Sute Iwar speaks like a man who’s figured it out. Not in the sense that he has all the answers, but in the way that he’s comfortable exploring urgent themes, being present, staying true to the times and remaining original. His layered music compels you to sit with your thoughts even as you sway to the rhythm. And when he speaks, it’s with the same duality. There’s an ease to his words, but there’s also depth, a deliberate weaving of stories and philosophies that make it clear he’s spent time refining his sound and personality.
Born in Makurdi but raised in Lagos, Sute grew up in a music-inclined home. His father, an avid jazz and soul enthusiast, had what he describes as “the biggest collection of CDs” he had ever seen. But it wasn’t just about listening. Sute was enrolled in music school at seven, setting the stage for the artist he would eventually become. He talks about it with reverence, like the music had been living inside him all along, just waiting for the right conditions to bloom.
Even though his early years were spent in Lagos, Sute doesn’t romanticize the city the way some do. He paints it as an experience—one filled with contradictions. The daily grind, the relentless energy, the school days that felt like scenes from an American high school film, the underground party culture where reputation meant everything. But even in the middle of all that, there was music. He was the kid in the music room playing sax in the school orchestra, recording tracks on Fruity Loops from JSS2 and releasing his first mixtape in SS3. By the time he left Lagos for Abuja, music had become his identity.
At first, Abuja was a stark contrast. Where Lagos thrived on chaos, Abuja offered something else—space. Clarity. “Initially, I didn’t like it at all,” he admits. “I was so in love with Lagos. I didn’t know anyone in Abuja. It just felt boring.” But that shifted when he returned after university in Ireland. His brother, Tay Iwar, had already rooted himself in Abuja’s music scene, and through him, Sute found a community. Unlike Lagos, where the industry’s pressure loomed heavy, Abuja gave him room to breathe, to create without the weight of expectation pressing on his shoulders. “I love the peace,” he says. “I love the fact that I can make a plan, go out, do that thing, and still have time for like three other things.”
It’s this balance—between structure and spontaneity, discipline and freedom—that defines his artistry. Sute doesn’t make anyhow music but instead, integrates his experiences with super clear intention. Whether through his work in multimedia or his involvement in film and documentary projects, he’s always searching for new ways to tell stories. His NGO, Afrosonic, is an extension of that philosophy, working to preserve the legacies of Nigerian musicians whose contributions risk being forgotten. “Afrobeats is huge now, and I think it’ll only get bigger. But we don’t take enough time to acknowledge the musicians that came before this huge break we’ve had,” he says. “If the vinyl disappears, the music disappears.”
When he talks about his influences, the list is endless, an intricate blend of the old and the new, the classic and the experimental. Jazz and soul are the foundation, thanks to his father’s collection. Classical music found its way in through his studies at Muson. Hip-hop and R&B took over when he got old enough to pick his own playlist, shaping his perspective as a rapper. He talks about the significance of 2Face’s breakout moment and the way it shifted Nigerian pop’s visibility, how Naeto C and MI represented something aspirational—a fusion of sophistication and reliability, and how artists like Asa and Kendrick Lamar left imprints on his sound in different ways.
And then, of course, there’s the music itself. His debut album, “Ultralight,” was a moment—a conceptual project that felt immersive and intentional. But if “Ultralight” was about stillness, “The Gift”, his most recent EP, was about movement. “I don’t know if I think about these projects as building on each other. They all stand alone,” he says. “Ultralight was what it was and did what it did. I think it was a special project. But when it was time for “The Gift”, I was in a different space. I wanted to bring the energy up.” 2023 was a heavy year. The economy was in a spiral, the air felt thick with frustration, and like many Nigerians, Sute felt it deeply. “There was a shift,” he says. “It felt dark. Like when that guy became president, it just felt dark.” He’s not a political rapper, but he’s also not disconnected. His music carries the weight of reality—not in a way that drowns you, but in a way that makes you feel seen. “I’m always trying to produce healing music, music that you can have fun with but that can also, in a way, help you process things.”
That intention runs through “The Gift”. On “Escapism,” he raps about a country that’s tough to navigate. In “Original,” he weaves everyday struggles into the rhythm, making them feel like conversations instead of complaints. He doesn’t ignore the weight of it all, but he also doesn’t let it define him. “Music is many things,” he says. “It can be fantasy. It can be a dream. It can just be music for your waist. But for me, I want to make a range of music—some for your waist, some for your head, some for your belly. And some, for healing.
At a time when everything is loud, artists are constantly chasing virality and the industry feels like an endless cycle of trends, Sute Iwar remains rooted. He is steadfastly original and essentially, isn’t deterred from making music that indeed heals.
