Every so often, an album emerges from the vaults with the quiet insistence that it should have rewritten history. Horizon Unlimited, the 1979 album from Nigeria’s Lijadu Sisters, is one of those albums—a record so impossibly smooth, so locked-in, that it feels less like a product of its time and more like a cosmic directive.
In a just world, Kehinde and Taiwo Lijadu would have been on Soul Train, soundtracking Blaxploitation car chases, or getting flipped by Daft Punk in a Parisian basement. Instead, they were overshadowed by their brasher, louder peers. If Fela Kuti was the rowdy, righteously indignant revolutionary, the Lijadu Sisters were the quiet masterminds—refining the formula, perfecting the groove, and making it all look effortless.
And groove is the operative word here. From the first seconds of “Orere Elejigbo,” Horizon Unlimited moves with the confident strut of a record that knows exactly how good it is. The bass is all muscle, the guitar lines flirt with disco without fully committing, and the percussion patters like a heartbeat that never misses a step. Meanwhile, the sisters’ harmonies weave in and out of the mix like the voice of some omniscient, incredibly stylish deity. It’s a dazzling display of control—every song disciplined yet organic, free-flowing but never aimless.
At its core, Horizon Unlimited is a dance album, but not in the way you’d expect. “Bayi L’ense” swaggers with the kinetic precision of early Chic, while “Reincarnation” floats somewhere between highlife, psych-funk, and a vision quest. “Come On Home” takes the warmth of a Sunday morning and distills it into four minutes of shimmering, sun-soaked soul, while “Not Any Longer” pulses with a tension that feels almost prophetic. The sisters weren’t just making songs; they were making movements—sonic loops designed to be inhabited, stretched, and reimagined over time.
One of the album’s greatest strengths is its refusal to fit neatly into any one genre. It’s highlife and funk, but also disco and rock, with streaks of reggae and psychedelic soul shimmering at the edges. This was music that mirrored the energy of Lagos—fast-moving, eclectic, pulsing with life. If it sounds impossibly cool, that’s because it is. But what sets the Lijadu Sisters apart is that they never sound like they’re trying. While some of their peers reached for revolution through raw force, Kehinde and Taiwo understood that subversion can also be hypnotic, that protest can sound like a perfect, honeyed harmony over a bassline designed to make your hips move.
And yet, despite their brilliance, the Lijadu Sisters were never given the global spotlight they deserved. Maybe it was because they refused to play the industry’s game. Maybe it was because their music was too ahead of its time—too seamless, too genre-fluid, too difficult to categorize. Or maybe it’s just another case of history doing what it does best: overlooking Black women who changed the game. Whatever the reason, Horizon Unlimited remains one of the great unsung albums of the era. It’s the sound of two artists who knew exactly what they were doing—crafting music with an almost supernatural sense of timing, balance, and control.
The tragedy of Horizon Unlimited is that it wasn’t blasting from every car stereo in 1979. The triumph is that it still sounds like the future.
Ratings: 9.1
