A snippet of Ruger’s unreleased song recently surfaced online, quickly becoming the subject of debate. The lyrics—“If a girl worry me I delete her/ Put her inside the bin bag/ So why won’t she be bitter”—struck a nerve, prompting conversations about their meaning, intent, and broader implications. Was this just a metaphor gone awry, or does it reflect a deeper issue embedded in Afrobeats and Nigerian society at large?
Ruger has since addressed the backlash, clarifying that his words weren’t literal and were never meant to advocate harm: “Put her inside the bin bag just simply means she’s trash. Don’t turn this into what it’s not.” Still, the imagery is unsettling. The phrasing—“delete her,” “put her inside a bin bag”—carries a weight that can’t be easily dismissed, particularly in a country where violence against women remains an urgent crisis. Even if unintentional, why use language that evokes such grim associations?
Music has long functioned as a mirror, reflecting the attitudes and realities of the society that shapes it. But at what point does artistic expression become complicit in normalizing harm? If the goal was to be provocative, to grab attention, then it worked—but was it worth it? Artists have a right to creative freedom, but how often do we consider the cost of that freedom, particularly when it intersects with real-world harm?
Perhaps the more interesting question isn’t whether Ruger’s lyrics were deliberately harmful, but why no one in his team flagged them as problematic. Songs typically pass through several hands—producers, A&Rs, and management—before they reach the public. Was there a conversation about how these lyrics might be received? Or have we reached a point where the industry no longer sees such language as worth interrogating?
This isn’t the first time misogyny in Afrobeats has sparked discussion. Fela Kuti’s Lady dismissed feminist ideals as foreign corruption, while contemporary acts have frequently leaned on narratives that cast women as disposable or subordinate. In some cases, controversy seems to work in an artist’s favor. Outrage fuels visibility, and visibility—more often than not—translates to streams and sales. If misogyny sparks engagement, does that mean there’s no incentive to change the narrative?
At the heart of this discussion is a broader societal question: Why does language like this still thrive? The reactions to Ruger’s snippet show a split—some argue it’s just a song, while others see it as part of a larger pattern that desensitizes audiences to harmful rhetoric. If the goal is simply to entertain, should entertainment ever be exempt from accountability? Or should we start asking harder questions about the role artists and industry figures play in shaping cultural norms?
Ruger’s snippet may fade from the headlines soon enough, but the conversations it has sparked remain relevant. Rather than focusing solely on condemning individuals, perhaps it’s more useful to examine the structures that make these moments so recurrent. Who gets to decide what is acceptable? And when does creative license become a shield for something more insidious?
Maybe the real question isn’t whether Ruger crossed a line, but why that line keeps moving.