The camera on Sien Essien’s table sat at a deliberate tilt, framing him in the glow of his streaming setup as we went live. Beside him, a large Bluetooth speaker throbbed with the opening track of “Captain,” the sophomore album by the Nigerian Afropop star Bnxn. In the corner of the shot, the edge of his laptop — its charger snaking lazily across the table — shared space with a wired microphone angled to catch every rise and fall in his voice as he reacted to the new drop, live, for his followers.
And the reaction was big. As his stream filled with ever more people — creeping over 100, then 150 — Essien, who goes by the screen name Sien_wtf on the streaming platform Twitch, began shouting, half in joy, half in disbelief, as he listened to his favorite artist’s album and saw his following climb to 186 viewers for the first time in the six months since he began streaming. This was the confirmation he needed that his efforts were paying off — proof that Nigeria’s most-prized cultural export, Afrobeats, could find momentum on Twitch, and that young creators like him could carve thriving niches in its slipstream.
Twitch — the Amazon-owned platform for livestreaming — is a digital stage on which gamers, DJs and creators perform for real-time audiences who can comment, tip or subscribe for exclusive perks. Globally, it’s a multibillion-dollar industry whose biggest stars rival pop icons in income and influence. While viewership metrics like concurrent watchers and total hours can fluctuate — averaging 2.41 million concurrent viewers in 2023 and 20.8 billion hours watched in 2024 — Twitch’s user base has kept expanding, reaching over 240 million monthly active users by early 2025. In countries like the United States, the United Kingdom and Japan, it’s a central source of entertainment for Gen Z.
In Nigeria, however, Twitch is still a fringe phenomenon. The country’s gamers, musicians and content creators have long gravitated toward TikTok, Instagram and YouTube — platforms built for short-form clips and backed by much larger local audiences. Twitch’s long-form, live-first model promises a new frontier, but the elements of infrastructure needed to sustain it — reliable internet, affordable data and steady electricity — are luxuries still out of reach for many in Africa’s largest economy.
For a growing group of young Nigerians, however, Twitch offers something the others can’t: intimacy. It’s not just broadcasting — it’s the creation of a community in real time.
In the spring of 2024, two of America’s biggest streaming personalities — Robert Escanio, who uses the screen name Fanum, and Kai Cenat — touched down in Lagos. Cenat, a New York-born entertainer with millions of Twitch and YouTube followers, had become a breakout star for his high-energy gaming marathons, prank videos and celebrity collaborations. Fanum, his longtime collaborator, was known for comedy skits, food challenges and an easygoing charisma that played perfectly on camera. Together, they’d built global audiences that treated their every move like an event.
When they landed in Nigeria for the first time — clad in flowing kaftans, the two-piece attire worn by many Nigerian men — the country convulsed with delight. At the airport, a fan handed Cenat a portrait and a custom T-shirt and, grinning, showed off boxers printed with his face. Outside, streets were clogged with SUVs. Fans screamed through tinted windows. Social feeds detonated with shaky phone videos and breathless updates. Then came the viral apex: Cenat tipping a steward $5,000 at Murtala Muhammed International Airport in Lagos when he landed — a moment so surreal it ricocheted across timelines and into prime-time news. “Ahh, Kai Cenat just turned someone into a millionaire just like that,” one comment read.
Adesokan Adedeji Emmanuel, the high-octane Lagos skit-maker known on Twitch as ShankComics, who has his own following of millions, became their unlikely guide — equal parts fixer, hype man and folk hero. For many Nigerians, it was surreal: the world’s biggest Twitch stars wandering their neighborhoods, speaking their slang, reacting to their chaos. Shank steered them through the city’s bedlam, translating jokes, brokering street access and ensuring every encounter hit the internet in real time — a whirlwind that unfolded like one long viral moment.
For Sien, watching from his room, it was a revelation. Twitch — until then an almost abstract idea — was suddenly flesh and blood, speaking his language on streets he knew. If these giants could turn Lagos into content and connect with Nigerians live, maybe his own channel — built in the mold of a variety streamer, the kind who mixes reactions, chat, IRL (in-real-life) streams and whatever else entertains — had a chance.
“These were people I’d only ever watched from a distance, from a screen, people who inspired me,” he said later. “That’s when I realized: I’m my only distraction. I could do this thing — streaming — and the world would adjust.”
