Jiire Smith is one of those artists you feel you understand almost perfectly after just one conversation. Maybe it’s the way he talks about Asa with the same tenderness he brings to his lyrics, or the intentionality that comes from someone who started as a poet long before a producer. Though he’s studying in Abu Dhabi, there’s nothing diluted about his identity: his worldview, his sound, and his stories are shaped by unmistakably Nigerian experiences.

In this interview, Jiire talks about the leap from political science to music, the discipline behind his breakout record “Bus 170,” the emotional courage of writing “She Goes,” and why he isn’t interested in chasing trends or fitting into genre boxes. He reflects on grief, purpose, vulnerability, and the small but consistent moments that shaped his career. 

For those who don’t know you, what’s the first thing you would want them to know about you?

I’d want them to know that I’m Nigerian and I love Asa. I think that gives a bit of a picture of the kind of music I make and of the kind of person I am; that’s a good starting point.

I feel like I know you now, just based on that. I also know that you started with poetry before music. How does your literary background show up in your songwriting today? Are there any specific poetic techniques you still use, and any books or poets from your childhood that still influence your work today?

I think reading and writing poetry has been a foundation for songwriting. Now it serves more as an anchor in how I approach writing in terms of putting a lot of intention behind the words that I’m writing. I’m not ever bluffing. I’m not ever just filling up melodies with random words. The intention of poetry comes into play in songwriting as narrating a story and making it make sense in a way that everybody can understand, but also in a way that allows you to think deeper about a few lines and words in a poetic manner.

You pivoted from studying political science at NYU Abu Dhabi to pursuing music full-time. Was there a specific moment or realisation that made you take that leap?

Absolutely. I came to NYU with a full scholarship, and you know, with Nigerian parents, it’s like, okay, you finally got an opportunity to do something with your life, you better make the best of it. I had previously released stuff on my SoundCloud, but I didn’t see any path or didn’t know if it’s possible to actually do music. When I came here and started doing open mics in Abu Dhabi and in Dubai, I started to see that people were having reactions. It’s not like somebody knows you and you send them your songs. It’s just a random group of hundreds of people actually having positive reactions to your performance. This started to give me confidence that maybe if I try to search for places where I can find structure to follow some kind of path with music, that will make a difference.

I went to a couple of professors in the Music department and asked them for pointers, and one of them directed me to an artist development program that was happening in Berklee Abu Dhabi, which is just like 15 minutes from my campus. I took that program, and through it I was able to see the structure of the music business, of production, of songwriting. When I could finally see structure and path, then I decided to make the switch.

How does your Nigerian identity shape your sound, especially as you are currently living somewhere else? How do you bring those two parts together?

One thing I definitely want to demystify is the idea that when somebody’s based—it’s not even the word—temporarily outside of Nigeria, there’s nothing that is not Nigerian about me. The first time I left Nigeria was to come to university here, the first time I entered a plane was to come to university. There’s no distance to be made up. It’s just that I’m now schooling somewhere outside of Nigeria. I just want to establish that.

There’s something Muyiwa Awoniyi, Tems’s manager, said one time about how when people would say, “Oh, Tems’s music is not necessarily Nigerian enough or African enough,” the mere fact that the creator of something is Nigerian, the mere fact that the creator is African, that makes that Nigerian music, that makes that music African music. You don’t have to sing in Yoruba. You don’t have to add gong with percussion. Whatever style is created, is Nigerian music. While we have the umbrella image of Nigerian music as Afrobeats and all, it has never stopped artists like Johnny Drille and Cobhams and many others from still creating music that is Nigerian.

If I were to make an intentional effort to prove to anyone that I’m Nigerian, I guess it’s by using pidgin in my songs, but I don’t do it not out of trying to make a point. For instance, my latest song called “Baby You’re a Diamond,” the chorus is largely in pidgin, and I have messages from people asking me to translate what this means, and I do translate, but at the same time, it doesn’t really matter what the translation means. The feeling you get from the whole song is what matters the most.

Okay, that makes sense. Still kind of in that same tune—the Nigerian music scene as a whole is experiencing a level of global recognition right now that is unprecedented. Where do you see yourself fitting in that narrative?

