I MET YELLW, NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH YELLOW AND HIS  MUSIC REMINDS YOU TO FEEL

It’s a powerful thing to remember where you were when you first heard a song—what you were into, the feelings it stirred. I remember exactly where I was when Yellw’s music found me. “Found” might seem an odd word, but that’s precisely what happened; I didn’t go searching for it. I was sitting on my balcony, rearranging my playlist for what felt like the millionth time, toggling the loop icon in a search for new songs. That’s when I first heard Yellw.

As a writer, I’m driven by artistic freedom—freedom of expression, belief, and imagination. Paradoxically, pursuing these freedoms often requires a certain order and restraint. Music fulfils this balance for me, and listening to Yellw’s “Hello” brought me to a place where my imagination, beauty, and love could roam free.

Five months later, I followed him on Instagram, and it was nearly a year after that when I finally spoke to him. There was no way I’d pass up the chance to get swept into the mind behind poetic stories that feel as true as they are imagined, inviting full participation. These thoughts may be subjective, but in meeting Yellw, I found someone liberated, alert, and genuinely free.

“I don’t trust you; you’re an imposter,” Yellw says to me, laughing, after I tell him I think I like anime too. “You think?” he emphasizes, and I picture him making air quotes, amused and giggling. “You see, outside music, I enjoy swimming, I priorities family, and I spend my free time watching anime. I’m an anime nerd.” I laugh, calling him a gatekeeper, and tell him I’ve watched a few myself. He giggles again.

Throughout our call, he’s always on the edge of laughter—wild swimming through his experiences, expressing himself freely; his gestures are animated. I think to myself, surely he knows beyond our profoundly fallible human nature he can fly, simply because he takes himself lightly.

Born in Warri and hailing from Port Harcourt, Yellw spent most of his childhood surrounded by music. This steady exposure would eventually guide him toward a career as an artist.

 “You see, my dad was a fan of Michael Jackson, Lionel Richie, Phil Collins, and a lot of R&B legends. I used to sing along, especially to Michael Jackson, and that’s when I knew I really liked music. Then we moved to PH, and in secondary school, I actually started singing properly. Seniors would call me to their class—when I was in JSS1, they’d call me up to SS1 or SS3 to sing for the class,” he says, pausing to giggle. You can tell it’s one of those core memories. “I also used to perform on social days, school carols… it was always there, but I wasn’t writing yet—I hadn’t written a song then.

Curious, I ask, “Oh, wait, so when did you start writing?”

2015, 2016… somewhere around then.”

“That’s such a long time,” I say, surprised.

He nods. “Yeah, actually. I remember the first time I wrote something. I never recorded it, but I still have it written down.”

Some people are afforded the rare privilege of a precise moment when they know music is for them. From where I stand, it feels like they can, amidst the industry’s complexities, send something winged and singing into the void. It soars, echoing and animating lives, turning into a community.” I had an ‘aha’ moment,” Yellw recalls. “I recorded something on my phone and dropped it on Audiomack and SoundCloud. Even before I posted it, I sent it to my guys, and they all went, ‘What? If you can sound like this just recording on your phone, you need to take this seriously.’ Before that, I never saw myself doing music professionally; I was relaxed. I felt like I was just in the choir, singing because I enjoyed it. But recording that track and hearing how good it sounded made me think twice.”

That first song, Why Are You Lying?” was released on Audiomack and SoundCloud, and with his friends’ encouragement, it was the first time Yellw considered that music might really be for him.

“I’m glad they pushed you,” I say.

“Same. They still do,” he replies.

“You make a lot of songs. What do you hope people feel when they hear them?” I ask.

“I hope they realise it’s okay to feel all those complicated emotions—sadness, longing, loneliness, even love,” he says thoughtfully. “Sometimes, these feelings feel so alien, like they shouldn’t be there. But you shouldn’t hide from them. When I make music, I hope the listener naturally connects with the emotions they’ve been avoiding, the ones they’re running from. That’s what I want—to help people reflect on something they’re struggling to make sense of, just like I’m trying to make sense of my own emotions. Music lets you do that.” He pauses. “For some reason, it feels like it’s almost bad to feel these days.”

“Make feelings cool again,” I say.

He laughs. 

Maybe it’s because sharing those feelings can feel uncomfortable,I continue.

Yeah, so we end up avoiding them, not letting ourselves get to the point where we’d even need to share,” he agrees. “But feelings demand to be acknowledged. We need to make sense of them, however intense they are.”

“Yes, we do,” I reply, and the weight of his words settles over us.I’m curious about how he navigates the music industry as an independent artist, balancing his solo releases with his passion project—a collective called Yellw Family.

“I don’t talk about it often,” he begins. “It’s challenging and definitely not the easiest thing, especially for someone like me. I have a vision, and it has to be perfect. The industry can be tough for independent artists; there are a lot of barriers.” He pauses, considering his words. “I don’t even like to call them doors or gatekeepers, because I believe you can get into any room with consistency. But the financial aspect—it’s difficult, demanding, even physically. Recording, shooting, all of it. I’m still finding my footing on the business side of things.”

He explains that he started purely out of his love for singing, but two years in, he realised he needed to take the business seriously if he wanted to thrive.

