For years, Detty December was a shared escape — loud music, packed concerts, and a feeling that everyone belonged. Now, soaring ticket prices and million-naira tables are pricing many out. From Lagos concert grounds to social media, young Nigerians are facing a hard truth: the season they built is slowly shutting them out. CHRISTABEL NDOECHE and FAWZI KEHINDE report

On a humid December afternoon, 23-year-old Valentine Chibuzor stared at his phone, event flyers taunting him with sold-out shows and tickets now leaping from N15,000 to N500,000. The thump of street DJs and sizzle of roadside grills filtered through his window, but for thousands like him, Nigeria’s iconic Detty December—a whirlwind of Afrobeats, beach bashes, and collective release — has morphed into a luxury gated community for the wealthy, leaving young fans priced out and hearts heavy.

Chibuzor leaned back on his bed, feeling the sticky heat cling to his skin, and realised that this year, Detty December was no longer planned for people like him.

He had planned carefully. He started his plans as far back as June — budgeting, saving, and marking dates — but the numbers made his heart sink. One concert ticket he bought for N15,000 three years ago now costs N50,000 for regular access. A premium table ran N250,000, while VVIP tickets, promising perks like meet-and-greets, had climbed to N500,000.

“I just closed my phone,” he said, leaning back on his bed. “I realised Detty December was no longer planned for people like me.”

For Chibuzor, Detty December had always been about collective release — music, movement, and memory after a long year.

This time, instead of anticipation, there was calculation. Instead of excitement, there was hesitation. “Mine ended up messed up — not because I didn’t want to enjoy it, but because enjoying it now feels like a luxury. High ticket prices are killing the vibe.”

Like thousands of young Nigerians, Chibuzor grew up with Detty December as a shared cultural ritual — a season that was never cheap, but always reachable. This year, however, the numbers told a different story. From concerts headlined by Asake, Burna Boy, Davido, Wizkid, and more, to comedy, fashion shows, and lifestyle events, ticket prices seemed to have surged beyond the reach of the very young people who built the culture through their consistent attendance.

For Chibuzor, the sting was not only financial — the N50,000 ticket, added to fuel and rides, exceeded what he could afford — but emotional. Detty December, the annual season of music, parties, and lifestyle events, was happening around him.

He could see it, hear it, and feel the buzz online, but it was no longer for him. For Chibuzor and thousands like him, the season that once united everyone now felt like a spectacle for the wealthy.

What Detty December is really about

Detty December is Nigeria’s year-end season of celebration — a vibrant mix of music, fashion, parties, and homecomings that lights up cities from mid-December through the New Year. The name, derived from the word “dirty,” symbolises unrestrained fun: a period when rules loosen, and joy takes centre stage.

Lagos, with its booming Afrobeats ecosystem and thriving entertainment industry, is often considered the face of Detty December, hosting high-profile concerts featuring stars like Burna Boy, Wizkid, Davido, Asake, Olamide, Rema, and Ayra Starr. Street carnivals, beach hangouts, club nights, and large-scale concerts created a sense of collective release.

For many young Nigerians and returning members of the diaspora — popularly known as IJGBs (“I Just Got Back”) — Detty December is about belonging.

“It felt like something everyone could be part of,” Chibuzor recalled. “You didn’t need to be rich. You just needed to be there.” That feeling is now under threat.

It was a time for collective joy—but whose joy counted this year?

What exactly changed: From N10,000 to N500,000 — Access or exploitation?

Ticket prices have not merely increased — they have multiplied.

Tickets, once as affordable as a few thousand naira, now demand a premium that often shocks the very crowds who nurtured the season’s rise.

From 2019 to 2025, average regular tickets surged from N5,000–N10,000 to a staggering N75,000–N150,000, while VIP and standing tickets escalated from N15,000–N25,000 to as high as N300,000 or more, reflecting a 750–1,500% jump—far outpacing Nigeria’s inflation rate over the same period.