To be honest, I don’t see myself within the context of Nigerian music being globally appreciated, and that’s been my entry into music and the music industry. I think the world is receptive to sounds from anywhere as long as it is beautiful, and the world doesn’t really care where it’s from. It’s just what they hear and what they like. Here in Abu Dhabi and in Dubai, Afrobeats is the most popular genre. When people are playing Rema or Ayra Starr, most of them don’t really know the origin or the hows and the whys; they just like it. It is we who are within the culture that see it as a movement, as a shift in reception.

For me, from outside of Nigeria, I can see that it’s not about where you’re from or a global recognition of Nigeria. It’s just the music and the infrastructure behind it—the labels, the planning, the strategies are delivering, all those things are working well. Whether I was in London or in Abuja or in Lagos or in Abu Dhabi, I think I can still have a wonderful experience as a musician regardless of being 3,000 miles away.

You’ve kind of foreshadowed this a little bit, but I’m still going to ask. You’ve mentioned the fact that there is what we know as Afrobeats, but there’s also space for artists like Johnny Drille and Asa and Cobhams. How do you navigate your own artistry as you exist in a lane that might not totally fit traditional genre boxes?

I am not concerned with how I can fit in, be appreciated, or be recognised. I am most concerned with creating something that is authentic to what I believe and how I see the world. If today it sounds slow and calm, and then tomorrow it sounds fast and dancey, that’s fine. In my artistry, I am only reflecting my own perception and my own experiences. I’m not in a rush to align myself with any more acceptable or more commonly consumed sound because I don’t really care about being famous, however that sounds. I think good music always has a way of getting to the right people, and there are many artists around the world who are enjoying good careers, and the music is either fast or slow or calm or pure.

“Bus 170” is mentioned as your breakthrough moment. Can you walk us through the creation of that song? What was going on at the time? What do you think made it resonate so deeply with the audience?

I had come out of a situation with someone that the song reflects and talks about. When I talked to a few friends in Abu Dhabi about it, they also shared the same experiences of where you’re trying to be in some kind of relationship with someone, but then there’s the barrier of religion, traditions, race, and all the societal blockades that come with joining one world to another or trying to do that. I thought to myself, “I want to write about this, in a way that everyone who has had a glimpse of this experience or can even just peek inside this window is going to thoroughly enjoy it.”

I took maybe two months just writing the lyrics for that song. Usually, I would not take that long to write anything, but I was so certain that if I took this story and was very intentional with what I said and how I said it, it was going to do something very good. After writing, I produced it over two weeks. The first time I posted it on Instagram, it just caught fire, and I could see the proof of all the pre-thinking. After a week or so, I released it properly and it really started taking off from there.

I think what works in the song is: the narration is very clear, very relatable, and the music itself is dope. The beat, the production, all that is very enjoyable. At the same time, the songwriting is like you go into the world of the song. I’ve not met anyone who was thinking about genre or style or whatever when they heard that song because, again, beautiful music connects regardless of where it comes from and how it sounds.

I’ve heard that one, and it’s a really good song. You also describe your music as a medium for self-expression and emotional healing. How do you balance being vulnerable with the artistry, knowing when to share something that’s deeply personal, putting that in your art or keeping it private?

That’s a very important question. In my song “She Goes,” I spoke about the experience of losing my mother and all the processes that came after that and the feelings and the thoughts. I guess in the process of doing that song, I really tested the fine line between vulnerability and still protecting yourself and keeping a good bit of you for you, even when you’re creating stuff for the public.

After that song, which I needed to do on a personal level—I needed to do that song for myself as a kind of cathartic release—it was five years after mom had passed, and I felt at that point in my own personal life I was really getting to the point of acceptance and kind of happiness after all that had happened. I needed to get that out, and that’s why I did that song, not because I was trying to get anybody’s attention. It was more for myself.

After that, I think my metre for vulnerability is a lot more controlled. Even though the songs are vulnerable, I’m keeping a lot more of myself. I think it depends on the experiences you have in your own life, whether you need to get more out or keep more for yourself. Right now, I want to keep more for myself.

I’m sorry to hear about your mom’s passing, but it’s good that you found a way to work through it as well. You are not just a singer-songwriter, you are also a producer. How does wearing both hats change your creative process? Do you approach songs differently when you know you’ll be producing them yourself? Is your process different if you’re writing something that might be produced by someone else?

