by Drew Nyingi
We are witnessing the rave scene in Nigeria going through an evolution. No longer seen as an underground space for lovers of oontz oontz music, it’s grown into more of an escape – a sanctuary for the alternative youth. This falls in line with the very inception of rave culture.
While it may seem new, raves have always been here, hidden in plain sight, woven into the fabric of subcultures like an unspoken second nature. Evolving from its disco roots in the ’80s, the rave scene has become a symbol of a contemporary, community-driven subculture. The energy-charged electronic music pulsing through a building full of raving youths has transformed these spaces into sanctuaries. Sanctuaries for the corporate slaves, the queer, the misunderstood, the art heads, the creatives, and the social outcasts. And in Nigeria, brands like Group Therapy and Boiler Room have carved out these refuges—not as hidden as they once were. Blame it on the internet’s inability to keep secrets. Or maybe just good PR.
“Group Therapy, for instance, is a monthly rave in Lagos where Detroit techno, South African gqom, Nigerian Afrobeats, and Chicago house coexist harmoniously under one roof until dawn.” “Previous raves have been hosted in impromptu venues, including film studios and warehouses, with the unspoken yet widely acknowledged rule: to let loose and give in to the night.” (The Face)
But as historically proven, the thriving of spaces like this is based more on a dire need. Most especially for young people navigating the chaos of the motherland we call Nigeria. Gary Clarke, reflecting on the UK’s rave scene, noted that “it provided an escape from grim realities into a world of expressive music and hardcore dance, transforming derelict warehouses into homes for newfound communities.” (Big Issue North)
And music as a central connector is in many ways, a necessity—something everyone should have access to, some more than others. And those with more access often wield the power to create experiences that turn music into something more tangible, more immersive. That’s where raves come in. Unlike their early inception, they’re no longer just underground gatherings—they’ve been given cultural acknowledgment as alternative spaces for youth expression.
“In Lagos, creative identity thrives in community-based spaces like Waf.Skatepark and 16/16, which serve as hubs for cultural collaboration and artistic expression, offering young Lagosians a sense of belonging and a platform to reshape the culture.” (Condé Nast Traveler)
And for the young Nigerian getting a ticket to Group Therapy, it’s not just about having a good time and stumbling home with a happy buzz. It’s about euphorically partying yourself into total oblivion. Much like trauma survivors seeking to erase memories and feelings through substances, extreme activities, or compulsive behaviors, raves exist at the edge of excess. The music, played at insane volumes, chopping beats over hypnotic synth reverb. The unpredictable and vertiginous bass drops. The relentless lights and visual effects. And the partygoers? They outcompete each other in the sluttiest, most eccentric alternate fashions.
Related: Group Therapy: How Aniko Has Chosen To Redefine Electronic Music – from Lagos.
Yet, beyond the sensory overload, raves create something deeper—a space where dialogue can unfold. A space where people of different religious, cultural, and ideological backgrounds can interact in ways that would be almost impossible outside these environments. Yes, drugs are present, and often encouraged, but reducing raves to mere drug fests dismisses the social bridges they build. In a conflict-driven environment such as Nigeria, subcultures like these thrive, offering an unspoken antidote to division.
Music carries an emotional, affective resonance beyond private consumption. It’s shaped by the environment in which it’s experienced and the sense of community it fosters. Rave culture, with its principles of peace, love, unity, and respect (PLUR), has the power to shift perspectives, to pry open doors that were once slammed shut by socialized hatred.
Strand Magazine perfectly encapsulates this, “Rave scenes offer not just escapism but also a sense of community and identity for those who feel marginalized by mainstream society.” And we’re seeing exactly that in the rave culture here in Nigeria.
For some, in the darkness of the rave, a space appears—more imaginary than real, but no less important for that. A space where the young can be free of inherited prejudices. A space where, for a fleeting moment, they are simply people moving to the same beat. One hand in the air, the other nursing a cup, heads bopping and hips swaying, lost in the euphoric feeling. A feeling I term as heaven. You die to get to such a place, and it’s the same thing here. You OD on EDM.
