Sarz didn't invent the idea. In late 2024, one of Afrobeats' most respected producers built "C'mon Look" around a vocal lift from Fuji legend King Wasiu Ayinde Marshall's 1999 record "Won Tun Nna." Months earlier, he'd co-produced Asake's "Active," a genre-blending record built partly around Adewale Ayuba's vocals from the 1990s Afrobeats-fuji classic "Raise Da Roof." Zinoleesky's "Fuji Garbage" leans directly on "Fuji Garbage Series II" by Fuji's founding father, Sikiru Ayinde Barrister. Ayra Starr sampled the Lijadu Sisters. J. Cole sampled Fela Kuti. Kelly Rowland sampled Fela Kuti. This is not a fringe practice, digging into Highlife, Fuji, and Fela-era Afrobeat catalogues has become one of the defining production techniques in modern Afrobeats.
And here's what almost never makes it into the celebratory blog post about how clever the sample was: somebody's estate is either getting paid, or somebody is about to get sued.
There's a comforting myth running through Nigerian studio culture that goes something like: "That record is from 1999 / the 70s / before I was born — it's old, it's basically folklore at this point, nobody's going to come after me for a four-bar flip." This myth has cost real money, delayed real releases, and in at least one very public case, dragged a Nigerian producer and artist into a US federal lawsuit against a global superstar. Old does not mean free. Old means the ownership has usually passed to someone else, an estate, a widow, a record label that outlived the artist, and that someone is often far more organized about protecting the catalogue than the artist who used it assumed.
Why "It's Old" Is the Wrong Question
The question that actually matters isn't "how old is this record?" It's "has this specific work entered the public domain in the specific country where I'm releasing?" Those are very different questions, and the gap between them is where most clearance mistakes happen.
Under Nigeria's Copyright Act 2022, protection for a musical work (the composition: melody, lyrics, chord structure) lasts for the life of the author plus 70 years after the end of the year they died. For a sound recording (the actual captured performance), protection runs for 50 years from the end of the year it was first made available to the public. These are two separate clocks, on two separate rights, and a sample almost always touches both.
Do the math on the records producers are actually flipping right now. Sikiru Ayinde Barrister, the founder of Fuji, died in 2010, his compositions are protected until 2080. King Wasiu Ayinde Marshall (K1 De Ultimate) is still alive and actively performing, nowhere near public domain. Fela Kuti died in 1997, his compositions are protected until 2067. Even a Highlife record from the 1960s, if the composer lived into the 1980s or 90s, is very likely still fully protected today. "Old" in Afrobeats sampling terms usually means 25 to 60 years old. Copyright terms in most of the world run 50 to 70+ years past the creator's death. The overlap between "old enough to feel like public property" and "actually in the public domain" is much smaller than producers assume, and for most of the Highlife, Fuji, and Afrobeat catalogue currently being sampled, that overlap doesn't exist yet.
Two Different Permissions, Two Different Owners
A sample or interpolation almost always requires clearing two separate things, often from two separate people:
The composition (the song itself). If you're using the actual melody, lyrics, or a recognizable musical phrase, even re-recorded from scratch, with new vocals, new instrumentation, you need permission from whoever owns the publishing: usually the songwriter, their estate, or a publisher who administers the catalogue. This is called an interpolation when you re-create the melody or lyric yourself rather than lifting the original recording, and it still requires clearance, re-recording something doesn't launder it.
The sound recording (the actual audio). If you're lifting the literal recorded audio, Ayuba's actual vocal take, Barrister's actual mixed track, from the original master, you additionally need permission from whoever owns that specific recording: often the artist's estate, a record label, or whoever currently controls those old masters (frequently unclear in cases where a Nigerian label from the 80s or 90s has since dissolved, changed hands, or never digitized its rights records in the first place). This is a sample in the strict sense, and it needs its own separate clearance from the composition.
Miss either one, and you have a problem, even if you cleared the other perfectly. The Veronica Vega and Quavo case makes this concrete: when "A Million" sampled the son of Apala legend Musiliu Haruna Ishola, Ishola's estate stepped in and required the sample to be formally cleared before the video could even be released, the fact that it was an older, culturally beloved Apala record didn't exempt it, and the estate was actively watching for unauthorized use.