Year by year, the climb has been relentless. In 2019, locals could still enjoy shows by Fireboy, Wizkid, or general concerts for entry-level fees between N5,000 and N10,000. By 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic curtailed events, leaving only virtual or small-scale gatherings with moderate prices of N10,000–N15,000. But by 2021, post-pandemic demand surged; Wizkid’s Made in Lagos concert alone generated roughly $650,000, with tickets averaging N30,000–N50,000, and Asake’s early shows were priced at N35,000.

Recovery continued in 2022, a mixed year where smaller events remained affordable—Greencamp at N2,500, Victony at N3,500—while high-profile acts like Asake hit N70,000 for premium seating.

By 2023, the spike was undeniable: single-day festival passes averaged N45,000, Flytime Music Festival headliners commanded N50,000–N80,000, and even early bird tickets for mid-tier acts had jumped.

The upward spiral accelerated in 2024 and 2025. Top-tier concerts by Davido, Olamide, and Asake saw standing tickets skyrocket to N200,000–N300,000, while even regular access to popular shows like Chike and BNXN started from N50,000.

Smaller artists still offered some relief—Fireboy from N35,000, Benson’s from N27,500—but these were exceptions in a market now heavily skewed toward affluent locals and diaspora Nigerians paying in stronger foreign currencies.

This year, the shift became impossible to ignore. Concerts now routinely offer multiple tiers — regular, VIP, VVIP, tables for five or ten — with prices stretching deep into six figures. For some headline shows, what once counted as “regular” access now costs what premium access did just two years ago.

A quick glance at 2025–2026 events paint a stark picture of how far Detty December ticket prices have soared.

Iconiqfest’s Plutomanian concert at Landmark Event Centre, Victoria Island, running from December 20 to 22, offered regular tickets for N50,000 and VIP passes at N75,000.

But the luxury tables tell another story: a silver single seat cost N350,000, a gold single seat N550,000, while full tables range from N2 million for bronze to a staggering N5 million for gold.

Even smaller-scale concerts reflect the same steep climb. Brymo Live at Bature Brewery, Victoria Island, on December 26, priced early birds at N30,000, regular at N40,000, and VIP at N70,000, with gold and platinum tables hitting N1 million and N3 million respectively.

Contrast that with Youngduu Live at Alimosho 02 Arena in Baruwa, scheduled for January 7, 2026, where regular tickets remain a mere N5,000 — a rare echo of the festival’s once-affordable roots.

The gap is glaring. While some shows still offer entry for local fans, headline events increasingly target affluent attendees and diaspora Nigerians, turning what was once a community celebration into a high-stakes spectacle.

According to Trend My Events, a ticketing platform in Nigeria, the ballooning prices that now define Detty December are not accidental — they are built into how events are structured. “Many events now have different ticket types — regular, VIP, VVIP, tables, even tables for five or ten,” a representative, Adeyemi, said. “It’s just like different plans. What you’re paying for depends on the kind of event, the venue, and the class.”

But in December, those plans stretch far beyond what many regular concertgoers can afford.

Adeyemi said that prices, which might seem extreme at other times of the year, become normal during the festive rush. “There are concerts where regular tickets are N10,000, and others where regular is N20,000 or N50,000,” he said. “Some VIP tickets are N50,000, while tables can go into millions. We’ve had tables go for N2 million and even N5 million.”

The gap widens sharply when A-list performers headline Detty December shows.

“What an upcoming artist charges is very different from what an international-level artist charges now,” Adeyemi said, noting that December attracts more shows, more competition and higher demands across the board.

Beyond the artists, he added, the cost of staging events in Lagos also climbs during the season. “Planning events in Lagos is very expensive — from the location to vendors, security and equipment,” he said. “When you add all these components together, what you charged last year cannot be the same this year.”

The result is a Detty December built less around mass participation and more around purchasing power.

For many fans, the result was exclusion. “I used to attend at least four concerts with N100,000,” Chibuzor said. “Now one regular ticket is N50,000 — sometimes N300,000. You can’t plan joy like that.”

The economic realities: How affordable is Detty December really?