I’m absolutely already thinking about the full beat when I’m writing. I’ve never finished writing a song without already imagining the full production. I think sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad. It’s good in the instances when I really want some particular detail, and I want some particular feeling in the production, and I’m either time-constrained or I don’t want to lose the moment of inspiration. Instead of going to somebody else, I produce it myself, like “Bus 170.” I knew exactly what I wanted it to sound like, and that’s what I did.

On the other hand, it can influence the song in a way that I may not be able to see because I’m so deep inside the full process. For instance, in the chorus of a song, when I’m writing the lyrics, I’m already thinking about the beat and how I can make it larger and make it impactful and all that, but maybe I’ve missed out on something that I should have paid more attention to in the writing that would have made the chorus even better. Or maybe I’ve overemphasised the production in the chorus. This is where you always need second and third ears, which I always have people to bounce ideas off. But I would say it works positively and sometimes dangerously as well.

You started in the church choir when you were 13. Am I right? Was that the beginning of music for you?

No, definitely not. In my family house, my mom was always singing. She herself made an album before she passed and I played violin on that album. In the house my brother as well has been singing for a while. So it was not the beginning, but in church this was the constant everyday experience of learning from the choir master and all that. That was kind of more of the formal instruction of music.

Do you still see the gospel foundation in your music? Because there’s kind of a particular vibe that we see in artists that come upthrough that pipeline. Do you think it has influenced your vocal style, your approach to melody, or anything about your music?

To be honest, I don’t think so much. Maybe there is and I’m not aware of it, but I don’t think so much of all the listening and singing of gospel style has influenced my own style. At least not in a drastic way. Like sometimes you hear somebody singing and you’re like, “Ah, this person probably came from church.”

Yeah. I think it’s something about the arrangement.

Yeah. But one thing that I know is I don’t enjoy a lot of riffs and runs. I can sing them, I just don’t enjoy all those..

And those are quite common in church music?

Yeah. I don’t really enjoy it. I think I left that part out in church music.

What would you say your earliest memory of music was of you actually creating music, whether it’s instruments or singing?

I think 2013 was the first time I got Fruity Loops on my laptop, and it was very spontaneous. I still can’t believe the whole thing, but I got Fruity Loops on my laptop and I opened it when I was with some friends, and they were singing some stuff, and they wanted us to make a beat. None of us had ever made a beat before. I’d never made a beat before. I just opened my laptop and I was already playing keyboard. I just started putting instruments and layering them—drums and keyboard—and after an hour or so, we had a beat. It was listenable and I remember that first time just stunning myself with that and then thinking, okay, maybe this is something that I have some talent for. I just continued from there, from Fruity Loops to Logic and so on.

In 2013, so you would have been 15?

Yeah.

So that’s when you started production. How many instruments do you play?

I just play the piano. I played violin when I was much younger, but I dropped it. I think I’ve forgotten how to play.

Do you think you would have turned out the same if you didn’t come from such a musical family?

Definitely not. I think there’s some aspect of musical talent that has to be facilitated.

Nurture instead of nature?

Exactly, exactly. Without that, it’s hard for the seed to grow without any water, without any air. Even if the seed is there, it does not grow without that external facilitation.

You’ve said that your motto is “little drops can make an ocean.” That’s beautiful. Would you say it manifests in your day-to-day creative life?

Absolutely. Let me give you an example with the performance I have tomorrow. The Abu Dhabi Art Fair is one of the biggest art fairs in the GCC Middle East region. There’s going to be art curators and gallery exhibitionists from all around the world coming, and this performance tomorrow for the VIP guests is the first musical performance. Basically, it’s the most important night, and I’m performing that night.

Years ago, I was just doing open mics and talking to people and saying hello to people, sharing my Instagram. The person who booked me for this event is someone I met maybe a year ago when he saw me perform as well, just a normal conversation. I have never really tried to force my way into an opportunity or into a space, but I have just been patient with who I am and trusting that what is for me will see me if I make myself available and active. If it sees me and it appreciates me, it will recognise me.

In that sense, those little drops of consistent effort one day just fill up. However you got here, it’s just consistently small, and it makes such a difference.

You’re also vocal about mental health and emotional awareness. Do you think that artists have a responsibility in these conversations, especially in contexts like ours where mental health stigma still remains strong?