What Happens When You Skip This
The Mr. Eazi and Bad Bunny situation is the clearest cautionary tale the genre has, precisely because it shows this isn't only a risk for the small, unknown artist getting sampled by someone even bigger, it's a risk that runs in every direction. Mr. Eazi's emPawa Africa alleged that Bad Bunny's "Enséñame a Bailar" interpolated and sampled Joeboy's "Empty My Pocket" without permission or credit. What followed wasn't a quiet DM exchange, it was over two years of unsuccessful negotiation, a public accusation of "blatant appropriation," and eventually a federal lawsuit filed by the original producer. A Grammy-nominated, globally massive album became legally entangled over an uncleared piece of Nigerian production, and the dispute dragged on for years specifically because clearance wasn't handled before release, when it's cheap and routine, but after, when it becomes adversarial and expensive.
Flip the direction, and the same risk applies to a Nigerian producer flipping an old Fuji or Highlife record without reaching out first. The reason more of these disputes haven't become public lawsuits isn't that permission was granted, often, it's that:
- •The original artist or estate hasn't discovered the use yet, or hasn't had the resources to pursue it.
- •A quiet settlement or credit correction happened after release, out of public view, costing more in legal fees, master ownership, or royalty percentage than it would have cost to clear upfront.
- •The estate is still actively protected and simply hasn't gotten around to enforcing yet, which is not the same as permission, and doesn't expire.
None of these are a safe position to release music from. They're a waiting problem, not an avoided one.
Estates Are More Organized Than You Think
There's a specific assumption worth killing directly: that a deceased Highlife, Fuji, or Afrobeat pioneer's catalogue is basically unmanaged, and nobody is really tracking new uses of it. Fela Kuti's catalogue is actively managed by his family and estate, who license his work internationally and are well aware of its ongoing cultural and commercial value, his songs have been formally licensed for the Broadway musical FELA!, for J. Cole, for countless documented, credited uses. That is not a passive estate. Barrister's, Ishola's, and other major Fuji and Apala pioneers' families and labels are increasingly aware of their catalogues' renewed commercial relevance precisely because producers like Sarz have made 60s-90s Nigerian records fashionable again, which means estates have more financial incentive than ever to notice, and enforce, unauthorized use.
The irony worth sitting with: the more culturally resonant and successful your sample-based record becomes, the more visible it is, and the more likely the original rights holder, or their lawyer, eventually hears it.
How to Actually Clear a Sample or Interpolation
1. Identify both rights holders before you fall in love with the sample. Who wrote it (composition) and who owns the master recording (sound recording) can be two completely different parties, especially for records released through now-defunct or restructured Nigerian labels from decades ago.
2. Reach out early, before the song is finished or announced. Clearance conversations that start before a release date are business negotiations. Clearance conversations that start after a release goes viral are leverage negotiations, and you're the one without leverage.
3. Expect to offer a percentage, not just a flat fee. Many sample and interpolation clearances are structured as a songwriting or publishing percentage split going forward, rather than (or in addition to) a one-time payment, meaning the original writer or estate becomes a permanent co-owner of your new song's publishing.
4. Get it in writing — a signed license, not a verbal nod. A relative's spoken blessing at a family gathering is not a legal clearance. You need a signed sample/interpolation license naming the specific work, the specific use, the percentage or fee, and the rights being granted (recording rights, publishing rights, or both).
5. If you can't find or confirm the rights holder, that is not a green light. An untraceable owner doesn't mean the work is unprotected, it means enforcement is currently unlikely, which is a risk position, not a legal one. Many publishing administrators and specialist sample-clearance services (increasingly relevant as Afrobeats' international profile grows) can help track down obscure or dissolved Nigerian label rights.
6. Interpolating instead of sampling doesn't remove the obligation — it only removes one of the two clearances. Re-singing K1's melody yourself instead of lifting his vocal take still requires clearing the underlying composition, even though it removes the sound-recording clearance. Producers sometimes interpolate specifically to avoid a hard-to-trace master rights holder, but that only solves half the problem.
7. Credit is not the same as clearance, but it matters anyway. Crediting the original writer in your metadata is good practice and helps royalty systems route money correctly once a deal is in place, but a credit line without a signed agreement and, where relevant, a fee or percentage, is not legal permission to release.
The Bigger Point
Nigerian music's willingness to reach back into Highlife, Fuji, and Afrobeat's deep catalogue is one of the genre's genuine creative strengths right now, it's connecting a Gen Z audience to musical lineage in a way few other scenes are doing as visibly. That's worth protecting, not discouraging. But protecting it means treating those older records the way the industry already treats a Wizkid or Burna Boy master: as something owned, valued, and actively defended by someone, even if that someone is a family member managing an estate rather than a modern label's legal department.
The records currently being flipped into hits were somebody's life's work. Clearing them properly isn't a bureaucratic tax on creativity. It's the difference between building on Nigeria's musical history and quietly taking from it.
