The story of Psquare—the Nigerian musical duo of Peter and Paul Okoye—and their brother-manager Jude “Engees” Okoye is a masterclass in the tangled dance between talent, investment, and control. For years, this trio dominated Afrobeats, churning out hits that echoed across Africa and beyond. Yet beneath the glitz lay a management deal so unconventional it still sparks debate: Jude earned 40% of Psquare’s net earnings, while Peter and Paul each took home 30%. As I sit here on February 22, 2025, reflecting on this arrangement, I can’t help but marvel at its audacity—and question its fairness. Was Jude’s outsized share a justified reward for building a brand from scratch, or a gilded cage that tethered two superstars to their brother’s vision?
Let’s rewind to the genesis. Before Psquare became a household name, Jude wasn’t just a manager—he was the architect of their ascent. He handled early production, stitched together their brand from the ground up, and took financial risks when the twins were still unproven talents. This wasn’t a standard 10-20% commission gig; it was an investment-based management deal, a pact where Jude’s sweat equity earned him a hefty stake. In the music business, such arrangements aren’t unheard of—think Eezee Concepts banking on Mercy Chinwo, Judikay, and Minister GUC before their gospel stardom—but Psquare’s case stands out for its familial twist and the sheer scale of Jude’s cut.
On paper, it’s a compelling argument: Jude bet on Psquare when no one else would, so why shouldn’t he reap 40% of the net earnings—profits after expenses like tours, videos, and marketing? Net earnings deals, unlike gross earnings cuts that can leave artists strapped after hefty costs, are fairer to performers. If Psquare grossed ₦100 million but spent ₦50 million, Jude’s 40% of the ₦50 million net (₦20 million) left Peter and Paul with ₦15 million each—a tidy sum, though dwarfed by their brother’s take. Compare that to a gross earnings deal where Jude might have pocketed ₦40 million off the top, leaving the twins scrambling to cover expenses. The net structure suggests a nod to equity, but the 40% figure raises eyebrows. Was it reward or overreach?
Here’s where it gets sticky: Jude wasn’t just a manager; he was a co-founder of the Psquare enterprise. Peter and Paul were the faces—the electrifying dancers and soulful voices—but Jude was the business brain, structuring a deal that made him indispensable. This wasn’t a contract you could terminate with a handshake and a severance check; it was a legal partnership. Jude held equity in the Psquare brand—name, contracts, revenue streams—meaning Peter and Paul couldn’t “fire” him without a buyout or a dissolution of their agreement. Try performing as Psquare without him, and Jude could slap them with a cease-and-desist or sue for damages. It’s a setup that ensured his control, but at what cost to the duo’s autonomy?
Contrast this with standard management deals, where a 10-20% commission reflects a hired hand’s role—negotiating contracts, booking tours, managing finances—not a co-ownership stake. Jude’s 40% aligns with investment-based deals, where early risk justifies a bigger slice, but it blurs the line into a business partnership model. Think of it like a startup: Jude was the angel investor and CEO, while Peter and Paul were the talent and co-founders. Fair in theory, perhaps, but when the talent outgrows the investor’s foundational role, tensions brew. Psquare’s public feuds and eventual split—Peter as Mr P, Paul as Rudeboy—hint at a deal that may have locked them into a sibling power dynamic they couldn’t escape.
This isn’t unique to Psquare. Artists globally grapple with management structures that can either propel or paralyze them. Talent management companies like Roc Nation or Nigeria’s MAVIN assign managers without artist veto power, while stars like Wizkid juggle multiple managers—Sunday Are for Africa, Jada P for global reach—to maximize opportunities. Psquare’s model, though, feels like a relic of a less scrutinized era, where familial trust trumped legal clarity. Jude’s 40% wasn’t just a paycheck; it was a legal tether, ensuring Psquare couldn’t exist without him. Genius for Jude, perhaps, but a straitjacket for Peter and Paul when creative or personal paths diverged.
So, was it fair? Yes—if you see Jude as a visionary who built Psquare from nothing, deserving a founder’s share for his risk and foresight. No—if you view management as a service, not ownership, where 40% feels like exploitation of talent that ultimately carried the brand’s fame. The real lesson lies in the fine print: artists must understand gross versus net earnings, define termination clauses, and weigh ownership stakes before signing. Jude’s deal worked until it didn’t, fracturing a dynasty that might have thrived under a looser grip.
