It is very tough to be a musician in Ghana | Kafui Dey interviews Camidoh

He walks into the room with the unhurried ease of someone who has learned, the hard way, that rushing costs more than it earns. Camidoh — born Raphael Kofi Attachie — is the Ghanaian singer whose song Sugarcane became the first track from Ghana to cross 100 million views on YouTube. Today, the number sits at 145 million and climbing. But the man behind the milestone isn't chasing the next one. He's eating fruit with Nigerian producers, writing songs in two hours, and, for the first time in a long time, sleeping.

Kafui Dey sat with him at home in Accra for a wide-ranging conversation that covered childhood in Keta, boarding school bruises, dark creative seasons, a BET nomination that arrived mid-breakup, and what it really takes to make it in Ghanaian music.

Peace after the war

Kafui Dey: What's new in your space these days? Camidoh: Relaxation. Taking my time. Patience. God. Yeah, I think that's what it is.

That word — relaxation — carries a specific weight when Camidoh says it. For most of his career, he was wound tight: demanding, restless, always pushing toward the next milestone. The shift began somewhere in the overlap between late 2025 and early 2026, when he started to notice the cost of that pressure.

Kafui Dey: What was the warlike time like? Camidoh: I was constantly in my head. It comes across as you're always fighting with your people — yo, I told you this has to be done, what's up — lots of stress. I sat back and realized: you are losing your own people in the name of achieving your goals. That makes you very selfish. So I had to simmer down, turn off the engine. We are not running anywhere. So long as we're alive, even if it takes three years, we achieve it — and in that energy everyone feels proud. Not just you.

"God intentionally delayed everything I wanted to do in 2024. It was like taking toys away from kids so they focus on the most important things — wake up, pray, eat breakfast, hang out in the living room."

— Camidoh

Keta, Ho, and a mother who screamed

Camidoh was born in Keta, the narrow strip of land squeezed between the Atlantic Ocean and the Keta Lagoon in Ghana's Volta Region. He spent his earliest years there with an auntie before moving to Ho, where his mother taught economics on the Ola Girls campus.

Kafui Dey: What are your earliest memories? Camidoh: There's this photo of me holding my mom's hand away from a man — a colleague teacher who came to visit. I was like, no, no, no. Don't hold my mother's hand. I was really protective. I don't think I was even four years old.

Growing up on a girls' school campus as the son of a house mistress shaped him in ways he's still unpacking. His mother was strict, her discipline partially fuelled by the anxieties of single parenthood and the weight of being seen.

Kafui Dey: What was it like being raised by a single mum? Camidoh: A lot of pressure. She wouldn't want me to become one of those rascals who would get into problems, misbehaviors — all of that would turn her name into mud. She was very strict. My mom screamed a lot. I'm washing dishes, I'm singing, and she's like — you know how it rattles in their mouth. But I love it. I wouldn't change anything. It helped in raising me.

"I wish there was a cameraman dedicated to my life in Ola. Fast forward, we would have all the footage to put into a beautiful documentary. It was very amazing."

— Camidoh

His childhood best friend died — run over by a tipper truck — while Camidoh and his mother were returning from a wedding. They passed the church where the accident had happened. He didn't know until he got home.

Kafui Dey: What was that like? Camidoh: I was really traumatized. That's the word. That was one of the reasons my mom sent me to boarding school — I wasn't dealing with it easily. And also I was growing and she didn't want me around the girls.

Bishop Herman and the making of an artist

Boarding school at Rybeck Junior High and then Bishop Herman College in Kpando was, by Camidoh's account, equal parts punishment and liberation. He learned to hide his slippers under his mattress so they wouldn't be stolen in the night. He faked out the sacristan to keep attending mass unofficially even after being removed. He wrote love letters — plural, simultaneous — to students at his mother's school. And he started making music.