The spike in ticket prices comes against stark economic realities. Nigeria’s national minimum wage lingered at N30,000 for years before rising to N70,000 in 2024. Even with this increase, attending a top-tier event could consume half or more of a worker’s monthly income. A single regular ticket for a headline show — N50,000 or higher — quickly becomes a luxury few can comfortably afford.

For most, attending concerts now requires resourcefulness. Some pool money with friends or family to afford group attendance or share premium seating, while others hunt for early-bird discounts or lower-tier shows where tickets might still be N5,000–N30,000. Yet these budget options are shrinking as organisers increasingly cater to high-paying clients and diaspora visitors.

This economic divide is stark. Affluent attendees paying in dollars or pounds find the tickets relatively affordable, while many Lagosians must choose between their favourite concerts and essential expenses.

The disparity fuels frustrations on social media, with fans noting that “Detty December is no longer for locals.” While the festival continues to boost Lagos’ economy — generating millions in tourism revenue — it does so at the expense of accessibility, raising questions about whether this new model is sustainable.

As ticket costs outpaced wages, the very crowd that built this culture was being priced out.

Paying fans locked out, watching online

The reality hit hardest at the BNXN concert hosted by Iconiqfest at Landmark Event Centre, Victoria Island. An X user, YomideGadgets, recounted how he and his friends had planned the evening meticulously — saving for the N50,000 regular ticket, fuelling his car, and enduring Lagos traffic — only to find themselves stranded outside.

“At Buju BNXN concert right now. Hundreds of people with valid tickets are stuck outside. They stopped scanning tickets because the venue is “full” – while he’s already performing inside. Fola sef don perform comot. Oversold tickets. Zero respect for fans. @BNXN return our money o.

“This is when my guy told me about it and asked me to buy a ticket. Omo 50k no be beans o. @BNXN I fuelled my car, faced traffic, and all to get stuck outside with other people. We shout tire, dem no even send us. Even people who bought VIP tickets are outside with us,” he lamented

BNXN himself later acknowledged the mismanagement on X, apologising for the situation and blaming organisers for prioritising profit over safety.

The pricing structure for Iconiqfest was staggering: regular tickets were N50,000, VIP tickets N75,000, a single silver seat at a table N350,000, gold seats N550,000, and tables for larger groups ranged from N2 million to N5 million.

These posts became proof that paying to participate no longer guaranteed entry, enjoyment, or safety. Fans like Chibuzor, who had meticulously budgeted for their night out, were forced to confront an unspoken reality — that financial ability alone was no longer enough.

Even paying fans discovered that financial access no longer guaranteed a place inside—the exclusion was real, tangible, and public.

Who changed it: Why organisers say prices keep rising

Detty December did not suddenly become expensive. It was redesigned. Behind the velvet ropes and tiered wristbands are decisions made long before tickets go on sale — decisions shaped by cost, risk, and survival.

Khafihan, an event organiser and business consultant, said rising prices are driven less by greed than by survival.

“Concert production is extremely expensive. From LED screens to stage design, sound, lighting, staff payments, and logistics, margins are very thin. From the outside, prices look unreasonable, but inside the planning process, there is often no other option.”

Marketing alone now consumes a large portion of event budgets. Inflation, VAT, taxes, and hidden charges quietly stack up, all of which eventually reflect in ticket pricing.

Sponsorship, Khafihan explained, is often the difference between affordability and exclusion. “If an event has strong sponsors or venues that reduce costs, organisers can lower ticket prices. Sponsorship removes pressure and allows planners to cater to their original audience.”

One of the most significant contributors to rising ticket prices is the cost of booking artists. “A single A-list artiste can take up 50 to 70 per cent of the entire event budget,” Khafihan said. When logistics and creative production are added, the model becomes unsustainable without premium pricing. That’s why the industry now targets high-spending audiences.

Behind every glittering stage was a cost the organisers said they could no longer ignore—but at what cultural cost?

For many young Nigerians, the response has been withdrawal. “Younger fans are drifting toward house parties, picnics, and informal gatherings,” Khafihan said. But not everyone sees those alternatives as equal.

Funke, a 22-year-old fashion-show attendee, said, “Cheaper options feel like a compromise.”

