Look, Dave just dropped the final track on his album and it’s the kind of song that’ll have you staring at your ceiling at 3am questioning every choice you’ve ever made.
“The Boy Who Played the Harp” isn’t a tune you throw on at the afters. This is Dave at his most raw, most uncomfortable, most necessary.
The Streatham lyricist has always been about more than bars and beats, but this one hits different. Proper different.
What’s the Biblical Connection Then?
The title isn’t random chat. In the Bible, David was the young boy who played the harp to soothe King Saul, later becoming king himself after taking down Goliath.
Dave (real name David Orobosa Omoregie) has always carried that weight in his name, and on this closing track, he’s wrestling with what that means.
The biblical David was a warrior, a king, a man of justice. Modern Dave is asking himself: am I living up to that? Would I actually stand for something when it mattered, or am I just another artist talking a good game?
The Hypotheticals That Cut Deep
The song opens with Dave running through these historical scenarios. What would he do in 1940 if he was enlisted to fight? In 1960 during the civil rights movement? On the Titanic as it sank?
These aren’t just random thought experiments. He’s trying to work out his own character by placing himself in moments where people had to choose between self-preservation and standing for something bigger.
Then he gets more specific, more Islamic, more personal. The Battle of Karbala reference, where Hussain ibn Ali was martyred rather than submit to tyranny, is proper heavy.
Dave’s asking if he’d have that same backbone, that same willingness to die for principle. Coming from a Nigerian background with Islamic heritage, these aren’t abstract questions. They’re his actual lineage, his actual legacy.
The line about Nelson Mandela being locked up but never freed is where it gets uncomfortable for Dave himself. Because Mandela had nothing to lose in prison.
Dave has everything to lose. Money, platform, career, comfort. That’s the tension ripping through this whole track.
The Nigeria Verses (Where It Gets Personal)
Right, so here’s where Dave goes somewhere that cuts deeper than most people will catch on first listen.
When he talks about “critiquin’ African leaders / For sellin’ our country’s natural resources to the West for peanuts,” he’s not being theoretical.
He’s talking about Nigeria specifically, about the oil that’s made a few people obscenely rich while most of the country struggles.
His parents are Nigerian immigrants who came to the UK for a better life. That “our country” isn’t casual. It’s possessive, painful, personal.
“If they don’t hear, they’ll feel us” is a direct threat to those leaders, but it’s also Dave admitting he feels powerless about it.
What can he actually do from South London about corruption in Lagos? That’s why the next line hits: “I question what I’m alive for.”
Because if you can see the problem clearly, if you have the platform to speak on it, but you can’t actually change it, what’s the point of any of it?
Then the ancestors come back in later and drop the Victoria Island reference, which is massive if you know.
Victoria Island is the bougie part of Lagos, where the clubs are packed with Nigeria’s elite spending money like water while people are literally begging outside the doors.
The ancestors are telling Dave they know he suffers in silence, they know it doesn’t feel right when he’s in those spaces. How can you dance in the club when there’s a hundred people begging outside it?
That’s not a hypothetical for Dave. That’s his lived experience when he goes back to Nigeria, when he sees the wealth gap, when he’s in those rooms with people who’ve made money off the same system that keeps others in poverty.
The guilt of having made it out, of having money now, of being able to enjoy himself while others suffer, it’s eating him alive.
And his ancestors are basically saying “we see you, we know, and that discomfort is good. Don’t get comfortable with it.”
The Diaspora Guilt (That Nobody Talks About)
This is the bit that British Nigerians will feel in their chest. Dave’s caught between two worlds. He’s British enough that he can rap about Peckham and Brixton and people get it.
But he’s Nigerian enough that when he sees what’s happening back home, when he sees African leaders selling out their people, when he’s in Victoria Island feeling sick about the inequality, he can’t just switch it off and pretend it’s not his problem.
The line about African leaders selling natural resources for peanuts is specifically about the oil and mineral wealth that Western companies have been extracting from Nigeria for decades, often with the cooperation of corrupt officials.
Dave’s generation of British Nigerians grew up watching their parents send money back home, watching the country get richer on paper while most people got poorer in reality. That anger isn’t abstract. It’s in his DNA.
And the Victoria Island bit? That’s the immigrant kid’s nightmare. You make it, you get money, you go back home to where your parents are from, and instead of feeling proud, you feel guilty.
Because you’re now part of the problem, part of the elite who can afford to be in those spaces while people who look like you, who share your blood, are outside begging.
That’s a specific kind of pain that Dave’s putting on record, and it’s something UK Nigerian artists rarely touch with this level of honesty.
