Let me tell you about a pattern I have been noticing in the Nigerian creative industry:
Everyone is a creative director. Everyone is a music exec. Everyone is a brand strategist, a consultant, a cultural curator.
Their Instagram bios say so. Their LinkedIn profiles confirm it. They’re at every industry event, every album listening party, every exclusive dinner. They know which artist lives where. They’ve been to Davido’s house. They club with Burna. They have Wizkid’s team on speed dial.
And based on that, just that proximity, that visibility, that access — they get hired for jobs they don’t know how to do. Because here’s the thing: knowing someone’s house is not the same as knowing the job.
Clout is not a qualification.
The Nigerian creative industry has a problem: we have started valuing visibility over competence. If you’re seen at the right places, with the right people, posting the right content, you’re assumed to be qualified. You must know what you’re doing. You must be good at your job.
Except you’re not.
You’re good at networking. You’re good at being visible. You’re good at creating the appearance of expertise. But when it’s time to actually execute? When it’s time to deliver a creative brief, manage a project timeline, communicate with stakeholders, problem-solve when things go wrong?
You fumble. Because clout doesn’t teach you how to work. Visibility doesn’t give you skills. Access doesn’t replace experience.
The same pattern shows up beyond music and campaigns. Let’s not even start on people who start clothing brands without a clear brand ethos, relying on substandard clout to move maybe 10% of their inventory while the rest is used purely for PR. You’d think a lot of young people would buy just because the brand is “seen,” but these youth are not stupid. They know value, they know sustainability, and they understand process. There are rules to building a brand, and you don’t break rules when you don’t even know the basis. Chai, Virgil Abloh is definitely shaking his head in his grave. Visibility might open doors, but it doesn’t guarantee trust, loyalty, or results.
People are adopting titles without understanding what those titles require.
“Creative director” sounds impressive. But do you know what a creative director actually does? Can you develop a creative strategy? Can you translate a brand’s vision into executable concepts? Can you brief a team? Can you give constructive feedback? Can you manage multiple stakeholders with conflicting opinions? Can you stay on budget and on deadline while maintaining creative integrity?
Or did you just want a cool title for your Instagram bio?
“Music executive” sounds powerful. But do you understand A&R? Artist development? Contract negotiations? Royalty structures? Release strategies? Marketing budgets? Tour logistics? Or do you just know which artists are hot right now and want to be around them?
“Brand strategist” sounds professional. But can you conduct market research? Identify target audiences? Develop positioning frameworks? Measure campaign effectiveness? Analyze competitors? Or do you just have opinions about brands and think that’s strategy?
The Nigerian creative industry is full of people with impressive titles and zero idea what those titles actually entail.
You start hanging around the industry. You go to the right parties. You befriend the right people. You get invited to more exclusive spaces. You post about it. People see you with successful artists, designers, filmmakers.
And suddenly, you’re credible. Not because you’ve done good work. Not because you have a portfolio. Not because you’ve demonstrated skill or delivered results. Just because you’re visible. You’re around. You’re connected. And in Nigerian creative spaces, that’s often enough.
Someone needs a creative director for a campaign? “Oh, I know someone. They’re always at these industry events. They know everyone. Let me connect you.”
Someone needs a music exec for an artist? “There’s this guy, he’s tight with all the major artists. He’ll know what to do.”
And that’s how incompetent people get hired for important jobs. Not because they can do the work. But because they know the people who can give them the work.
I have realized: many Nigerian creatives have never worked a 9–5. And it shows. I’m not saying everyone needs corporate experience. I’m not saying a 9–5 is the only way to learn professionalism. But there are things you learn in structured work environments that you don’t learn when you jump straight into “I’m a creative, I make my own rules”:
Deadlines matter. In a 9–5, if you miss a deadline, there are consequences. You learn to manage your time, prioritise tasks, communicate when you’re behind. In the creative industry, people treat deadlines as suggestions. “Creative process can’t be rushed,” they say, while clients wait and projects stall.