Others, like Chibuzor, feel priced out entirely.

“My concert experience really started last year. Before then, concerts felt like something you could attend without overthinking your account balance. This year, everything changed. Instead of excitement, there was budgeting stress. Concerts used to unite us. Now, they separate those who can afford from those who can’t,” he said.

When price doesn’t match experience

For those who do manage to attend, high prices do not always guarantee quality. Oghene Dorathy, who attended rising artist Fola’s concert at Mainland Block Party, described overcrowding, fainting, poor sound, and delayed performances. Despite paying N50,000 for VIP, the experience fell short.

“The worst part was the waiting,” she said. “After a long delay, the artist performed briefly for less than an hour, left to change outfits, and never returned. There was no refund. Just wasted time, money, and energy.”

Her experience highlighted a growing frustration: premium prices without premium delivery.

Is Detty December becoming exclusive?

By late December, Lagos feels louder, fuller — and more expensive. Flights arrive packed, traffic crawls, and concert flyers promise once-in-a-lifetime experiences. But beneath the glitter, a quieter question hangs in the air: Who is Detty December really for now?

For music business executive and Premier Records CEO, Michael Odiong, the answer sits at the uneasy intersection of culture and economics.

“Basically, everything has changed in the country,” he said. “And of course, that is due to the inflation we’re experiencing and the high cost of goods.”

Odiong, who has spent over two decades at the top end of Nigeria’s music industry, said live performance has become significantly more expensive, largely because production depends heavily on imported equipment priced in dollars.

“By the time you import the equipment we use for live performances and convert it to naira, you know how much you’re spending,” he said. “If somebody spends one or two million dollars bringing these things in, they have to recover what they’ve spent.”

Beyond equipment, he pointed to workforce costs and logistics — and the risks that no longer make nationwide touring viable.

“Back in the day, it was easier to tour the whole states,” Odiong said. “But today, no artist would want to take that risk because of insecurity. So, all these things affect live performance in Nigeria.”

In that climate, ticket pricing is no longer sentimental. Odiong stressed that artists are rarely the ones fixing prices.

“It is not the artists that actually put the prices,” he said flatly. “It is the promoters. Most of the time, they don’t own the shows — they are paid to perform.”

Promoters, he explained, are squeezed between rising costs and sponsors who expect returns. And sponsorship, contrary to popular belief, does not always translate into cheaper access.

“At the end of the day, it’s a profit and loss game,” Odiong said. “Nobody wants to lose.”

For headline December shows, especially those featuring A-list acts, the target audience has quietly shifted.

“When you say N300,000, it doesn’t make meaning to them,” he said, referring to Nigerians returning from abroad. “It’s just about $200. These guys have the money to spend. So, the target is not the real fans who cannot afford N300,000 — it’s those Detty December people coming into town.”

Timing, he added, is everything. Off-peak, the same tickets drop sharply.

“In an off-peak period, nobody would even buy for N100,000.

“You’ll see N50,000 VIP or even N10,000. But December is different,” he said.

Still, Odiong does not believe rising prices automatically sever the bond between artists and fans. Many, he argued, have simply shifted how they participate.

“These fans are actually online,” he said. “They would love to see their favourite artists, but they can get the music online.”

His proposed middle ground is live streaming — a cheaper alternative that keeps fans connected without the burden of physical attendance.

“They don’t mind paying N2,000, N3,000, N5,000 just to watch a live stream,” he said. “During COVID, people paid to watch live shows. They didn’t need to be there.”

For younger fans torn between experience and cost, he framed it as a choice shaped by constraint.

“If you have a show that is N300,000 and a live stream that is N3,000, which would you go for?” he asked.

Odiong acknowledged concerns about exclusivity but argued that Detty December has never been one-size-fits-all.

“It is always a show for everybody,” he said. “You just have to look for the programme that fits into your budget.”

Yet he warned that unchecked pricing could slowly thin crowds, forcing promoters to rethink access.

“If you have 10,000 people attending this year, next year it might be 7,000,” he said. “So you have to make provision for those who are falling short.”

