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Have you ever wondered about time? About how things came to be, how things are now, and how things continue to unfold. Life as its culmination of past, present, and future…

As a teenager, I was always inquisitive about the origins of origins. Who was the first native doctor, and how did they discover that certain herbs could heal certain illnesses? How was the first egusi soup recipe formulated? Who tried a random round object that grows from the ground (watermelon), discovered it could be eaten, and its seeds could be dried, peeled, and ground into what would become a traditional delicacy? I was in love with the past, not just as a holder of wisdom, but as a realm of curiosity, exploration, testing, and discovery. The beauty of ancestry is its curiosity of thought, and the discoveries of its exploration.

History is a seeker constantly finding new ways of being, through trial and error. The knowledge we inherit as truth - schools of thought, research, myths, beliefs - are all realisations of someone’s curiosity about something that was once unknown. They stem from the humble phrase - ‘I do not know.’ and journey into uncovering and understanding.

However, I feel, in our modern society, we struggle a lot with the concept of not knowing. Rather than viewing ourselves as students of life, we are surrounded by a wealth of knowledge (others’ knowings) - research, studies, inventions, and experts who have explored before us. Thus, we feel like we need to skip the phase of ‘not knowing’, believing we should simply take up others’ discoveries as a means to ease the discomfort of our own uncertainty.

It almost feels like life has come to a point where nothing is unknown, and as a result we’ve shifted from ‘I do not know.’ to ‘I should know.’ Ironically, this shift hides a deeper truth… ‘Should’ creates a facade of certainty in hopes of masking the shame and distress that not knowing, in a world filled with knowledge, perpetuates. This avoidance prevents us from accessing the very gem that brought every knowing thus far into being - the curiosity about the unknown paired with a willingness and openness to explore, experiment, and discover.

As my dad would say, ‘ To believe (‘should’) and to know something for yourself are two different things.’ To ‘know’ is to experience something for yourself, thus providing you with indisputable evidence of its truth. Meanwhile, to believe is to trust in something’s ability to be true.

History gives us permission to be learners, explorers, inventors, scientists, and philosophers. Curious adventurers able to experience life like a novice - questioning because this is our first life. As an artist and designer, this spaciousness has been the foundation of my creativity, fostering a deep love for pre-colonial art forms and making techniques.

Fashion is one of the portals through which I explore this. In that space of unknowing, my debut collection inspired an experimentation with both past and present, personal and collective curiosities to birth the ‘ABUNDANCE’ capsule collection. I found myself co-writing my personal story in textile through the pre-colonial process of adire. My favorite colours - orange, pink, and purple - bring to life the traditional symbols that were held within my contemporary shapes. Creativity dancing in time…

What is adire?

Adire is an indigo-dyed fabric, made with a variety of resist-dyeing techniques, from raffia tying to block printing, to create patterns and symbols that tell stories through textiles. Although the name refers to the textile practice of women in the Yoruba Kingdom in Nigeria, the resist-dyeing technique has been practiced widely across West Africa. More recently, there has been an evolution of this traditional process utilising wax-resist techniques and a wider range of colours.

After silently launching on the 31st of January 2026, I sat in the darkness of my mind, questioning what I had created. If it was beautiful enough. If it was authentic enough. If it was honest in the curiosity of its exploration of the past, present, personal, and collective. Was it all a sham?

Traditionally, an agbada is a glamorous robe, usually carrying intricate embroidery, that was worn by chiefs, which ‘originated in the Sokoto Caliphate of 19th-century northern Nigeria’ and spread to western Nigeria and beyond, into other West African countries like Cameroon. With the most adorned designs, it is usually worn by chiefs and ogbas; it became a symbol of regality, power, and prestige.

I was reminded of this when I came across a post by Guzangs magazine featuring historical images of people in agbadas. Slowly, after avoiding my own pieces for months, the collection came back to me… Cosmic dance, an ‘awosoke’—the outer robe. Cascadence shirt, ‘awotele’ - the undervest, and finally the suit trousers and Jones jeans, the ‘sokoto’. All three aspects that summate into a traditional agbada ensemble.Definitely not historically accurate, instead a liminal creation, birthed from an exploration of life as a cumulation of past, present and future, both deeply personal and collective.

As such, I leave you with this… What adventure can embracing the curious exploration of ‘I do not know’ unlock for you right now?

About Collection

Our debut collection, ‘ABUNDANCE’, is a love letter to life. An 11-piece capsule collection told through age-old adire and batik techniques - creating textiles that embody the magic in the unfolding cycles of life.

This capsule collection contains two distinct textile expressions. Speckled and vibrant – a yellow, pink, and white colour palette captures the sunlit glimmer of the day, while an inky and artisanal purple, blue, and pink palette alludes to the quiet reflection of the night. Interlaced within the collection is the tailored structure of masculine fashion with the sensual drapery of the feminine - reimagining native Nigerian attire through a whimsical contemporary lens.

Each piece serves as a portal through which wearers can channel the wealth of their lineage and celebrate the beauty of their unfolding life journey.

About Brand

Adanma’s Fashion is a contemporary gender-fluid brand, merging the tailored structure of masculine fashion with the sensual sculpture of the feminine. Grounded in a deep love for pre-colonial Nigerian art forms, we utilise traditional textile-making techniques to reimagine modern Nigerian fashion. We are a liminal brand, creating pieces that serve as portals through which wearers can embody the wealth of their lineage.