The visit from Cenat and Fanum didn’t just affirm Shank’s dominion in Nigeria — it hardwired him into the American streaming mainframe. The clout converted. And through that trans-Atlantic handshake, Shank secured a coveted spot at Cenat’s Streamers University — a tongue-in-cheek boot camp at the University of Akron in Ohio, where Cenat invites top creators to live, collaborate and stream together for days on end, generating nonstop viral content. Shank was the only Nigeria-based creator in that pixelated pantheon of the internet elite.
“It’s not so easy to go live on Twitch in Nigeria,” Sien lamented to New Lines. “Most people won’t bother downloading a whole new app just to watch you — especially if they’ll be the only one in the room watching you do your shenanigans.”
The first hurdle is visibility. In a country where most creators grow their audience on TikTok, Instagram or YouTube, Twitch is still unfamiliar territory. “I usually have to make bite-sized clips to post on social media so people are caught up,” he said.
Infrastructure poses its own formidable barrier. Twitch runs on fast, reliable internet, yet even in Nigeria’s 5G corridors, speeds rarely exceed 20-50 Mbps — and can collapse without warning. Public Wi-Fi is virtually nonexistent; nobody’s giving bandwidth away for free, especially when it’s expensive, not even big music festivals, which are hubs for the content creation crowd.
When Sien met Afrobeats rapper Davido at Homecoming Festival, one of Lagos’ biggest annual music festivals, he tried to go live for his followers. “If my friend hadn’t been recording, I’d have no proof I met Davido,” Sien said. “The stream was a pixelated mess — completely unusable.” Outdoor IRL streaming in Nigeria is a gamble; in packed venues, signals suffocate under the crush of thousands of devices all trying to go live. And beyond that, there’s still a cultural gap: The idea of carrying a camera everywhere, vlogging-style, feels alien — often drawing confused stares on the street.
In the U.S., the contrast is stark. The Nigerian-born streamer Oluwatimileyin, who goes by the screen name Enzo, is a fellow Streamers University alum, now based in America. He was invited to livestream multiple nights of Davido’s U.S. tour, each broadcast crisp, uninterrupted and easily monetized through ads, paid subscriptions and viewer tips.
Even when the signal holds in Nigeria, the expense can be prohibitive. Data fees alone can consume a fledgling creator’s monthly budget, especially when the venture has yet to yield revenue. A single streaming session might burn through as much as 10 gigabytes of data — not unusual for multihour broadcasts — which can cost the equivalent of several days’ wages for an average young Nigerian. Byte for byte, data is cheaper than in the West, but relative to local incomes it’s a punishing expense. Sien recalls this vividly from his very first broadcast.
“I had only 3,000 nairas [about $2] left in my account, and I blew all of it on data,” to livestream some of his everyday life, he told New Lines. “That day, I drank garri on stream — it’s this quick, bare-bones meal we make from cassava flakes soaked in water, usually with sugar if you can afford it. I used sugar and salt. It was just vibes, but it was also my reality.”
On Twitch, a subscription is the backbone of creator income. For $4.99 a month in the U.S., a viewer can subscribe to a channel to unlock custom emojis, ad-free viewing and badges — essentially perks and recognition, but also a way to support a creator directly. Subscriptions can also be “gifted,” meaning one viewer pays to give another a subscription. Streamers typically pocket about half of the fee, while Twitch keeps the rest.
But in Nigeria, Twitch’s 2021 regional pricing means a subscription — whether bought directly or “gifted” by a generous fan to others in the chat — only costs about $1. The cheaper price makes support more accessible for viewers, but it slashes payouts for creators, who take home barely 50 cents per subscription. The gap deepens as ad rates are weaker in smaller markets. Garnering a million views in Lagos pays a fraction of the same number in Los Angeles.
Payment friction makes things worse. Many Nigerian viewers can’t easily pay online due to bank restrictions, currency volatility and extra platform fees, while creators face high data costs that eat into already-thin earnings.
“In America, it’s about $5 to ‘gift’ a sub. In Nigeria, it’s around a dollar — but people would rather put that into data,” said a 22-year-old Twitch streamer who uses the screen name General Gunns and preferred not to be identified.
