute comedy sets that are referred to as “The Special.” Oluwaponmile Salako, a comedian popularly known as SLK, defines a Special as “a deliberate production of a stand-up comedy set very similar to an album by a music artist.” Here, a comedian gains the opportunity to climb a soapbox and attempt to immortalize original thoughts and ideas that would define, and eventually cement their artistry.

SLK is credited for creating the first digital Nigerian stand-up special titled Thank God I’m Funny (TGIF), in 2019. However, TGIF was not the first time a Nigerian comedian created a one-hour set. Tee A did one called Live N’ Naked in 2012, and Basorge, Basketmouth and Bovi also performed one-man shows in the early 2010s, but these can’t be considered comedy specials because they were not produced to entertain outside of live attendees. They were not recorded for the purpose of distribution and commercial purchase. In fact, one can’t find a surviving clip of Tee A’s barrier-breaking attempt online.

SLK has a theory about why Nigerian comedians didn’t produce their specials:

the older comedians didn’’t see a reason to ‘give away’ their jokes by recording them. I think it was a writing thing, they probably didn’t have a writing culture. But I believe stand-up comedians are not lazy. This is just a theory o.

Prior to creating TGIF, SLK had been one of the few acts that took advantage of the social media skit-making bubble through Boda Wasiu. This boisterous, wordplay-driven, Yoruba-man caricature leaned into current events in the Nigerian entertainment scene. Rather than using stand-up comedy as a launchpad, SLK channeled his following from social media into real-life fans willing to invest in his stand-up act and he was able to pull an enthusiastic crowd for the production of his one-hour special.  

At the time, all I wanted to do was make something that I could look back on … I wasn’t even thinking of being the first to do it. It was after we did it that I realized I was the first. What was more pressing was raising money for the production and selling tickets. 

SLK is as well-read as he is spoken. He hosts a comedy club at Johnny Rockets, Victoria Island, every Wednesday and his charisma is only matched by his use of wordplays. Onstage, he comes across as outgoing but he’s quite reserved everywhere else. 

After SLK got the final copy of TGIF, his debut comedy special, he had to take off the comedian hat and step into his businessman’s shoes. A lot had been invested into this project, and he had to make a profit or, at the very least, break even. SLK divided possible means of distribution by categories—Subscription Video on Demand (SVOD) and Advertisers-based Video on Demand (AVOD). (​​Subscription Video on Demand covers Netflix, Amazon Prime, Hulu, and other paid streaming services. The model for this type of distribution involves streaming services paying an acquisition fee upfront, which normally would offset production costs with profit to spare; the two parties will then agree to split revenue depending on how well that piece of media does on their platform. The other form of content distribution, AVOD, ()depends on money made through advertising revenue. This is the model platforms such as YouTube, Facebook, and X use, and the payout is dependent on the number of people who view the adverts, which is proportional to the number of people who consume the media.

Meetings with Netflix executives on the potential distribution of TGIF got stumped very quickly, “The production was green-horned and we didn’t curate the recording according to Netflix specifications.” SLK said, “But while I was thinking about a way out, it occurred to me to show it at cinemas. We sat down with some Filmone executives and TGIF became the first ever special to be shown at the cinemas.” This was one of the first moments comedy in Nigeria would rub shoulders with other forms of media as a work of art itself. TGIF enjoyed a brief showing on Amazon Prime after the cinema run and was then uploaded on YouTube for mass consumption. It currently stands as the highest-viewed Nigerian comedy special on YouTube.

While SLK didn’t break even from this release, his effort paid dividends in exposure and experience. 

The next special I made, Teetotaler, was accepted by Netflix. And I believe its success was a result of TGIF’s failure, but that’s just the way it is. I remember one quote from Teju Babyface’s podcast that applies to the way our industry is set up. Imagine it’s raining heavily and you’re parked in front of your house. If you want to get out of your car, rain must touch you. You see, that’s all part of the risk that comes with making art. 

TGIF was an introductory piece to SLK’s artistry, a call to rally behind an underdog in the entertainment space. It contained little social commentary and simply served as exploration into SLK’s personal stories in an attempt to demystify both artist and driving force. 

That same year, in 2019, when TGIF was being filmed as an introspective debut, the arm of social commentary in Nigerian comedy was taking shape. Dami Deremi, a minister in Lagos, nurtured aspirations of being a stand-up comedian and had performed at a few open mic events, bonding with other comics in the circuit. Dami saw immense potential in the talents that frequented Bogobiri and other comedy clubs every week. He reached out to the comics he was closest to and proposed organizing a themed variety comedy show titled Caveat Venditor: This Joke is not for sale, a love letter from practitioners to the Nigerian comedy scene. 

