There is a running joke about Nigerians that the world seems to agree on: Nigerians are loud.
It is said casually, sometimes affectionately, sometimes as a criticism. And as a Nigerian, it is difficult to completely argue against it. Not because loudness is something to be worn as a badge of honor, but because lived experience confirms it. If you have ever attended a Nigerian party, you do not need statistics, cultural theory, or sociological breakdowns to reach that conclusion. The evidence is already in your ears.
Even the most organized event, with the best sound engineers and strict schedules, eventually bends to volume. Not even the most disciplined host, or the most serious cultural institution, can fully dispute it. Loudness is not accidental in Nigeria. It is habitual. It is embedded.
Loudness as a Cultural Language
Outside Nigeria, loudness is often treated as a vice. It is associated with disorder, lack of restraint, or poor etiquette. Silence is framed as maturity. Calmness as sophistication.
Within Nigeria, however, loudness is rarely just noise. It is expression.
Being loud is how joy announces itself. It is how grief demands witnesses. It is how presence is affirmed in a society where being unseen often feels like being erased. Nigerians do not just attend events; they occupy them.
That is why loudness feels normal rather than disruptive. It mirrors everyday Nigerian life, from roadside conversations to market negotiations, from bus conductors calling destinations to family debates that escalate within minutes. The volume is not always aggression. Sometimes, it is simply engagement.
The Sacred Grounds of Noise: Weddings and Burials
If Nigerian parties had a hierarchy, weddings and burials would sit comfortably at the top.
These are the two events where loudness is almost mandatory. At weddings, joy is expected to overflow. At burials, grief is not meant to be quiet. In both cases, silence would feel suspicious, almost disrespectful.
There is an unspoken rule at Nigerian weddings: if the music is not loud enough to interrupt conversations, then something is wrong. The drums must hit hard. The DJ must shout. The MC must remind everyone that “we are here to celebrate love,” even when everyone already knows.
Burials, surprisingly, operate with similar intensity. Songs are loud, testimonies are louder, emotions are unfiltered. Crying is not hidden. Laughter sometimes breaks through grief. It is chaotic, but it is honest.
The Lifeblood of the Party: The Tireless Dancer
Every Nigerian party has at least one constant.
That person who starts dancing before the food is served and is still dancing when the chairs are being packed. Gender does not matter. Age is often irrelevant. What matters is stamina and commitment.
They are not dancing for attention, at least not entirely. They are performing a duty. Nigerian parties require energy to survive, and these dancers supply it. Without them, the event risks becoming quiet, and quiet is the real enemy.
Their job is to keep the mood alive, to ensure the party never flatlines. They respond to every beat change, every drum roll, every shout from the DJ. They are proof that Nigerian loudness is not random noise, but a rhythm people willingly move to.
Loud, Yes — But Intentional
The mistake outsiders often make is assuming Nigerian loudness lacks purpose. That it is chaos without structure.
In reality, it follows patterns. There is a time for noise and a time for restraint, even if those boundaries are looser than in other cultures. Loudness signals celebration, solidarity, and emotional honesty. It allows people to take up space without apology.
Nigeria is not a quiet country because it has never had the luxury of silence. Too much has always been happening at once. Loudness becomes survival, expression, and sometimes therapy.
So yes, Nigerians are loud.
Not because we do not know how to be quiet, but because quiet has never fully told our stories.
