Welcome to the Culture Corner, a column written by our culture team, in which they delve deeper into people, topics and ideas within the zeitgeist that they just cannot get out of their heads.
In this week's column, our Culture writer, Nomathamsanqa Sithathu, looks Adanna Duru's latest album, “The Naijamerican Dream”:
My editor shared a link to this album with a message stating, “just for casual listening when you’re in the mood”. I put it on that same day, and by the second listen I already had three songs saved to my favourites.
Before I had even hit play, the title already gave me some direction, “The Naijamerican Dream”.
You don’t need to know anything else about Adanna Duru to read that and understand what you are about to hear. The title speaks to someone carrying two cultures with them and probably having more scope to draw from.
In Adanna Duru's case, it relates to someone born in Diamond Bar, California, and raised in Orange County by Nigerian parents.
Then there’s the cover. She’s sitting outside on a plain chair in a white skirt, looking off to the side like she’s mid-thought, and behind her a clothesline is doing most of the talking.
There’s an American flag hanging there, except it has been redone in green and white, the colours of the Nigerian flag. Right next to that is a piece of traditional Nigerian fabric on the same line. Tucked between them is a green tank top that reads “I Love My Flop Era”.
That’s not a throwaway detail, but a statement from a woman who spent years getting introduced through other people’s platforms, a viral clip, a chair turn on “The Voice”, and a Top 10 run on “American Idol”, finally able to look back at all of the work put into the artist she is today.
To me, it showed free from having to hide the years it took to get where she is. She is hanging them out to dry, right between the two national flags that made her. By the time you actually press play, she has already told you who she is and what it cost her.
What got me stood out wasn’t even the singing, though the 29-year-old star can clearly sing. It was how much ground the record covers without ever feeling lost. One song is sitting in Gqom, the next slides into amapiano log drums, and by the middle of the tracklist you’re somewhere closer to straight pop and R&B.
I kept waiting for it to feel like whiplash but it never did. If you grew up the way she reportedly did, the only Nigerian girl in most Orange County rooms, home sounding one way and everywhere else sounding another, maybe that’s just what it sounds like when you stop trying to pick one.
She opened the project with “Passenger Seat”, where she’s venting about men who treat hearts carelessly, the kind of frustration a lot of women will recognise immediately; however, she never lets it tip into feeling sorry for herself.
She’s keeping to herself, working on her own money, reminding you in the same breath that whatever these men did to her, it’s not going to be the thing that defines her. That’s a strong way to open a debut. You know exactly who you're dealing with by the end of track one.
Then “White Girl” and “Revenge” sharpen that same energy into something with teeth. “White Girl” is a cut-off anthem about former friends turned enemies, delivered with the kind of confidence you only have once you’ve actually moved on.
“Revenge” goes somewhere rawer when she sings about therapy, betrayal, and the specific sting of a man who seemingly has a thing against women who look like his own mother.
It’s one of the harder songs to sit with on this album, and I respect that she didn’t smooth it over for anyone’s comfort.
After that, the project loosens its grip a little. “One on One” featuring French-born American rapper Bas and “Simple Things” are breezier, more about chasing a vibe than processing anything.
“Million X Over” slows down into something that actually sounds like being in love and comfortable there. “Daily Affirmations” is short, more of a mantra than a full song, and it works as a kind of reset button before the album shifts gears again.
That shift is “Energy!”, featuring Ryo, and it’s where the project picks up its pulse.
The Gqom influence gets loud here, the amapiano drums take over the rhythm, and it sets up the back half nicely. Right after it comes her cover of “I’m Every Woman”, produced by DJ Ruckus, C. “Tricky” Stewart, Chizzy Stephens, and Ben Parris, rebuilt with an amapiano backbone instead of leaning on the original’s arrangement.
It is a bold song to put on a debut album. Covering Chaka Khan is a bold move. The song doesn’t fit in the tracklist as smoothly as the original songs around it, if I’m honest, more like a detour than a destination, but I get why she wanted it there.
It says something about who she sees herself standing next to.
“2 Sweet” is where she shows a different kind of range, sliding into rap with the same ease she brings to a hook, playful and a little combative without ever needing to prove how sexy she is.
“Nothing to Say” pulls it back into R&B, a love song about finally letting your guard down with someone. And “Shooby Dooby” closes things out exactly where it should, a little unresolved, a woman who isn’t ready to name what she’s feeling but isn’t running from it either.
Not everything here hits the same. A couple of the mid-album songs lean on hooks that feel more familiar than the sharper writing surrounding them, and the Chaka Khan cover, as good as it is, breaks the momentum the originals had going.
However those are small complaints on a project with this much working in its favour. Even if you don’t end up loving the whole thing, you’ll walk away with a gem or two.
Duru spent years getting introduced to people through other people’s platforms. This album sounds like her doing the introduction, and she demands your attention if she didn’t already have it.
culture_thenational@nationalmg.co.za