“It’s still a bit hard to navigate, but my A&R, Bev, has really helped. She has experience in the music business and has been instrumental in setting up the foundation—distributors, agreements, and collaborations with other artists. She’s played a big role in organising things for projects like the Yellw Family tape.” 

Yellw’s journey, shaped by the synergy between his artistic vision and business growth, reveals a tenacity that keeps him grounded despite the challenges of independence.

I ask about Yellw Family and how he managed to pull it off, especially with so many people involved.

“For some reason, I think it has to do with how I handle relationships,” he says, pausing. I think he’s trying to avoid sounding self-congratulatory.

“You seem genuine,” I offer.

“Yes, I try to be as genuine as possible. We all do,” he replies, nodding towards his team. “So it wasn’t too hard to get everyone on board and agree on percentages. People can sense the kind of person you are, and that affects how they choose to interact with you. No one tried to be difficult or anything, because it’s just not my nature. Everyone came through honestly and was okay with the agreement.”

“That’s a blessing,” I say, and he agrees.

“Yes, it really is. We’re actually thinking about running a recording camp soon. Financing was a challenge this time, but hopefully next year we’ll make it happen.”

It’s clear that Yellw Family isn’t just a project for him; he exists somewhere on the horizon between building trust and community.

I ask him if he thinks his personality reflects in his music.

“I think it does,” he replies. “I feel like I express more in my music than I do in real life. It’s hard to explain.”

“I think I understand what you mean,” I say, I think about how the words I put on paper have saved me from stumbling over my thoughts. It’s similar to that, I imagine.

“I can’t just say certain things on the spot, but in my music, it’s easier. I try to make it as truthful as possible. I don’t think I’ve ever lied in a verse, and I wouldn’t. I’m not going to claim I shot someone if I haven’t.”

I laugh, appreciating his honesty. With such an interesting story to tell through his music, I doubt he’d have any reason to fabricate anything.

“What’s your hidden talent?” I ask.

“I can drum.”

“Aha, nice!” I exclaim, and he chuckles.

“Yeah, and I play games. I like adventure games, especially Star Wars.”

 I ask him if there’s a song that describes his life.

“Wait, I haven’t thought about this,” he laughs, pausing for a moment. “I think ‘Tell Me.’”

“Huh, interesting,” I respond. “I’ve listened to ‘Tell Me’ a lot. It was one of the first songs of yours I heard.”

‘Tell Me’ unfolds as a series of questions directed at a lover, steeped in existential doubt. In summary, the lyrics ask, Am I to feel what I feel? Is it in my head? Am I allowed to feel this? Do you feel the same?

“Why ‘Tell Me’?” I ask.

“I talk about how difficult it can be to deal with me, how my experiences might be overwhelming for someone else to understand. I didn’t come from an easy place; I lost my dad at a really young age, and I had to step up.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, I hope he can tell that I mean that.

“That’s okay. I talk about it in ‘Treacherous.’” He explains that ‘Treacherous’ is part of a body of work he’s perfecting ahead of its release. “You know, it’s a little difficult. ‘Tell Me’ reflects how hard it might be to deal with me, and I hope you still rock with me, just like in ‘Hello.’”

“I love ‘Hello,’” I tell him. “It was my first Yellw experience.”

“How did you find it?” he asks.

“It found me,” I reply. “I tried to think about how I heard it, and I concluded it actually just found me.”

He laughs. I’m serious; it’s my one song,” I insist.

“This means a lot to me, I’m sure you know, That’s why you like ‘Drunk Driving,’” he says, referencing another song from the project he’s working on.

“Yes!” I scream excitedly.

“I referenced ‘Hello’ in it,” he adds

We both laugh, and he says, “Look at you!”

 I express that I would be doing both myself and my inquisitiveness a disservice if I didn’t ask why he chose to spell “Yellw” that specific way.

“My favorite color is actually black,” he says. “But I wanted something unique, and spelling it as ‘yellow’ just felt a bit bland. 6lack inspired me to try a different spelling, and I’m really intent on picking a name that reflects me. Yellw stands for happiness and optimism, and there’s an entire psychology behind why it’s great.”

“Interesting,” I reply, pondering the depth behind the name.

As we approach the end of our conversation, I ask him about his dream collaborations.

“My goodness, I have a lot!” he exclaims. “Tay Iwar, AYLO..” 

 I can genuinely picture that. 

“Tems, Bloody Civilian and Solis. It will happen in due time,” he says. I nod in agreement. 

“I have an EP and a couple of joint tapes with various artists slated for next year. One is coming out in January or February, and by God’s grace, we’ll be working with Aristokrat on that one. That’s about it. I also want to create a space where people can come to record music long-term, along with intimate listening parties or closed listening sessions”. 

G.K. Chesterton wrote about how solemnity flows naturally from men, while laughter requires a leap; it’s easy to be heavy but hard to be light. Yellw approaches his music with fierce passion, as if his very essence depends on it. Yet he holds the reins of his time lightly, never taking himself so seriously that he loses the soul that defines both his character and his sound. 

In my time interviewing artists, I’ve encountered every form of personality, from chaos and debauchery to an almost obsessive, meticulous order. Yet, I’m consistently proven wrong to think I know what to expect, and Yellw feels different—urgent, even. Outstanding! I wish him great luck in whatever he chooses to pursue, though he does not need it; his talent is more than enough to carry him forward.

Authored by Neone Adebayo.