Godwin’s debut album Atonement is full, almost orchestral in its composition, its lyricism and the buffet of sound. It feels like a play, a story told in distinct acts – a theatre of love, conflict, and release. Produced entirely by Berlin trio KitschKrieg, it is a lush and deliberate debut, filled with choral echoes, layered drums, and melodies that swell and recede like breath – each inhale carrying ache, each exhale release. Every song feels connected, building toward an emotional clarity that arrives slowly, beautifully.
It opens with the title track, a spiritual invocation built around a sample from his late mother’s church choir. “Perfect father, imperfect son,” he sings, his voice trembling over traditional drums and harmonies. The song is an act of confession – of forgiveness offered inward, not outward – and it sets the tone for what follows: an album about love, loss, and the fragile work of forgiving yourself.
Home follows, a soft ballad of displacement and longing. “My grandma said sometimes home is a person,” he murmurs, his delivery tender enough to bruise. Then comes Grieve, where joy and sorrow dance together. The rhythm is upbeat, but the lyrics ache: “If these sticks don’t break me, the stones will tear my heart apart.” By its close, he’s singing “Comfort is who I’m finding now,” as if convincing himself of the fact in real time.
Songs like Dilemma and Fallen return him to familiar Afrobeats ground, but Godwin approaches the form with lightness and intimacy. “Omoge wa now, no dey do like this,” he teases on Dilemma, Yoruba woven through playful rhythms. He turns the genre’s romantic tropes into something textured and sincere. Third Wheel and Call Me (featuring 255) expand that narrative, capturing the ache of waiting to be seen, of loving someone from the periphery.
At the heart of it all is Abeke, the album’s most streamed track and emotional center. The track renders heartbreak as dance, a rhythm that refuses to mourn quietly. He sings of the lover who haunts him, the one whose absence shapes every verse, and yet, the beat insists on joy. It’s the perfect distillation of what Atonement achieves: sadness that moves.
By the time the stripped-back closer Permit Me arrives, the circle is complete. “It broke me to break you,” he admits, his voice alone until the choir from the opener returns – ghostly, redemptive, final.
Atonement is a remarkable debut. It is cohesive, cinematic, and deeply human. Godwin builds intimacy, turning vulnerability into architecture. In an era of loud releases and easy hooks, he chooses reflection and in doing so, crafts something rare. More than a love story; it’s a reckoning, a quiet reminder that sometimes healing sounds like a song.
