By: Ninai Brianna
In the evolving world of music, from global pop to Afrobeats to whatever genre Azealia Banks is fighting with today, one thing has become painfully clear: a lot of artists believe they have finally earned the divine right to behave however they want. Somewhere between sold-out arenas, endless tour schedules, and an internet that worships fame like a religion, a peculiar entitlement has settled over the industry. It’s the kind of entitlement that whispers, “You worked hard. You’re a star now. The rules don’t apply to you anymore.”
And if you look around, the evidence is everywhere.
Lauryn Hill has long been a case study in this warped dance between brilliance and disregard, showing up hours late to shows, lecturing fans who bought tickets out of love, and walking the line between legend and liability. Azealia Banks, whose talent is unquestionable, has built a parallel career out of scolding the world one Instagram Story at a time.
In the African music scene, similar patterns play out with almost uncanny predictability: Kizz Daniel’s infamous no-shows, Davido’s heated online spats, and a long list of others who seem to believe fame comes with diplomatic immunity. And the truth is, Burna isn’t the only African star whose “celebrity immunity” moments have set the internet on fire. This thing didn’t start with him. It’s been brewing quietly across the continent like a pan of jollof left unattended.
Individually, these incidents feel like personality quirks. Collectively, they sketch a pattern: a growing culture of “I move how I want”, a kind of celebrity anyhowness born from pressure, ego, and an industry whose structural guardrails are still under construction. It’s not always arrogance; sometimes it’s exhaustion, poor management, or the dizzying speed at which fame arrives without instructions. But the effect is the same: accountability begins to feel optional.
And this is the atmosphere in which the latest Burna Boy moment detonated.
When Burna halted a concert, pointed to a woman who appeared to be asleep in the front row, and refused to continue until she was removed, the internet responded with rare unanimity: something about the moment struck a deeper nerve. On the surface, the reaction was familiar. Burna is famously intense about performance energy, famously allergic to disrespect, real or perceived. In his mind, a sleeping fan in prime view is a threat to the vibe he believes he’s conjuring. So he reacted, sharply.
But the cultural ripple had less to do with Burna’s irritation and more to do with what Burna represents. He is no longer just an artist; he is a symbol, standing at the apex of Afrobeats’ global ascent, a face of African stardom in an era where everything is amplified. His actions don’t live as isolated incidents; they metastasize into commentary about African artists, fan relationships, professionalism, and the responsibilities attached to global representation.
So when he stopped the show, the industry’s whispered question resurfaced:
Does success turn artists into performers who act at the audience rather than for them?
The backlash intensified once the woman’s story emerged. She wasn’t drunk or dismissive; she was grieving, exhausted, and seeking comfort in the music. Her brief lapse into sleep wasn’t an insult, it was a deeply human moment. Yet fame rarely trains artists to see humanity in crowds. It trains them to read audiences as a single mass, a collective voltage, a backdrop. And that blind spot is precisely where Burna’s reaction faltered.
The moment revealed an uncomfortable contradiction: African artists often (and rightly) ask fans for empathy, understanding, gentleness, space. But the grace they request is rarely offered back in return. Burna’s outburst seemed to echo a wider double standard: I’m allowed to be overwhelmed, but you’re not.
This tension is accelerating as African artists enter global superstardom without the buffers, conditioning, or crisis-management machinery that typically accompany Western celebrity. But even in Western pop culture, the era of anyhowness is well underway. No one is exempt.
What complicates the Burna situation further is that the very traits fans celebrate, his bluntness, his bravado, his volcanic presence, are the same traits that occasionally combust in public. We call it authenticity… until it crosses the line into arrogance. And that line is now razor-thin. As Afrobeats grows, and its stars become cultural diplomats whether they want to or not, behaviour that diminishes fans feels increasingly indefensible.
But beyond the noise, this moment forces us back to a fundamental truth the industry often forgets: This is a consumer-powered ecosystem. Remove the fans and everything collapses. The lights, the tours, the awards, the mythologies, they exist because ordinary people choose to show up. Careers are not built on talent alone; they are built on human beings who stream songs, queue for hours, scream lyrics, defend artists online, and emotionally invest in people they may never meet.
So when artists humiliate or dismiss the same fans who sustain them, it’s not merely rude. It’s strategically foolish. It fractures trust, and trust is the currency that turns musicians into legends.
And once that trust starts to crack, the ripple is immediate: the artist’s credibility wobbles, management scrambles, PR goes into triage mode, the label panics, fans retreat, and the industry’s integrity feels shakier than ever.
But the truth is, this piece isn’t about Burna Boy alone. His moment is simply a lens. The real crisis is the creeping culture of entitlement in modern stardom, the belief that fame is a hall pass to any behaviour, that talent compensates for temperament, that success means the rules no longer apply.
Artists are human. They get tired. They get overwhelmed. They make mistakes. But fans are human too. And humanity must travel in both directions.
In the end, fans and artists are in a relationship, messy, emotional, symbiotic. It survives not on perfection, but on respect. When we show up to concerts, tired, heartbroken, broke, overstretched, it isn’t just entertainment. It’s loyalty. It’s love. The least we ask for is a little humanity in return.
And if one fan drifts off for 90 seconds in the front row? Maybe take a breath. Life is heavy. Sometimes the body logs out. We’re still rooting for you.