Government intervention, he argued, is unlikely to come through ticket price controls in a private-sector-driven industry. Instead, he pointed to cultural regulation and support.

“In Calabar, the carnival is regulated,” Odiong said. “The government has a theme, they are part of it, and entertainment is paid for.”

Without similar frameworks elsewhere, Detty December will continue to tilt toward those with spending power.

As more players chase December profits, Odiong suggested, prices will rise naturally. The challenge is whether the season can still feel like a shared cultural moment — or whether it becomes, quietly but firmly, a premium experience.

Yet, paying more does not guarantee a premium experience. Once fans feel exploited or excluded, the culture itself begins to suffer.

Where Detty December differs

Globally, major cultural festivals rarely survive on ticket sales alone. Coachella, one of the world’s most expensive music festivals, is privately run, but it does not operate in isolation.

While a private promoter handles production and pricing, local government authorities provide security coordination, traffic control, emergency services, and infrastructure support, benefiting in return from massive tourism inflows, hotel taxes, and local business revenue.

In Nigeria, the Calabar Carnival offers a different model: a public-private collaboration led by the Cross River State Government, supported by corporate sponsors, tourism agencies, and private partners. Government involvement lowers operational pressure, attracts sponsorship, and allows broader public access, even as private brands activate and profit from the crowd.

Detty December, by contrast, exists in a vacuum — largely driven by private promoters bearing enormous costs alone, with little structured government support beyond regulation and permits.

The result is a model where rising production expenses are transferred almost entirely to fans through ticket prices, turning what was once a mass cultural experience into a premium product. Without collaboration, the season keeps growing — but only upward, away from the people who built it.

Behind the scenes: The people making Detty December happen

While attendees hustle to get inside, a different crowd works tirelessly behind the barriers. Ushers, security personnel, and ticketing staff form the unseen backbone of Detty December, managing thousands of guests, navigating last-minute changes, and dealing with mounting frustrations over skyrocketing prices.

For many, the job is exhausting but also eye-opening. Miriam, an usher, shared her perspective:

“Some of these tickets cost more than my rent for six months,” she said.

“It’s crazy. I’ve been at events where people argue over N50,000 tickets like it’s life or death. We just have to stay calm and make sure everyone gets in safely.”

Emeka, a security officer at a popular venue for concerts in Lagos, described the stress of handling overflowing crowds. “We see it all — guests pushing, shouting, even trying to sneak in. Some are polite, others… not so much. It’s tiring, but you can’t let it show. You have to manage the crowd and protect the performers at the same time.”

Chika, who normally works at mid-sized concerts around Lagos, described the difference in crowd energy during the peak Detty December period. “On regular shows, people are relaxed, and tickets are affordable, so it’s easy going,” she said. “But during December, everything changes. Big concerts with tickets at N50,000, N100,000, and even more — you can feel the tension. People argue about queues, get frustrated, and sometimes take it out on you. We end up working longer hours, but the pay is better, so it balances out… just barely.”

Their voices reflect the broader tension of Detty December—an event that has grown spectacularly in scale and revenue, but also in stress, inequity, and complexity. Behind every headline concert and luxury table, there are dozens of workers keeping the system running, navigating both the glamour and the gripes of a festival that has become as much about money as music.

Who should step in?

Experts point to one missing actor: the government. Public-private partnerships, subsidies, and infrastructure support could lower costs and ensure wider access. Without deliberate intervention, the burden falls entirely on attendees, pricing out the fans who made Detty December a national cultural phenomenon.

The cultural cost

For many Nigerians, the impact is personal. Instead of excitement, many youths now feel budgeting stress; instead of spontaneity, calculation.

As organisers chase sustainability, the question lingers: who is Detty December really for? Without balance, Nigeria’s biggest soft-power export risks becoming a gated experience — polished, profitable, but disconnected from the people who gave it life. And when culture loses its people, it loses its soul.

As Detty December becomes increasingly gated, Nigeria’s most vibrant cultural season risks leaving the people who gave it life outside, watching from the street corners, wondering if they still belong. (The PUNCH)

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