This is the concluding part of our Psquare special: An insight into the minds of brothers Paul and Peter Okoye, who split in 2017 and found their way back to each other after 5 years as solo acts. Each interview explores the pain of a split, the circumstances surrounding the decision to break up a functioning partnership, and an exploration of artistic individualism within successful music groups. To read the first part of Peter Okoye (Mr. P), “O boy, how far na?”

Paul Okoye takes some time to get to the laptop, sitting at his living room table, in his Lagos home. He peers into the computer, where I stay smiling at the other end, waiting for a conversation about spending the twilight of his successful career as a solo act. A management team member presses a few buttons on the laptop and gives him the all-clear to engage. “it should be fine now,” he says, as Paul Okoye’s attention is taken by someone else in the room seeking clarity on a subject. “Erm, yes, na that one…” Paul answers, before adjusting the camera one more time, and getting into our conversation.

With Paul Okoye, you can never fully get the complete picture of anything beyond music. He’s taciturn in an effusive fashion. He appears to tell you everything while avoiding invasive topics that provide the most clarity in this situation. Topics related to the bond of brotherhood, and the state of the family. Paul first made the headlines as part of the Nigerian pop group, Psquare. A family man through and through, he’s part of a legacy singing machine formed in partnership with his brother, Peter Okoye. Together, they’ve become heroes of Nigerian pop music, creating, recording, and releasing dominant music that time has only made more iconic.

Regarded highly as the creative engine of Psquare, Paul Okoye might lack the showmanship and natural exhibitory flair as his brother, but he’s rooted in the art of songwriting, crafting poignant melodies, getting the large share of the recording process right, and ultimately defining the Psquare sound. He takes pride in that reputation, leaning into it, and sharing stories that offer credibility to the public consideration of his powers. He tells me about his dreams and how they make up a strong part of his world-beating run. “If you say how do I write? it means I'd be listening to something and I'd create, no,” he explains. “Everything comes from my dream. I'd be sleeping and I'd see myself singing, and I'd wake up and be hearing beats in my head. Whatever I sang in my dream, I'd use my phone to record it. From “Do Me” to “No One Like You.” I can remember “Do Me”'s own very well. I just woke up and heard, "do me, do me, do me, make you do me." Even the beat.”

That’s weird. But it’s a rare gift. It doesn’t seem fair that some musicians can become so well versed in their craft that they can tap into their subconscious to dream up parts—or the entirety—of a new song to add to their already impressive catalogs. But the history of music has a long, seldom-acknowledged road filled with successful dreamers. From Paul McCartney jumping off a deep slumber and playing the tune of “Yesterday,” to Florence and the Machine receiving a visit from her deceased grandma who essentially gave her the lyrics to a song. Paul Okoye tells me he walks that same road, and it’s his creative trump card for scoring the biggest songs.

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Anaba Moses

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