Bianca Okorocha doesn’t remember the exact moment rock music found her or, perhaps, when she found it. What she knows, however, is that by age 10, 11, maybe 12, she was already hunting through MTV, searching for something that felt like home. In a country where Afrobeats dominates the airwaves and rock music is often dismissed as Western, foreign, or worse (associated with the occult in Nigeria’s hyper-religious society), the young girl who would become Clayrocksu was already walking a different path.
“It’s a genre I’ve liked since I was very little,” she says during our video call. “What drew me to rock music is how expressive it is with lyrics. Even as a teenager, I found the songs relatable, especially during times when I was feeling very depressed. It was music where I felt at home.”
That sense of home, of belonging to something larger and more authentic than what was expected of her, would become the foundation of everything Clayrocksu represents today. At 13, she began writing her own songs, channeling the raw emotional honesty of Alanis Morissette, The Cranberries, and Avril Lavigne. But even then, singing soft rock in a country that had all but forgotten its own rock history, she made a deliberate choice: she would sing in Igbo.
“I made sure that no matter what, you could always hear Igbo in my songs,” she explains. “My dad is Igbo, and I wanted people to recognize that, because some listeners would say, ‘Oh, you don’t sound Nigerian.’ Including Igbo was my way of saying, this is from Africa.”
Reclaiming a Lost Sound
Rock music wasn’t always perceived as foreign or dangerous in Nigeria. In the 1970s, after the devastation of the Nigerian Civil War, as the country experienced an economic boom fueled by crude oil discovery, rock bands like Ofege, Ofo and the Black Company, War-Head Constriction, the Hykkers, the Funkees, and the Lijadu Sisters filled the airwaves with psychedelic rock and funk that captured a distinctly Nigerian sound. These artistes chronicled the evils of war, and Nigerians reveled in a renewed sense of optimism that turbocharged the growth of the nation’s music industry.
But leftover war trauma and unresolved tensions got swept under the rug, along with Nigerian rock. The genre had a brief resurgence in the early 2000s, then faded again, leaving behind only traces and memories.
Clayrocksu is determined to change that narrative. Around 2021, she stopped calling her music simply “Rock and embraced a more accurate term: Afro rock. More than anything, the decision was a declaration of identity.
“It’s extremely intentional that you not only hear African languages — Igbo, Yoruba, or others — but also the sounds of where I’m from: instruments like the Gangan, Oja, and African chants,” she says. “I want people to know this is rock from Africa. It’s important to me that Nigerians can recognize themselves in it, and for people outside the continent, it sets us apart. We’re not just another rock act; we’re bringing our own style and sound to the scene.”
Today, as a member of the Recording Academy in the US, whose members vote for the Grammys, Clayrocksu carries the weight of representation. But her most significant role may be as founder of Afrorockstars, a collective she established in 2024 that functions as a kind of Justice League for Lagos’s indie rock scene, where artistes band together, host shows, and keep the flame alive.
Building a Movement
The headquarters of this movement at least, spiritually, is Pop Landmark in Lagos, where Afrorockstars hosts monthly Rock Nights. It’s a modest setup, funded entirely by the artistes themselves, their own money, time, and energy poured into rehearsals, organizing bands, and keeping the movement alive. One of the core challenges is inherent to rock itself: it demands live performance with a full band, an expensive and logistically complex requirement that other genres can bypass.
“Rock music and other alternative genres need proper investment to grow: for production, live shows, promotions, and even visibility,” Clayrocksu says plainly. “We need people and organizations to believe in us and support what we’re doing.”
But whether or not there’s an investment, the shows go on. Not too long ago, Clayrocksu and her band performed at Felabration, an annual music festival in Nigeria conceived by Yeni Kuti in 1998 to honors her father, the iconic Nigerian musician and activist Fela Kuti, at the New Afrika Shrine in Ikeja, Lagos. And a space typically dominated by Afrobeats and Afrobeat-inspired sound. The crowd, she recalls, was screaming and vibing, swept up in the energy of Afro rock.