The Palestine Question (That Everyone’s Afraid to Touch)
But Dave doesn’t stop at Nigeria. He straight up asks himself why he talks about money in his accounts but won’t speak on the West Bank. He admits he’s scared of a shadow ban.
He remembers growing up after 7/7, being afraid of the Taliban, and now he’s afraid of being cancelled for speaking on illegal settlers.
This isn’t the first time Dave’s tackled geopolitics in his music, but it might be the most vulnerable he’s been about his own fear of doing so.
He’s not posturing like he’s got all the answers. He’s admitting he’s been quiet when he should have spoken up, and that silence is eating him alive.
The bit about “kids under occupation” while his parents wouldn’t understand hits differently when you realise Dave’s talking about the disconnect between his immigrant parents’ generation, who kept their heads down to survive, and his generation, who have platforms but are terrified of losing them.
It’s that survivor’s guilt mixed with coward’s shame, and Dave’s putting it all on wax.
The Ancestral Conversation (Where It Gets Spiritual)
The middle section of this track is basically Dave having a proper sit-down with his ancestors in the middle of the night.
They’re crying about the brothers they lost, but they’re telling him that the fact he can even fight these battles is progress. They didn’t have that luxury.
They couldn’t get justice at all, so the fact that Dave can protest, can speak, can make art about it, that’s already a win they died for.
But Dave’s not satisfied with that. “How can it be progress?” he asks them. And their response is basically: you don’t know how much we suffered just so you could have a chance.
They did peaceful protests. They burnt buildings. They boycotted. They felt powerless, just like him. But they made change anyway, and they were just like him.
This is where the ancestors specifically call out the Victoria Island guilt. They’re telling Dave they know he questions his character, they know he suffers in silence, they know it doesn’t feel right when he’s in those elite spaces while people are suffering outside.
That validation from his ancestors isn’t letting him off the hook. It’s confirming that the discomfort he feels is the right response, and he needs to channel it into action rather than let it paralyze him.
This conversation isn’t some fantasy. It’s Dave processing intergenerational trauma and responsibility through the lens of his faith and heritage.
The ancestors are telling him his name is David for a reason, that the covenant is sacred, that he has to keep his promise. It’s part spiritual awakening, part kick up the backside.
The UK Grime Lineage (Ghetts, Kano, and the Torch)
When Dave says “Tried in the fire by Ghetts, I’m anointed / Kano passed me the torch, I received it,” he’s placing himself in the lineage of UK rap’s most conscious voices.
Ghetts tested him, Kano handed him the responsibility, and God told him he’s the one. That’s not arrogance. That’s acceptance of a burden.
The Abraham sacrifice reference, where he talks about sacrificing the sun (his son/sun, the wordplay is deliberate), ties back to that biblical David energy. Abraham was willing to sacrifice Isaac.
Dave is saying he’s willing to sacrifice his comfort, his summer, his peace for this purpose. Where he’s from, people sacrifice their actual sons to the streets. He’s sacrificing his career comfort instead.
But this sacrifice means something different when you factor in the African diaspora context. Dave’s not just sacrificing for UK issues or for his immediate community.
He’s carrying the weight of Nigeria, of Africa, of the corruption and exploitation his ancestors suffered through and that’s still happening today.
That’s why the “if they don’t hear, they’ll feel us” line sits right before he questions what he’s alive for. Because the task is too big, too heavy, and he’s just one person with a microphone.
The Sound (Fraser T. Smith’s Signature Meditation)
Fraser T. Smith produced this, and if you know his work, you know it’s going to be minimal, spacious, almost uncomfortable in how much room it gives the words.
There’s no big beat switch, no triumphant horns, no feel-good resolution. Just Dave’s voice, some subtle keys, maybe a bit of harp in there if you listen close (obviously), and that’s it.
The production feels like sitting in a dark room with your thoughts. It’s not trying to make you feel better. It’s trying to make you feel, period.
Smith has done this before with Dave on tracks like “Black” from Psychodrama, where the production gets out of the way and lets the weight of the words sit on your chest.
Jo Caleb did additional production, which probably means they added texture in post, smoothing it out without making it commercial.
The track also credits Lennon and McCartney as writers, which suggests there’s a Beatles sample or interpolation in there somewhere, though it’s subtle enough that you might miss it on first listen.
Why This Matters (And Why It’s Uncomfortable)
Here’s the thing about “The Boy Who Played the Harp.” It’s not a song that makes Dave look good. He’s not positioning himself as some fearless activist.
He’s admitting he’s scared, that he’s been silent, that he questions whether he’s doing enough.
Most rappers would never put that vulnerability on record, especially on the final track of an album named after the song itself.