I wouldn’t say artists have a responsibility. I don’t think that the artist’s voice in society is more important or more elevated than any other voice. If it is so, it is only because the nature of the artist’s career is public-facing. To be a successful musician, you must be known by people. To be a successful doctor, you don’t need to be known by one million people. You just do your job amazingly in your hospital, and the doctors around, the patients around, they know you. Your job is facing patients, but to be an artist, you’re public-facing. So we ascribe so much power to artists, but first, I just want to say I don’t think it’s a responsibility.

I think there’s an opportunity for anyone who has a platform to shed light positively on others, especially with mental health, and really respecting and acknowledging people’s emotional states. I say this because I’ve experienced my own share of difficulties in life, as everyone has. I was 16 and in boarding school when my mom passed. She passed on Friday, and on Monday, I’m still in class. I finished the term there. The counsellor in the school did not—I mean, they tried, they made the gesture of effort, but they didn’t know what to do. Isn’t it crazy? And I’m not the only one. There were other people in my class who lost family members, and the school counsellor, but does not know how to navigate grief for a child. These are things that our society has unfortunately not put enough effort into.

If we have people like, for instance, Wizkid lost his mother. And it could be that people forget that this guy actually—he’s a human being and yet he’s feeling things. You saw, I don’t know if you saw the videos of him crying at the funeral. This guy was broken down. There’s no ‘Big Wiz’ in that situation. He’s just a son who has a life and feelings and all this stuff. So he didn’t actually need to say anything. Again, it’s not his responsibility, but I think his fans seeing that this is how it feels is enough to humanise these experiences that we sometimes put so distant from us.

Look at Davido. He lost his son in that pool accident. And some people still were making fun of it. Some people still use it as something to drag on social media for fan wars. These are things that are not normal, but we have put it so distant from ourselves that we just forget to humanize people and their experiences. I think if people lend a voice when they have the platform, they can make a difference in terms of a ripple effect.

You were named Apple Music’s Up Next artist for the Middle East and you had a live performance for that. How has that platform changed things for you? What doors has it opened?

I think the biggest thing that it does is, it gives legitimacy. I say this from the perspective of, we all have this view of independent upcoming artists. It’s like you’re nothing until you’re something, and it takes a lot to become something. But I think even before becoming something, you still need some little signs and wonders of legitimacy. That is what something like a collaboration with Apple Music does because it tells people that, okay, an institution that we all know and recognise, recognises this person. That means I should recognise this person, or at least I should look into it and see if it resonates with me.

In that sense, it has made access to music industry professionals easier. Previously, they would just not look, and sometimes it’s not that their music is not good, it’s just that the people that they’re trying to reach have not had a reason to pay attention to them. At some point, they have a reason to, and then they go to Spotify or Apple Music, and then they listen to your music. I’m telling you, you can have 5,000 follower,s but only like 500 of them have actually listened to your music, and this is normal.

You might get a message from a music industry A&R or executive and they’re telling you they want to hear about your plans. They have never listened to your music. They just see your vibe. They see a reel or something. Or maybe they listen to one song, and they don’t listen to the rest. You need things to give people a reason to pay attention. That’s what that collaboration does for me, especially as an independent artist.

One thing that’s clear from listening to your music and even from what you said earlier is that you’re a story-driven artist. The story you’re telling in the music matters a lot to you. Who are some artists whose approaches to storytelling in music inspire you, or you just enjoy?

One at the top of my list is Daniel Caesar. With Daniel Caesar, it’s that I listen to the songs and I’m like, I wish I could write like that. I wish my brain could write like that, but it doesn’t work. It just doesn’t work.

The second really is Cobhams. This is more about how he merges lyrics with the music arrangement. He has this song “Everyday” with Bez and The Cavemen. If you listen to that song, it’s like “Everyday for the one wey no dey, one day for the one wey dey.” It’s so simple writing, or if you think of “Ordinary People,” the writing is simple. It’s direct, but it’s so touching. I love that.

Another artist whose writing I really love is Olivia Dean. I’ve listened to Olivia Dean for a long time before she became all the hype, since 2019, and I had the receipts from my Apple Music top artists of all those years. I love the vulnerability. I love the honesty, and I love the clarity. I don’t like so much cryptic, confusing—you have to go and find out the life story of the artist to understand the song. I don’t like all that stuff. I like messages that are clear. That’s something I aspire to, and those artists inspire that.