Holding over two sold-out nights in December 2019, Caveat Venditor, in the grand scheme of things, can be regarded as a palette cleanser acknowledging the state of Nigerian comedy over the past 15 years. They threw jabs at promoters of comedy shows who pride themselves in their platform even though they exploit talents. They made fun of joke stealers and recyclers, who, at the time, made up a sizable number in the industry. They ridiculed the way comedians scream into the microphone and how every joke began with the overused “e get one guy” trope. It featured Michael ‘Mic’ Akinsanya, Makinde David, Phage, and producer Dami Deremi himself under Lag Mediums, his production company. This special was later repackaged as an hour-long documentary-esque show and was released on YouTube to rave reviews but very limited reach. 

Overwhelming positive feedback on Caveat Venditor carved out a path for Dami’s next endeavors. He set aside personal aspirations of being a stand-up comedian and focused on his role as a producer. In 2021, they filmed Mufti, a themed special on Nigerian policing, which culminated in their first one-man comedy special: Phage’s Nigerian Dream, centered around Japa syndrome, a colloquial reference to widespread migratory exodus from the country—particularly post-COVID.All of these were released on YouTube through the AVOD profit model but haven’t gained enough views to break even on the initial investment. Efforts to distribute through Netflix were unsuccessful and Dami opted to grow a community of comedy aficionados the traditional way. He went back to the drawing board and rebranded Lag Mediums into A Billion Laughs, a homage to Opa Williams’ cultural revolution and held monthly live shows accompanied by social media strategies aimed to once again kickstart a nationwide love for comedy. 

A Billion Laughs markets quality as a selling point, “Shows Begin on Time” is imprinted on their banners online and offline to emphasize how different the experience they provide is. Their venue choices mirror artsy and literary events—never clubs, or halls as associated with their predecessors. All these are done to create a certain perception about the art form that transcends entertainment, practically demanding that “this is art and must be treated as such.” They challenge comedians to write jokes according to themes, prioritizing perspective over laughter. It seems this stems from the belief that comedians must play a larger role in society building, they can say things that people wouldn’t tolerate from journalists, or social commentators. A higher purpose in the craft is now evident, and these comedians are less inclined to censor themselves for acceptance into the Nigerian socialite class. Name-dropping is allowed, thoughts are unfiltered, and there is provocation hiding beneath the funny. 

Dexmond’s Servant of the Most High is the most controversial release from A Billion Laughs or even Nigerian comedy for that matter. Centered around religion and extremism, Dexmond aims at Christians and Muslims alike, using his own traumatic childhood as a backdrop to this quasi-philosophical thesis masked as a comedy set. Born Desmond Osarobo Eghaghe, the comedian hails from Benin and was raised in a multi-religious household where his mum practiced Christianity (bordering on extremism, according to him), and his Dad came from a lineage of traditional worshippers. Dexmond is passionate about this topic, even more so in his delivery, and one can tell that they are weaved from real-life characters and experiences.

Dexmond comes across as a prodigy in the craft, frequently referred to by his peers as a comedian’s comedian. He started doing stand-up comedy at the age of 13 and enjoyed a stint of notoriety as the youngest stand-up comic for a few years. He was cast as Ajasco in one of the earlier iterations of Wale Adenuga’s classic Nigerian sitcom, Papa Ajasco. 

Dexmond’s approach to comedy stems from a knowledge of the comedy scene after years of mentorship and tutelage from his seniors. He instills fear, stirs disgust, eases it with levity, and can go on two-minute tirades with no punchline. The only other place people would expect to feel this kind of mixed emotions is in church, and Nigerian preachers choose to tiptoe around conflicted topics. Dexmond’s Servant of the Most High marks a checkpoint in the Nigerian stand-up comedy story, it unleashes the potential strength within the artform as a tool to elevate consciousness at the most, and create conversations at the very least.

Dexmond isn’t the only person exploring social issues with his craft. SLK’s unreleased “The Just in Case Child” is an introspective piece on grief written after the death of his aunt. An ensemble from A Billion Laughs also deconstructed the many faces of internet fraud in a yet unrecorded special that has been performed once titled Yang and Philo. It seems these young comedians have grown tired of the old template the industry has practiced over the past few decades. They want to be artists and see themselves as such;  they feel the biting economic state of the land, they feel the hope slowly dissipate; they read the news, and have wondered where Dadiyata might be after being whisked away one morning for criticizing an incumbent governor. They are scared, yet they know the power that humor holds when channeled with intention. 

Nigeria has gotten serious, the comedians are only following suit.