But that’s precisely why it matters. Dave isn’t claiming to be the saviour. He’s claiming to be someone trying to work out how to use his voice without losing everything he’s built.
That’s the reality for artists with platforms in 2025. Speak up on Palestine and risk losing brand deals, radio play, playlist placements.
Speak up on African corruption and risk getting blacklisted from festivals and shows back home. Stay quiet and lose your soul.
The Nigeria angle makes this even more real. When Dave criticises African leaders for selling out their people, he’s putting himself in a specific tradition of artists who’ve spoken truth to power and paid for it.
Fela Kuti got beaten, arrested, exiled for saying similar things. But Dave’s doing it anyway, telling these leaders that if they don’t hear the criticism now, they’ll feel the consequences later.
That’s not Dave threatening them with violence. That’s Dave promising them that a generation is rising that won’t tolerate the same old corruption, and change is coming whether they like it or not.
The track has already sparked conversations across social media, with Muslim communities particularly connecting with the Karbala and West Bank references, and British Nigerians recognising the Victoria Island call-out for what it is. People aren’t just discussing the bars.
They’re discussing the questions Dave’s asking and whether they’d have the courage to stand up in those historical moments he describes, whether they feel that same guilt when they’re in privileged spaces while others suffer.
The Album Context (Closing Statement)
As the final track on The Boy Who Played the Harp, this song reframes everything that came before it. The album’s other tracks like “My 27th Birthday,” “Marvellous,” and “Fairchild” all build to this moment of reckoning.
Dave’s been talking about his life, his growth, his success, but this closer asks what any of that means if he’s not willing to risk it for something bigger than himself.
The ancestor conversation basically gives him permission to keep going, to keep speaking, to keep making “socially conscious” music (even though he hates that term, as he mentions in the track).
They’re telling him that his name is David, that covenant is sacred, and he has to promise to keep it. So he does. But they’re also specifically addressing his Nigerian guilt, that feeling of being in Victoria Island clubs while people beg outside, that knowledge of what African leaders are doing to their own people.
The ancestors are saying that discomfort, that anger, that questioning of what he’s alive for, all of that is necessary fuel for the work ahead.
What People Are Saying
The song racked up 462,000 views on Youtube within days, with 57 contributors already breaking down the references and symbolism.
People are connecting dots to Dave’s previous work, his interviews, his performances. The conversation isn’t just about whether the track is good (it obviously is).
It’s about whether Dave’s right to be scared, whether artists should risk everything to speak on injustice, whether making music about it even counts as activism.
British Nigerians specifically have been sharing the Victoria Island line across Twitter and Instagram, with people admitting they’ve felt that exact same guilt, that same cognitive dissonance of being in spaces of extreme wealth while knowing what’s happening outside those doors.
That line has become almost a litmus test for diaspora guilt, for whether you’ve felt that specific kind of shame that comes with success when your people are still suffering.
Some people are saying Dave’s just performative, that if he really cared he’d give up his career entirely. But that’s the kind of all-or-nothing thinking that keeps people silent.
Dave’s admitting he’s not a saint, he’s not Mandela, he’s not ready to sacrifice everything. But he’s trying to do something with what he’s got. That honesty might be more valuable than any amount of performative radicalism.
The Legacy Question
Twenty years from now, when people look back at UK rap in the 2020s, “The Boy Who Played the Harp” is going to be one of those tracks that matters.
Not because it’s the most technically impressive (though Dave’s writing is ridiculous), but because it documents a specific moment when artists were genuinely wrestling with how to use their platforms in an age where one wrong word could end your career.
Dave isn’t claiming to have the answers. He’s documenting the questions. The ones his ancestors asked, the ones he’s asking, the ones the next generation will ask.
But specifically, he’s documenting the questions that British Nigerians face: How do you criticise African leaders when you’re living off the opportunities that came from your parents leaving?
How do you enjoy your success when you know it came at a cost? How do you dance in Victoria Island when people are begging outside? What are you alive for if you can see the problems but feel powerless to change them?
That’s what the biblical David did with his psalms. He wrote down his struggles, his fears, his attempts to understand God’s plan.
Modern Dave is doing the same thing, just with better production and a healthy fear of shadow bans and political repercussions.
The track ends with Dave basically accepting his role. His life is prophecy. It’s not just him making change gradually. It’s a whole generation.
They don’t know what they’re facing when they ask for change, but they’ve got the will of David in their hearts.
The story of the boy who played the harp isn’t over. It’s just beginning, and Dave’s finally ready to pick up the instrument properly, even if his hands are shaking while he does it, even if he’s terrified of what speaking up about Nigeria and Palestine and everything else might cost him, even if he still questions what he’s alive for on the days when it all feels too heavy to carry.
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