And just like that, Tageel (Instagram) is back. No dramatic announcements. No over-explanation. Just a tight and neat EP that does all the talking.
The viral success of his debut album Kitab last year thrust Tageel to a new level of recognition. Almost overnight, his name carried weight, and his music held real influence. In the chaos of it all, he realized he needed to step back—not to disappear, but to reflect and recalibrate.
But distance didn’t mean detachment. The question was never if he would return, but how—with greater intention, more clarity. He wanted to shape his influence consciously, whether it reached a handful of listeners or an entire movement.
During this self-imposed retreat, Tageel buried himself in the studio. What emerged was Sorry 4 The Weight—a project that distills that period of reflection into sound. Across just nine minutes, the five-pack EP moves with urgency, packed with bass-heavy beats courtesy of Hamadaboi and x1ob.
From the jump, Pro Max sets the tone with an almost chaotic energy. The sparse, fragmented bars, spit almost irreverently, and unpredictable structure mirror the restless nature of the instrumental, as if Tageel is feeling out his place in the scene while simultaneously proving he never left. This seamless, almost stream-of-consciousness approach carries into Tany Tany Tany, where he turns introspective without losing his edge. He gives us a little self-reflection but still flexes on us, showing us he is both aware of his impact and unbothered by expectations.
Sorry 4 The Weight doesn’t rely on over-explanation or forced reinvention. Instead, it lets contrast do the work. The EP’s pacing is relentless, yet Tgl Interlude acts as a brief moment of recalibration, momentarily slowing down the momentum, leading into Ba3aty. It’s here that he sounds the most locked in—measured and fully present.
Despite its brevity, Sorry 4 The Weight feels complete. The production and vocal delivery work in sync, creating a cohesive experience that never overstays its welcome. The weight was worth it.
Here’s what he had to say about it all:
Why did you release now? Why was this the right time?
The timing just felt right, even though we originally planned to drop sooner. After a few scrapped comeback projects, this one finally felt complete. There was a sense of urgency—almost like there was an empty space in the scene that needed filling.
How did you approach curating this EP?
It started with Pro Max. Once we recorded that track, we knew exactly where we wanted to go. There were so many directions we could’ve taken, but none of them felt like they justified the time away or truly reflected our growth. Once Pro Max was locked in, Hamada, Xob, and Mazin helped shape the rest—picking the beats, finalizing the sequencing. It all came together effortlessly, almost like we were on autopilot. The goal was to create something cohesive and immersive, a full journey packed into just under 10 minutes.
What’s something about the EP that might surprise people?
That I might’ve “dumbed it down,” yet I’m more direct than ever. I said everything I needed to say, exactly how I wanted to say it. There’s always been this talk about my lyrics being too complex, needing to be broken down, and a lot of noise around my so-called “retirement.” I felt like I had a lot to address.
Is the apology for the audience or for yourself? What are you really apologizing for?
It’s both. I needed time to understand myself again, to step back and rediscover my purpose. But it was also for my listeners, my team, and everyone I had worked with—or planned to work with—who had to suddenly adjust to my decision. As much as it caught everyone off guard, it caught me off guard, too.
Behind the mask, who do we find?
You find both Tageel and Wadah. I never really believed in the idea of having a split personality until I started meeting fans and peers who would say, “I didn’t expect you to be like this.” But then, as they listened more, it started making sense to them. The music reflects a big part of who I am—whether directly or indirectly.
What did you learn over this past year?
If we’re talking about the last 12 months, it’s been the most eye-opening year of my life. I learned more about myself and my art than ever before. I finally understood why I make music, why I make certain decisions. And even now, I’m still figuring things out. Self-discovery never really stops, and I’m excited to see what I learn in the next year or two.
Explain your favourite bar.
“Fog al ard t7t al sama”—naturally, we exist above the earth and beneath the sky. I placed it in the break intentionally, almost like a message to myself and my listeners. It’s about remembering the good times, letting go of what hurts—whether in Sudan or beyond. Everything that’s happening is written, and what comes next isn’t in our hands. Sometimes, the simplest bars carry the most meaning for me.
I love the wordplay with “Weight,” considering your name also means heavy. What kind of weight are you carrying or conveying here?
The title actually came from Mazin—he names almost all my tracks, except for the ones that name themselves. Like the mask concept, I didn’t know what it would fully mean at first, but over time, it made perfect sense. Weight, for me, is about how I approach everything—I go all in. Whether it’s my thoughts, my music, or my life, I experience everything in extremes. When I’m happy, I’m really happy. When I’m down, I’m really down. There’s no in-between, and that intensity is reflected in the music, the production, the messaging, and the visuals.
How has the industry and scene changed in your eyes since your hiatus?
It’s changed both in my eyes and in reality. There’s been a lot of good music coming out, and I’ve always paid attention to what’s happening in Sudan. But during my break, I noticed a real improvement in quality. It made me fall in love with the scene again. At first, I hated what I was seeing—the industry, my own situation, the comparisons—but I had to unlearn and relearn everything. It was toxic, even though deep down, I knew the music I had put out was top-tier. Eventually, I had to believe in it again. As I said, I live in extremes—so my only option at one point was to leave it all behind. But during those nine months, I went through a complete mental reset. I realized music was always my calling. I grasped the influence I had and the responsibility that came with it. And I came to terms with the industry being more fair than unfair.
What risks did you take with this project?
Saying exactly what I wanted. No holding back, no regrets. If people connect with it, great. If they don’t, I’m still fulfilled.
I also took risks with the production—new beats, a different sonic approach, a fresh visual identity. The entire project is more in-your-face, more extreme. It’s all or nothing.
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