What makes a good story in a song for you? And what are some of the elements that have to be there? I now know that you prefer it to be simple and direct. What else?

Direct. Not too terribly descriptive. I love Ed Sheeran, by the way. But sometimes you think of an Ed Sheeran song, and it describes the colour of her eyes and the shape of her ear, and the size of her nose. In some genres, that works, but other times I think the focus should be less on the object, whether that’s a person, and more on the feeling or the message being passed other than adoring a person. So that’s one thing. I realise that I rarely write love songs talking about the person and describing them in order to adore them. I just think there’s already enough of that in the world, and so I do something else.

You’re building quite a community. You have over 8,000 followers, 1,200 email subscribers, and quite a bunch of YouTube subscribers as well. How do you think about cultivating a genuine connection with your audience as this number grows? Do you think it will get to the point where it’s no longer like a family, because it’s just too many people?

I think one thing that will remain a constant is that it is the music, the quality of music, that will keep people close. You remember the era before Instagram and before TikTok, where you listened to a song or an album and you didn’t even really know what the artist looked like, apart from the cover art (if their face was even on the cover art)? I have this with Enya. I know what her face looks like a bit from the cover art, but I enjoyed the music so much, and it made me still feel close to the artist. Before Enya was able to even build a community with me as a distant listener all the way in Nigeria, inside Garki in Abuja, I was already connected because of the music.

I think one thing that can happen if you find yourself with millions and millions of listeners is that as long as the music stays true and connects, then the community will still exist. The day that somebody is in the city and you’re performing, they will come, and you’ll see the community live and in person at a show. I had been listening to Khalid since 2017 and I’d always wanted to see him live. I had his “American Teen” album, I had downloaded it on my Android phone from that time. Then, in 2024, when I was in New York, that was the first time I was able to see Khalid live after seven years, and I didn’t feel like I was disconnected all that while because it was the music that kept me close, and I enjoyed the show. That’s just how community works. When the music is good, it keeps people close. No matter how many years, 50 years, you can still put on a show and people will still come and enjoy it.

You’re 22 now, and you already have significant accomplishments. What’s the biggest lesson you’ve learned so far about being an artist in today’s industry?

I think that nobody’s going to change your life. Nobody’s going to save you. Nobody is going to make your dreams come true. But everybody’s going to do all these things if you do one of them first. If you take matters into your own hands, if you lock yourself away for three months and write songs, try to write maybe 100 songs and then you get five or 10 of the best songs, make an EP, you work with producers, you take matters into your own hands, you do everything really well, that’s when people want to save you. People want to change your life, and people want to make your dreams come true because it will probably align with theirs as well. That’s my biggest lesson so far.

Okay. What does success look like for you in five years from now? Are you thinking purely musical, or are there other creative avenues you would like to explore?

Five years from now, I’ve actually thought about this. Starting from 2026 to 2029, I think that’s my first run, my first official run with music. Three years of grinding. I want to put out three EPs, like each year, solid EPs. Then by the fourth or fifth year, I want to put out the most solid debut album to have ever existed. Then success would look like being able to live with family or friends based off of earning from my music and having enough joy in my life to still enjoy life outside of the pursuit of musical greatness. That’s what success would look like when I’m 27. 27 is still young. My brother is 27 right now. We’re still figuring out life. Unfortunately, in music, everything apparently just has to happen at 25. I don’t really believe that.

Okay. Are there any other creative endeavours outside of music you want to pursue?

I want to trade in fashion. There are a lot of business opportunities with fashion, especially between Nigeria and Dubai. I’ve been thinking a lot about starting a business where I can employ people in Lagos to create clothes, shoes, bags, and then we rebrand it and then I come and sell them in Dubai. I really want to do that. I’m not sure when it will start, but I have it right in the centre of my mind.

If you could collaborate with any artist, whether living or dead, whatever genre, who would it be and why?

I would collaborate with Tems. It would be first because I think she represents so much of what I aspire to, which is this alternative approach to doing music from Nigeria for the world. But also, she does it in a very graceful way. She does it in her own lane. She gives thanks to God, and it is clear that what she and her people are building is not about numbers, it’s not all about fame, it’s about life. It’s about living a good life regardless of whether you’re Tems or you’re not Tems today. That’s something she represents for me.

In terms of the music, I think she would make a great introduction for me to the world if there were a collaboration like that.