In Nigeria, magic still conjures more fear than fun. But a young generation of illusionists are changing that—one trick at a time.
When 19-year-old Caleb first picked up a deck of cards in Benue State, it wasn’t to gamble or impress friends. He was learning sleight-of-hand tricks from YouTube videos, sketching out routines in a notebook. But when his devout Christian parents discovered his interest, they saw something else: sin. One Christmas Eve, after finding his notebook filled with diagrams and notes on magic routines, his father unleashed a violent beating—first with a belt, then with his fists. Caleb’s lip burst open. “It was like he was trying to beat the devil out of me,” he told Newline Magazine.
In Nigeria, where religion runs deep and superstition often shapes perception, magic, no matter how theatrical or harmless, is often conflated with “jazz,” a local slang for spiritual manipulation or the occult. Many still believe magic means real power, not practiced skill.
But now, a quiet cultural shift is underway.
A growing number of young Nigerian performers are rebranding magic as art. They’re stripping away the whispers of sorcery and reclaiming it as a performance discipline—based on psychology, dexterity, and misdirection, not mysticism. Leading this movement is the League of Nigerian Magicians, a collective of over 100 illusionists working to legitimize magic in the country.
“The confusion comes when some performers lean into a supernatural aesthetic,” says Precious the Magician, a trained lawyer and longtime performer. “They’re not helping. These are just tricks—but when you present it like sorcery, people will treat you like a threat.”
That threat is more than theoretical. In 2023, street magician Yob the Cardist was performing in Lagos when a crowd accused him of using “jazz.” Sensing the atmosphere shift, Yob broke a cardinal rule of his profession—he explained the trick, step-by-step, just to avoid potential violence.
Others haven’t been as lucky. After Caleb’s beating, his father cut him off financially, convinced he was still secretly practicing magic. It took support from the League to keep Caleb in school and on stage.
Founded in 2019, the League emerged from two earlier collectives—Magical Minds and The Sleights. One of its co-founders, Damilola Fajemisin, discovered magic as a 13-year-old in secondary school. Her family, unusually supportive, bought her props and sat through her early, shaky performances. But as she grew older, architecture school and life got in the way. Magic took a back seat—but never disappeared.
Outside of family support and camaraderie, the infrastructure for magicians in Nigeria remains thin. Unlike in the United States, where magic generates hundreds of millions of dollars annually and careers can be built off Vegas stages or TV shows, Nigerian magicians are still fighting for visibility and income.
“Most of us are paying out of pocket just to perform,” says Precious. “Props are expensive, import fees are high, and local opportunities are rare. For my first five years, I didn’t earn a kobo.”
There are glimmers of hope. Performers like Babs Cardini have leveraged social media to build global audiences. Babs, who went viral for turning water into wine during the COVID lockdowns, now runs a YouTube show and has been featured by the BBC. Others, like Felven Brain and Simply Smart Magician, have appeared on national television and talent shows like De9jaSpirit Talent Hunt.
Even pop culture is opening doors. Earlier this year, Yob and Ibu the Magician performed live on Twitch with Afropop star Santi, alongside Grammy-nominated producer Bloody Civilian and rapper OdumoduBlvck. “It was surreal,” Yob says. “We were finally being seen.”
Still, friction remains. “Magic is not yet seen as part of Nigeria’s entertainment industry,” says Ono Macaulay, longtime entertainment executive and former manager of Babs Cardini. “But we’re working on it—one city at a time.”
For Caleb, the journey has come full circle. He’s performing again, earning money, and even gaining reluctant support from his father. “He still hasn’t come to a show,” Caleb says, smiling, “but I did a trick for him at home last year. I even explained how I did it.”
