6 months after release, here's our thoughts on morayo by wizkid

When Wizkid announced the title of his latest album, Morayo, fans expected a body of work filled with introspection, depth, and personal revelations—especially in light of the loss of his mother in 2023. The title alone, a nod to her name, promised something intimate, perhaps a soul-baring tribute. And then came the infamous Instagram rant: the Starboy declared he was off Afrobeats and warned those waiting for another “Pakurumo” to simply not download the album.

It was clear expectations were about to be upended.

Now, six months later, the dust has settled. The conversations have quieted. And we’re left with Morayo, not as a buzz-heavy moment, but as a musical document in Wizkid’s ever-expanding catalogue. So, what did he really give us?

A Familiar Groove in a New Wrapper

If fans were hoping for an emotional odyssey or a career-defining reinvention, Morayo is not that album. Instead, what they get is another chapter in the Starboy playbook: smooth beats, soft-spoken braggadocio, and that breezy blend of Afropop and R&B that has become Wizkid’s hallmark over the past half-decade.

The album opens with “Troubled Mind,” a moody, mid-tempo track where Wizkid seems to briefly pull back the curtain: “Say, the blood for my eye and the pain for my mind, mo le ṣàlàyé.” It’s vulnerable, raw even—but fleeting. That same introspective energy resurfaces on “Pray,” the closer, where he reflects on his mother’s spiritual presence and unwavering love. These two tracks bookend the album with feeling, but in between them, Morayo largely coasts on vibe over vulnerability.

Comfort Over Reinvention

Wizkid’s reluctance to stray from his sonic comfort zone is both the album’s strength and its Achilles heel. Longtime collaborator P2J helms most of the production, once again delivering clean, percussive soundscapes laced with wind instruments and ambient synths. It's rich, textured, and unmistakably Wizkid. But it also doesn’t push boundaries.

Take the lead single “Piece Of My Heart” with Brent Faiyaz—an undeniable highlight. The two crooners create a slick R&B duet that oozes sensuality. Jazmine Sullivan shines on “Bad For You,” her vocals slicing through the lush production with precision and passion. These tracks feel premium, almost cinematic in execution.

However, not all collaborations hit the same note. “Bad Girl” featuring Asake feels like a misfire compared to their Grammy-nominated “MMS.” The chemistry isn’t quite there, and the song struggles to find a memorable moment. “Après Minuit” with French star Tiakola and “Slow” with Anaïs Cardot offer a more global texture but come off more as experimental fillers than essential moments.

The Problem with Surface-Level Cool

Perhaps the most telling thing about Morayo is how little we learn about Wizkid across its 13 tracks. Even on standout records like “A Million Blessings,” where he hints at personal reflection, there’s a sense that he’s just scratching the surface. The lyrics often fall back on generalities—women, wealth, prayer, and vibes. It’s all cool, but it’s also guarded. For an album titled after the most important woman in his life, that emotional wall can feel like a missed opportunity.

But maybe that’s the point.

Grief is personal. And for someone who’s spent over a decade mastering the art of minimalism—both in voice and persona—maybe Morayo was never meant to be a dramatic detour. Instead, it’s a quiet processing. A return to what soothes him: melody, groove, and control.

Legacy Mode

At this stage in Wizkid’s career, he has nothing to prove. He’s helped define the global sound of Afrobeats and played a central role in bringing African pop music to the world stage. Morayo doesn’t aim to outdo Made in Lagos or shake the table like Sounds From The Other Side tried to. Instead, it reaffirms the veteran's mastery of laidback, elegant soundscapes—and his refusal to be boxed in.

Is Morayo revolutionary? No.

Is it heartfelt? Sometimes.

Is it Wizkid, in full control of his world? Absolutely.

Six months in, Morayo isn’t a loud album. It doesn’t demand your attention—it drifts in, plays through, and leaves you humming. And maybe, just maybe, that’s Wizkid’s quiet way of mourning. Or moving forward.