Toronto-based trio Afrique Like Me (ALM) emerged out of love for collective experiences and a desire to challenge narratives in electronic music. The artist collective officially came together in 2019, beginning with founding members Razaq Onakoya and Martin Sesinu Ogun, and later adding Toronto- and Nairobi-based DJ Anowa Quarcoo. As an event series, they’ve forged spaces for all types of ’Friques to dance all night and connect with ease.
On the dancefloor, they span the universes of Afrobeat, Afrohouse, and techno while crossing over countless regional genres. ALM creates space for people to access and discover the expansive legacies in African electronic music.
Razaq (DJ Razaq El Toro) is a pioneering producer of the Eko Electronic sound from Lagos, Nigeria, and blends into wider genres such as Afrohouse. Anowa (Sonic Griot) weaves together sounds from where she grew up in Kenya, Uganda and South Africa.
These musical origins shape the distinct and self-affirming core of ALM’s sonic curation, while their selections and collaborators travel countless musical worlds with ease. Anowa invites all to come connect unconditionally, unapologetically: “Come as you are — no judgment.”
What does it mean to be a ’Frique?
Razaq knows people who come out to ALM events feel a comfort, ease, and sense of exploration. “People don’t come to our parties to be cool… I love that a lot of people come to our parties by themselves.” Razaq sees this as a reflection of ALM’s efforts to create a safe space to be themselves, where people feel able to show up and connect authentically around the music with others.
Martin notes the deep understandings of regional, local music with distinct origins provide people a forum to connect and learn. Genres rooted in a specific people, land or city of Africa, such as fuji, apala, and highlife, that have spread to continents far from Nigeria and Africa as a whole, were and are specifically created for a public forum.
DJ Martin Ses calls himself a ’Frique — a tongue-incheek double entendre which rejects the idea that Africans who engage in club or electronic music are “outsiders.” Martin takes issue with this misconception of electronic sounds. Where for some, North American club and pop may not have been a central language, electronic music is just as embedded in regional African music styles. “Technology and electricity is not something that can be claimed by one particular culture,” Martin reinforces. “We are bringing together Africans. … When you take the concept of electronic music, it’s always misunderstood as something foreign to the African setting.”
To Razaq, ALM has existed as an engine countering a narrative that these electronic styles are obscure or inaccessible if they’re not known or popular in Toronto. In the group’s experience, he says, “As long as you build something that’s true to you, something that’s meaningful, people will gravitate toward that.”
For people who want to access this culture of participation through music and dance, ALM refers to an exploration in shared experience. Razaq resonates with how an atmosphere of comfort and ease is facilitated by the excitement of exploration. He recalls pivotal moments for ALM under the rays of the Toronto afternoon sun, hauling speakers out under the canopy on a remote beach with the smell of back home wafting off the barbeque. This public effort, with everyone bringing their own offerings, and no end of DJ sets and performances, creates a forum of exploration and connection. Razaq recalls laying in the sand and dozing off, amid everyone dancing until the sunrise.
“The sun is coming up on the beach… [it was the] first time I played the Burna Boy, ‘Wonderful’ & ‘Ten Walls’ [Sparta] mash up. It sticks in my head. East end, secret beach. Everyone comes together, carries speakers, generators, coolers — to set up a production. … There’s this ease; you’re in nature — adventure! It’s super important to bring that feeling back.”
Spaces, environments that lend themselves to collective participation run counter to much of the club industry’s culture of catering largely to a North American popular mainstream. Razaq says they’ve faced challenges where ALM’s events may appear unfamiliar to arbiters of mainstream spaces: “Some places look for clout in a sense — a certain amount of followers, cosigns, people who endorse you. We have a lot of support from the standpoint of authenticity.”
Pushing past the limits of Toronto’s stifled spaces
Anowa laments the disappearance of many do-it-yourself (DIY) spaces that fostered the comfort and explorative energy ALM brings. Some of her favourite venues, such as Sub-Division and Red Room, both downtown, closed their doors or are struggling. She notes the over-regulation, restrictions and policing of open-air spaces. Exasperated after years of stifled efforts, she asks rhetorically: “Can we do a party in the streets like in Berlin?”
For Sesinu and Onakoya, the duality of Toronto and Lagos as home exposes the reality of who does and does not have regular access and power over spaces. In many ways, music is afforded to everyone in Lagos as a public culture. This exists as a core memory for Martin: “You throw a party at your house or outside encroaching on a neighbour’s compound — they have no other option but to attend your party. They don’t call the police.” While this approach may not fly in Toronto, Sesinu says it is possible “to create spaces that minimally infringe on others, far from where people live.”
A dominant social current in Toronto’s music spaces, also common around the world, produces a socially fragmented culture in nightlife and club music spaces. As Martin sees it, many mainstream spaces miss out on facilitating a collective participation in music, opting instead to cater to more individualistic experiences. Martin contrasts the Toronto club industry with countries where this culture of public music is celebrated, “there’s an active participation, in contrast to the pop culture that exists in the club… where it’s separate — people go there for alcohol, bottle service, the common American music, pop, techno.”
Anowa echoes these thoughts, adding that many venues that took risks on less mainstream experiences suffered during COVID due to additional limitations on public gatherings: “It’s been even more challenging to find spaces. … There’s a reality everyone in the [city] talks about: permitting, noise restrictions. These bureaucratic challenges favour people who have access and power.” She says the work falls on collective-minded artists to take the power back.
Taking the power back collectively
Anowa says many well known electronic spaces felt overwhelmingly white, overlooking countless African artists and DJs, staying exclusionary as a result. “[ALM events started] a space where everyone could show up, and be themselves.”
Martin reinforces that when they took on ALM, it “enabled them to build a community that involved everyone else that felt they were on the outside of something. This could be Black culture, or African culture.” The space they’re creating is intentionally inclusive. “We’re welcome here, just as you are.”
“It’s a foremost African electronic dance music experience, and it’s a welcoming place for everyone. For those who consider themselves outsiders and those who already feel part of the community.”
Afrique Like Me embodies a sense of active participation in and exploration of the music. While their efforts haven’t been without challenges (Razaq recalls a summer beach party getting shut down, for example), ALM believes that more collectives and communities should be encouraged to take risks, open up new spaces, and cultivate a more participatory culture of music. Razaq talks about how “chef” Martin often opens up the small terrace in his building, cooks up food and artists, while listeners share their latest productions in a chill, open-minded hang. Razaq invites creators and music lovers to reach out and see how they can open up more adventurous, explorative spaces. “Let’s see how we can make this happen, in a really good way. We would love that… Fuck it, let’s go find a secret beach again, let’s camp out!”
AfriqueLikeMe has been producing original music, and is headed to the studio with surprise collaborators from across Africa and Toronto matched in force. They expect to produce and drop a full-length album by the end of 2024. And we know they’ll want all the ’friques in on it.
This article appeared in the 2024 Feb/Mar issue.