A year after Cenat and Fanum’s visit, Shank set out to stage his boldest stream yet. At the gates of Lekki Phase 1, a glossy enclave of luxury homes, nightclubs and tech startups in Lagos, a towering banner declared in block letters: “Twitch Stream. Friday, 9 PM.” Beneath it, one name: “Olamide” — the legendary, elusive rapper-king who dragged Yoruba street rap into the Nigerian mainstream. And below that, Shank himself, arms outstretched in slides and streetwear, a Christ the Redeemer for the digital age.
The plan was for Olamide to join Shank’s stream for some light banter, in the style of a late-night TV host, and perhaps tease some new music. By 9 p.m., Olamide was upstairs. The stream was set. Nigeria’s most-followed Twitch creator would have bartered his soul for a stable connection. But the devil never came — neither did the bandwidth. The Twitch stream simply wouldn’t load, crippled by Nigeria’s unstable internet. Olamide understood, offered Shank his sympathies and waited, while most of the audience drifted over to Instagram Live. Hours later, the Twitch broadcast finally went up, with Shank tweeting an apology to his fans for the chaos.
After the Olamide debacle, Shank returned to the States, where the signal never stuttered. In the lucid air of Los Angeles, he streamed chance encounters with Afrobeats royalty like Wizkid and Asake — moments that, in Lagos, would have drowned in a buffering wheel. No frantic cuts, no salvaging scraps. Just a clean, unbroken feed, beaming the scene in real time to an audience that never had to wonder what they’d missed.
In Nigeria, streaming sits where influencing was a few years ago — a curiosity more than a career, something people still struggle to see as real work. But some young streamers are showing it can be a viable career.
There are the tips, yes, but, more importantly, there are the deals. As with influencers, streamers can be paid by venues, brands or acts to show up and broadcast the vibe — a kind of live hype machine. Sien, who was invited and paid to stream at a Power Horse event earlier this year, has already seen how far it can go. “There’s no limit to what you could earn,” he said. “As long as you don’t let the money skew your honesty.”
During a recent U.S. stream with Reginae Carter, Lil Wayne’s daughter, Shank casually announced he was moving to Atlanta — a bid to lock in the momentum he’d built. In Nigeria, where emigration lingers like a shared fantasy, his decision barely raised eyebrows. “Japa” — the pursuit of life elsewhere — is no longer escape; it’s survival. Over the past five years, more than 5.6 million Nigerians have left, including 160,000 doctors and 75,000 nurses, their absence felt in crowded wards and shuttered clinics.
But those statistics have done little to rattle 21-year-old Ogheneovo Collins, aka Seny. The streamer believes there’s still hope for streaming in Nigeria — so much so that, when his parents offered to send him abroad for a master’s, he declined, choosing instead the uncertain path of an event organizer and Twitch streamer. “They didn’t really understand what it was, or how anyone could earn from it,” he said. “It wasn’t until about a month ago — eight months into streaming — that they finally got it. I sat them down and showed them how it works and what it could become. Before that moment, they had seen me streaming with puzzled curiosity,” he told New Lines.
Olaniyi Ife-Dolapo — “Ife” to her friends — is a 19-year-old Twitch gamer whose family, unusually for Nigerian parents, sees her work as worthwhile. “Everyone’s allowed to experiment,” she said. “When we had the 24-hour subathon — streaming nonstop for a full day to entertain viewers and boost subscriptions — my mum was even reposting flyers.” For her, it’s simply “something productive.” The same quiet encouragement comes from General Gunn’s and Sien’s parents, who back their children’s streaming ambitions. These are small but radical acts of support in a country where gaming is still seen by many as a waste of time — proof that attitudes can shift and, when they do, they can unlock entire creative economies.
That shift is already underway. Afrobeats has shown the world that Nigerian culture can be more than just consumed — it can drive global moments. In the U.S., Twitch stars like Cenat and the AMP crew have turned reacting to Drake drops or hosting Travis Scott into events that dominate timelines. Nigeria is beginning to see its own version. Davido recently invited Enzo to stream his U.S. tour and even play “manager for a day,” folding livestreaming into his Afrobeats universe. As the genre’s reach grows, so does its ability to pull streaming along with it — giving creators like Sien, Senny and Ife reason to believe they don’t have to leave to make it work. For artists, streamers offer a niche, plugged-in audience; for streamers, Afrobeats offers the cultural fuel to build something bigger at home. Together, they could turn Nigeria’s fledgling Twitch scene into a thriving part of the country’s creative economy.
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