Communication is non-negotiable. In a 9–5, you learn to respond to emails, update stakeholders, manage expectations. In the creative industry, people ghost for days, don’t respond to messages, and act like professionalism is corporate oppression.
Accountability exists. In a 9–5, your work is reviewed. You get feedback. You’re held to standards. In the creative industry, people take criticism personally, refuse feedback, and call it “protecting their vision.”
Collaboration requires structure. In a 9–5, you learn how to work with teams, delegate tasks, follow processes. In the creative industry, everything is chaotic, last-minute, “we’ll figure it out as we go.”
And this lack of work culture? It’s why so many Nigerian creative projects fail. Not because the ideas are bad. But because the people executing them don’t know how to work.
Until it’s time to create a mood board that’s more than random Pinterest screenshots. Until it’s time to write a creative brief that actually guides the team. Until it’s time to manage a budget and explain why you’re over. Until it’s time to handle revisions without having a meltdown. Until it’s time to meet a deadline you committed to. Until it’s time to communicate professionally with a client who’s frustrated. Until it’s time to take feedback and iterate instead of getting defensive.
That’s when the “creative directors” disappear. That’s when the excuses start. That’s when you realise they don’t actually know the job.
They just know the aesthetic. The title. The clout.
Let me talk about the “music executives” who’ve never read a contract. Who don’t understand publishing rights, master ownership, or royalty splits. Who can’t explain the difference between a 360 deal and a licensing agreement.
But they’ve been to Davido’s house. They know Burna’s management. They’ve partied with Wizkid’s crew. And based on that, they’re giving artists advice. Making career decisions. Negotiating deals they don’t understand. And artists trust them. Because they seem connected. They seem like they know what’s happening in the industry.
But connection is not competence. And the damage? Artists sign bad deals. Money gets mismanaged. Careers get mishandled. All because someone with access but no expertise was trusted to execute.
Then there are the “creatives” who don’t actually create anything. They don’t have a portfolio. They don’t have case studies. They can’t show you work they’ve done, problems they’ve solved, results they’ve delivered. But they have a vibe. They have a following. They have opinions on everyone else’s work. And somehow, that’s enough to get them hired.
“Creative consultant,” they call themselves. But consulting on what? Based on what experience?
“Cultural curator,” they say. But what culture are you curating? What expertise do you bring? It’s all performance. All image. All clout.
And the Nigerian creative industry keeps rewarding it.
This isn’t just about individuals faking their way through jobs. This is about what happens to the industry when incompetence is rewarded.
Good work doesn’t get recognised because the people making decisions don’t know what good work looks like. Talented people get overlooked because they’re not visible enough, not connected enough, not in the right rooms. Projects fail because the people leading them don’t have the skills to execute. Clients lose money because they hired someone based on clout, not competence.
The industry stagnates because we keep recycling the same connected people instead of finding new, skilled talent. And worst of all: we normalise mediocrity. We accept that this is just how things work. That you don’t need to be good, you just need to be seen.
There are people in the Nigerian creative industry who are actually good at their jobs. People who’ve put in the work. Who’ve learned the craft. Who’ve failed, iterated, improved. Who have portfolios full of real work, not just aesthetic mood boards. Who understand their field deeply, not superficially.
And those people? They’re often not the loudest. Not the most visible. Not at every party or in every exclusive group chat. They’re working. They’re delivering. They’re building reputations based on results, not relationships.
But they get passed over. Because the industry values access over ability.
And that’s the tragedy.
I’m not saying connection doesn’t matter. Networking is part of every industry. Relationships open doors. But connection should get you in the room. Your competence should keep you there.
If you’re calling yourself a creative director, learn what that role actually requires. Take courses. Study campaigns. Understand creative strategy. Build a real portfolio. If you’re a music exec, learn the business. Understand contracts, royalties, marketing. Read books. Talk to people who’ve actually done it. If you’re a consultant, have something to consult on. Develop expertise. Create frameworks. Deliver measurable results.
Stop hiding behind titles you haven’t earned. Stop leveraging access you haven’t backed up with ability. Because eventually, the work speaks.
And if your work is silent, your clout won’t save you.