Kafui Dey: Tell me about the music beginning at Bishop Herman. Camidoh: I got into a group. I met one guy who was also equally good and we became Belce — B-E-L-C-E. Him and I would be in the dormitory after preps, beating on the chop box, making music, and in a few minutes there'd be so many guys running in from all the dormitories. It was like a bell had been rung for assembly — that was the energy. We even battled during inter-school things. When people were playing football, we'd gather in a classroom and battle Pandoh Senior High rappers. It was the whole thing.

The defining moment came during evening prayers. AON's song was looping in his head, so he started humming it — out loud, in chapel. A senior grabbed him by the belt. The next day, his name appeared on the notice board: removed from mass servants. The sacristan said you can't be singing hip-hop during prayers.

Kafui Dey: How did you feel when they took you out? Camidoh: I was like: I'm going to be a star, and I'm going to wait for you guys to call me to perform. All I had in my head was: I'm going to be a star and you will see. Everything bad you did to me — all I was thinking was: I'm going to be a star.

Sugarcane: a dark room and a Nigerian producer

Before Sugarcane, there was a long season of nothing working. Songs that felt good going nowhere. Industry people who would hear him and say "he's good but there's something missing." A PR person who told him he needed to do something negative. A feature with Kuami Eugene called Dance With You that didn't move.

Kafui Dey: Were you close to giving up? Camidoh: I wasn't close to giving up. I was just tired of not figuring it out. But I was willing to go the extra mile. After all, it's not costing me anything. Let me just go.

A friend called him to a session with Patoranking. There he met a Nigerian producer called Phantom. The first day, the vibe wasn't there. Camidoh went back the second day — with fruits. They made Sugarcane in two hours.

Kafui Dey: Was the song already brewing in your head? Camidoh: It wasn't. I just walked in. Somehow the first line just comes: Sugarcane, sweet vodka, your love. Then juice mixed with a little ginger. I'm big on rhymes — I always ensure my rhymes are in there, it helps people remember. And I don't know, for some reason it's just there waiting for me to speed it out.

He played it to his team. Everyone said it was another good song sitting in the basket. He called his friend Gardener to come to his house with a camera, set up chairs outside, shot a visualizer in an afternoon, added lyrics on screen, and sent it out. TV stations told him they didn't play visualizers. So he went to TikTok.

"I developed the dance myself. Going with my own flow gave me 100 million plus and made me pay off my debts. We just have to allow ourselves to be driven by the spirit — and we will achieve marvellous stuff."

— Camidoh

Kafui Dey: When did you know the thing had blown up? Camidoh: Every time I posted, the views would shoot up — 10K, come back again, 15K, 20K. Every post was getting those numbers. We shot a main video. The video started going. Everyone was loving it. It happened like a miracle — but it took a step. It took us taking a leap of faith.

Then came the remix. King Promise on the Ghana side. Mayorkun on the Nigeria side. Dhudhoo representing the UK. They uploaded the remix video, and Camidoh sat there in the night refreshing. 10K. 12K in five minutes. 15K. 20K.

Kafui Dey: Did that make sense to you? Camidoh: It don't make sense to me myself. It never did. I called my brother — come and see, something is happening. Refresh. Refresh. And by morning: boom. One million. God damn. It was really something. Everything in that season was just a blessing.

The BET nomination: a text in the dark

The BET nomination arrived on one of the worst nights. He and his then-girlfriend had just broken up. He was sitting alone, almost in tears, and picked up his phone to scroll through X. A tweet from a Kumasi-based OAP: "Congratulations Camidoh on your BET nomination."

Kafui Dey: What was your reaction? Camidoh: I ran upstairs to my brother. All my life, people thought I was not going to make it. All my life. Even in Ola, my mom had her challenges — people saying your son is old, he can't keep living on this campus. So it hit her so hard. And now — I went to Hov and said, can you verify this? He sent me the whole page from BET. God damn. It was amazing. If you asked anyone in the game at that time who was going to be nominated, it was never a Camidoh. It's an upset. Like in UFC — everyone thinks this is the guy, and then from nowhere.