“Whenever people actually hear my music, they love it,” she says. The challenge isn’t reception, I think it is just reach.” Which is partly why she started releasing weekly rock covers of popular Afrobeats songs, transforming hits into distorted guitars and pounding drums. The experiment worked. Some fans loved it, others insulted it, but it all generated traction. More importantly, the creative exercise fed back into her original work.
“I often get ideas for my own music while reimagining those Afrobeats songs in a rock style,” she admits. “Whenever people actually hear my music, they love it,” she says. The challenge isn’t reception, I think it is just reach.” Which is partly why she started rock covers of popular songs, transforming Ayra Starr’s “Rush” and even Shaboozey’s country-pop hit “A Bar Song (Tipsy)” into distorted guitars and pounding drums.
She’s also reimagined love anthem “Arike” by Kunmie and the Afropop viral hit, “Venus” by Faceless. The experiment worked. Some fans loved it, others insulted it, but, according to her, all of it was traction. More importantly, the creative exercise fed back into her original work.
The Aesthetic of Rebellion
If you see Clayrocksu on the street — jet black hair, alternative fashion, an aesthetic that screams nonconformity — you might assume it’s all part of the artiste’s brand. You’d be wrong.
“Honestly, my style isn’t really tied to my music. Even if I weren’t a musician, I’d still dress like this,” she says matter-of-factly. “This is how I dress on a normal day, even when I’m not performing or creating content. If you met me on the street or came to my house and saw how my room is set up, you’d see that it’s just me being me.”
She pauses, then adds: “It’s a lifestyle that I genuinely like. Even before I started doing music, I always tried to dress this way. I just didn’t have the money back then to do it properly.”
This authenticity, the refusal to manufacture an image for consumption, is central to who Clayrocksu is. Check her X (formerly Twitter) or Instagram, her bio reads simply “Non-Conformist,,” as a label she wears with pride. In a hyper-religious society where rock music is often branded as evil and the pressure to conform is immense, she represents something radical simply by existing as herself.
“I represent the kids who do not conform. The misfits, the rebels at heart, the people who choose the road less traveled,’ she says when I asked her what Clayrocksu means. “I represent those who refuse to follow what society says everyone must do, who choose to be unapologetically themselves. That’s who I am too. I do exactly what I want, without worrying about fitting in. If anyone looks up to me, it should be because I’m a light, a beacon for those who dare to be different.”
The Future Is Louder
Clayrocksu is currently working on her first full-length album, set for release next year. It will be louder, bolder, and heavier than anything she’s done before. It is, according to her, a deeper dive into Afro metal that pushes the boundaries of the sound she’s been cultivating.
“While I’ve always made Afro rock, this new project goes even deeper. I’m experimenting more with Afro metal and heavier sounds,” she says, barely containing her excitement. “It’s going to be a very interesting album.”
She dreams of collaborations too, with Tems, whose artistry she admires, with Rema, whose genre-fusing style she finds compelling. Internationally, she’d love to work with the American singer, Willow Smith and American rapper and singer, Machine Gun Kelly, artistes who understand what it means to exist between worlds.
But perhaps most importantly, she dreams of a future where young Nigerians see rock as an option and not as something foreign or dangerous, but as a valid expression of who they are.
“I want them to see that they can be rock artistes, Afro rock artistes, Afro metal artistes, or Afro alternative artistes, that this space is open for them,” she says. “Because if people don’t know that this genre exists as a choice in Nigeria, they won’t consider it.”
Rock music in Nigeria has died twice before: in the late 1970s and again in the early 2000s. Clayrocksu and the Afrorockstars collective are determined to ensure it doesn’t happen a third time. With every distorted guitar riff, every Igbo lyric screamed into the microphone, every monthly show at Pop Landmark, they are reclaiming history, building community, and lighting a beacon for every misfit who’s ever felt like they didn’t belong. The road less travelled, it turns out, has a soundtrack. And it’s louder than you think.