As Kenya’s music scene grows—think Sauti Sol or Nyashinski—Psquare’s saga offers a cautionary tale. Managers can make or break careers, but when they own the brand, they hold the keys to the kingdom. Jude’s 40% was a masterstroke of business, but it may have cost Psquare their unity. Fair or not, it’s a reminder: structure your deal wisely, or risk singing someone else’s tune. What do you reckon—reward for investment or a brotherly bind too tight? The stage is yours.The story of Psquare—the Nigerian musical duo of Peter and Paul Okoye—and their brother-manager Jude “Engees” Okoye is a masterclass in the tangled dance between talent, investment, and control. For years, this trio dominated Afrobeats, churning out hits that echoed across Africa and beyond. Yet beneath the glitz lay a management deal so unconventional it still sparks debate: Jude earned 40% of Psquare’s net earnings, while Peter and Paul each took home 30%. As I sit here on February 22, 2025, reflecting on this arrangement, I can’t help but marvel at its audacity—and question its fairness. Was Jude’s outsized share a justified reward for building a brand from scratch, or a gilded cage that tethered two superstars to their brother’s vision?
Let’s rewind to the genesis. Before Psquare became a household name, Jude wasn’t just a manager—he was the architect of their ascent. He handled early production, stitched together their brand from the ground up, and took financial risks when the twins were still unproven talents. This wasn’t a standard 10-20% commission gig; it was an investment-based management deal, a pact where Jude’s sweat equity earned him a hefty stake. In the music business, such arrangements aren’t unheard of—think Eezee Concepts banking on Mercy Chinwo, Judikay, and Minister GUC before their gospel stardom—but Psquare’s case stands out for its familial twist and the sheer scale of Jude’s cut.
On paper, it’s a compelling argument: Jude bet on Psquare when no one else would, so why shouldn’t he reap 40% of the net earnings—profits after expenses like tours, videos, and marketing? Net earnings deals, unlike gross earnings cuts that can leave artists strapped after hefty costs, are fairer to performers. If Psquare grossed ₦100 million but spent ₦50 million, Jude’s 40% of the ₦50 million net (₦20 million) left Peter and Paul with ₦15 million each—a tidy sum, though dwarfed by their brother’s take. Compare that to a gross earnings deal where Jude might have pocketed ₦40 million off the top, leaving the twins scrambling to cover expenses. The net structure suggests a nod to equity, but the 40% figure raises eyebrows. Was it reward or overreach?
Here’s where it gets sticky: Jude wasn’t just a manager; he was a co-founder of the Psquare enterprise. Peter and Paul were the faces—the electrifying dancers and soulful voices—but Jude was the business brain, structuring a deal that made him indispensable. This wasn’t a contract you could terminate with a handshake and a severance check; it was a legal partnership. Jude held equity in the Psquare brand—name, contracts, revenue streams—meaning Peter and Paul couldn’t “fire” him without a buyout or a dissolution of their agreement. Try performing as Psquare without him, and Jude could slap them with a cease-and-desist or sue for damages. It’s a setup that ensured his control, but at what cost to the duo’s autonomy?
Contrast this with standard management deals, where a 10-20% commission reflects a hired hand’s role—negotiating contracts, booking tours, managing finances—not a co-ownership stake. Jude’s 40% aligns with investment-based deals, where early risk justifies a bigger slice, but it blurs the line into a business partnership model. Think of it like a startup: Jude was the angel investor and CEO, while Peter and Paul were the talent and co-founders. Fair in theory, perhaps, but when the talent outgrows the investor’s foundational role, tensions brew. Psquare’s public feuds and eventual split—Peter as Mr P, Paul as Rudeboy—hint at a deal that may have locked them into a sibling power dynamic they couldn’t escape.
This isn’t unique to Psquare. Artists globally grapple with management structures that can either propel or paralyze them. Talent management companies like Roc Nation or Nigeria’s MAVIN assign managers without artist veto power, while stars like Wizkid juggle multiple managers—Sunday Are for Africa, Jada P for global reach—to maximize opportunities. Psquare’s model, though, feels like a relic of a less scrutinized era, where familial trust trumped legal clarity. Jude’s 40% wasn’t just a paycheck; it was a legal tether, ensuring Psquare couldn’t exist without him. Genius for Jude, perhaps, but a straitjacket for Peter and Paul when creative or personal paths diverged.
So, was it fair? Yes—if you see Jude as a visionary who built Psquare from nothing, deserving a founder’s share for his risk and foresight. No—if you view management as a service, not ownership, where 40% feels like exploitation of talent that ultimately carried the brand’s fame. The real lesson lies in the fine print: artists must understand gross versus net earnings, define termination clauses, and weigh ownership stakes before signing. Jude’s deal worked until it didn’t, fracturing a dynasty that might have thrived under a looser grip.
As Kenya’s music scene grows—think Sauti Sol or Nyashinski—Psquare’s saga offers a cautionary tale. Managers can make or break careers, but when they own the brand, they hold the keys to the kingdom. Jude’s 40% was a masterstroke of business, but it may have cost Psquare their unity. Fair or not, it’s a reminder: structure your deal wisely, or risk singing someone else’s tune. What do you reckon—reward for investment or a brotherly bind too tight? The stage is yours.
