African artists lend their faces, not yet their names

September 2020. In the United States, McDonald’s launches a meal named after Travis Scott. According to Forbes estimates, the rapper earns at least $5 million for lending his face. And around $15 million more from merchandise, whose rights he had negotiated himself.

A month later, in South Africa, the late rapper AKA marks the anniversary of his trainer, the SneAKA, released by Reebok in October 2019. He is not celebrating. He says publicly that he only had an ambassador contract, and earned nothing from sales of a shoe that bore his name. Reebok replies that it met all its obligations. That is the crux: AKA had lent his face, with no share in what sold under his name.

Between these two stories lies a discipline the continent still practises very little: brand licensing.

Ambassador deal, licence, own brand: three different businesses

In an ambassador contract, the artist becomes the face of a brand for a set period, often on an exclusive basis. They receive a fee. When the contract ends, so does the money.

Under a licence, the artist remains the owner of their name and authorises a manufacturer to use it on specific products, within a defined territory and for a defined term. The manufacturer pays them a royalty on sales, often with a minimum guarantee. The heart of the contract is quality control: the artist checks what goes out under their name.

An own brand goes further: the artist holds a stake in the company. This is the path of Rihanna, who owes most of her fortune to her half of Fenty Beauty according to Forbes, or of Selena Gomez with Rare Beauty.

Three businesses, three ways of being paid. A fee gets spent. A royalty keeps coming in. A stake in a company gains value.

What we thought, and what the facts say

We started from a hunch: major African artists do not really know brand licensing, and do not take it seriously. The facts forced us to qualify it.

Some protect their name very well. In the United States, the BURNA BOY trademark has been registered since October 2020, in the name of the artist’s London-based company, for clothing, recordings, printed matter and live performances. The title of his album African Giant has also been registered since 2023. Tems registered her name in 2022, Black Coffee in 2023. Rema and Asake have filed for theirs.

Co-branded products exist too. In 2018, Nike released Wizkid’s Starboy jersey, presented as the first official jersey by an African artist. In 2023, PUMA launched a collection in which every piece was designed by Davido. The first Burna Boy x On collection was announced for release in shops on 22 October 2026. And in East Africa, Diamond Platnumz launched a perfume, Chibu, as early as 2017, then peanuts under his name and, in March 2025, a soap under the brand of his group, Wasafi.

So ignorance is not the right word. The most prominent artists know what their name is worth.

What is missing: commercial exploitation

What is missing is a programme. We found no major African artist with a licensing agent, a roster of authorised manufacturers, product categories planned over several years. And not a single published royalty figure.

What dominates is the ambassador on a paid contract: Pepsi, Maybelline, Omega, Pandora, BOSS, Kate Spade. Even when the press speaks of a “licence”, it is often something else: Tyla’s deal with Kate Spade, described that way by some websites, is a one-year ambassador contract.

Meanwhile, others are taking the names. In the United States, DAVIDO has been a trademark registered by another party since 2007. TYLA belongs to a British media group, and TYLA BEAUTY has belonged to a cosmetics company since 2025. WIZKID is registered to a household products manufacturer. And the artist’s own ASAKE filing has faced an opposition since August 2025. When a name is worth a fortune, someone always ends up filing it.

Our artists sign ambassador deals, rarely licences. They lend their face, not yet their name.

In French-speaking Africa, the ground is untouched

Among French-speaking headliners, we found only ambassador roles. In February 2026, Fally Ipupa became the pan-African ambassador for Beaufort beer. Innoss’B is an ambassador for the World Food Programme, Angélique Kidjo for UNICEF since 2002, Charlotte Dipanda for UNICEF in Cameroon since 2019. No licensed products, no trademark registered in the United States in their name. The only Cameroonian exception we found: a cosmetics brand launched in 2014 by a Cameroonian-Nigerian singer, and highly controversial.

An honest caveat: we were unable to search the register of OAPI, the office that protects trademarks in seventeen French-speaking African countries, including Cameroon, Côte d’Ivoire, Senegal, Benin and Congo. Some names may have been filed there. But no licensed product is visible on the market.

Yet protecting a name there is neither complicated nor ruinous. A single OAPI filing covers all seventeen countries for ten years, renewable: 360,000 CFA francs in official fees for one class of goods, 75,000 CFA francs for each additional class, excluding professional fees. To cover clothing, recordings, printed matter and live performances, allow 585,000 CFA francs in fees. That is the price of a modest music video. In 2024, OAPI received fewer than 10,000 trademark applications for all seventeen countries combined.

Why so far behind

What holds things back is less ignorance than the ecosystem.

Protection is fragmented. At OAPI, there is a single title, but counterfeiting has to be fought in the courts of each country. Nigeria has not joined the international Madrid system, which means filing country by country.

Counterfeiting kills the value of the original. A Nigerian analysis newsletter recently gave the example of an official Davido T-shirt at 50,000 naira, against an almost identical copy at 15,000. Even worldwide, around a quarter of music merchandise purchases go through unofficial or second-hand sellers, according to MIDiA Research.

There are almost no agents. We found no African agency specialising in artist licensing. The business exists for cartoon characters and sport, and very little for music.

And the upfront fee is rational. When an ambassador contract pays in advance, and a licence demands years of work, oversight and fighting copies, the artist often chooses the safe money. That is understandable. But it is a choice that leaves value on the table, as AKA’s story shows.

The market that is waiting

The global market for licensed products reached $389.8 billion in sales in 2025, up 5.45%, according to Licensing International’s annual study. Music grew by 3.1%, after 11.6% the previous year. Africa’s share is not published: it is still too small to be measured separately.

Yet things are moving. In 2024, Abidjan hosted the continent’s first licensing trade show, Brands Licensing Africa, and its second edition took place on 15 and 16 October 2026. Warner Music Africa has set up a division dedicated to brands in Johannesburg. The ground is being prepared. Still missing are the first artists, and the first brands, that will take it seriously.

What we think at mystiQ

A brand that wants to work with an artist almost always asks itself the same question: how much does their face cost? We suggest it asks another: what can we build together, under their name, that lasts longer than a campaign?

This is the logical next step from what we wrote about afrobeats and brands: renting a face gives you a peak, building with the scene gives you a place. Licensing means building with the artist themselves.

In French-speaking Africa, the place is open. The first artist to protect their name, and the first brand to build a real co-creation with them, will have a story to tell that nobody has written yet.

So, to the artists reading us: does your name really belong to you? And to brands: what have you already built that carries the name of someone other than yourselves?