About Designer

Adanma Nwankwo (b. 2001) is an interdisciplinary Nigerian artist and founder of Adanma’s Fashion, a contemporary gender-fluid fashion brand. Founded in 2025, the brand is grounded in her deep love for pre-colonial Nigerian art, bending the boundaries between masculine and feminine fashion.

Adanma’s Fashion draws on traditional making techniques to reimagine modern Nigerian fashion. Sitting between art, culture, and fashion, the brand creates pieces that act as portals for wearers to connect with the wealth of their lineage.

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Boxpark Croydon turned into a dance floor with 2000 people in it when Red Bull Bring The Vim came through for its third edition, non-stop Afrobeats sets from CULTUR FM, showcases from HomeBros and Afro In Heels, dance crew battles, and a live set from Afroswing collective NSG. For the first time in the event’s history, international crews joined the competition, and French team La Révolution walked away with the title over UK crew One Dialect, the first international crew to ever win it.

GUAP caught up with both CULTUR FM and HomeBros after the night to talk through what actually goes into building a night like that, on the decks and on the floor.

CULTUR FM

You held the room down all night at Red Bull Bring The Vim. What is different about DJing for a dance-battle crowd, where the energy is dictated by what is happening on the floor rather than by your own build?

TheFirstLady: The biggest difference is that I am not simply building energy for a crowd; I am responding to the dancers in real time. In a battle, the dance floor becomes another instrument. I watch how the dancers move and react to particular sounds, then use those cues to decide where to take the music next. DJing for CULTUR FM VS beforehand helped me find that rhythm: it put me in the groove of reacting in the moment and trusting my instincts.”

Afrobeats has grown into arenas and festival headline slots in recent years. What role has CULTUR FM played in that story on the ground, before the bigger stages caught up?

Moses Akanmu: “We would never claim credit for Afrobeats reaching arenas; that belongs to the artists. Our work sits in an underlying layer that is rarely written about. Before an Afrobeats artist headlines a festival, a DJ has played their record in a small room somewhere in the world and watched how the crowd responds. DJs are often the first filter through which the culture passes.

Our role is to platform those DJs and extend their reach far beyond the room. We treat them as cultural figures in their own right. Because CULTUR FM operates globally, a set does not remain local; it travels across the diaspora. The bigger stages caught up with something that was already happening in those rooms.

What do you look for when choosing music for a night built around dancing, rather than simply listening?

TheFirstLady: For a night built around dance, I think about movement first: how the music feels in the body, not just how it sounds. Every beat, rhythm, percussion line and break gives the dancers something different to work with.

Bringing that approach to a Red Bull and CULTUR FM stage on such a large scale was special. My priority as a DJ is to create a musical journey that people can interpret in their own way, bridging the gap between sound and movement.”

Red Bull Bring The Vim went international this year, with crews from France and Belgium in the mix. Did that change how you approached the set or read the crowd?

TheFirstLady: Not entirely. Music is universal, and I wanted the set to feel inclusive, fun and rooted in the African diaspora - an approach that felt right for the Red Bull x CULTUR FM collaboration. The dancers came from different countries and brought distinct styles, but the music connected everyone. I focused on reading the room, responding to the dancers and bringing my own FirstLady energy to the set. That is what I love about DJing: the same song can mean something completely different to each person in the room.

What is next for CULTUR FM? Are there any events, partnerships or projects you are building towards?

Moses Akanmu: We are in the middle of a growing global run of experiences: entering new cities, building deeper partnerships and placing more emphasis on the culture around the music, including fashion, sport and community.

CULTUR FM introduced us to the world through music and DJs. The next chapter is CULTUR ALWAYS WINS (CAW), which brings together the other expressions of culture we care about: community events, fashion, food, sport and everything surrounding the sound. Our ambition is to become a trusted voice for the culture.

We recently launched a clothing line under CULTUR ALWAYS WINS, marking our first significant step into that space, with much more still to build. The wider vision is a connected cultural ecosystem rather than a series of one-off parties. Every room we create in one city should feed the next. There is plenty in motion for the rest of the year, so do not miss it.

HOMEBROS

Your showcase stood apart from the crews battling for the title. What does a HomeBros set need to do that a competition round does not?

Kurtis “Kurtyswift” Agyekum: The showcase was deliberately different from the crew battles. We wanted to present the many ways modern African dance styles can be performed and experienced. A platform like this can show the range and adaptability of Afro dance from battles and theatre to social media and classes. Modern African street dance styles are a language of expression.

They can take many forms, each revealing the culture from which the dance comes while allowing audiences to view it through different lenses. HomeBros created this piece with two members of HomeFam, Tilly Indigo and Wahida Sesay. It was an artistic interpretation of Afro dance that explored identity and belonging - a central theme when expressing African culture from the diaspora.

Afro dance has had a major moment in the UK in recent years. From your perspective, what has changed, and what still needs to catch up?

Kurtis “Kurtyswift” Agyekum: From my perspective, Afro dance has had a major platform in the UK for some time. Since 2012, the country has been one of the leaders in the global growth of Afro dance styles. As Afrobeats moved into the mainstream, the UK remained at the forefront of communities outside Africa. The UK has become a second hub for many modern African dance styles because of its diaspora population and the way the music has travelled.

For many artists from Africa, the UK is one of the first stops beyond the continent, supported by a large fan base and a deep appreciation for African culture and dance. London, in particular, brings together diaspora communities from across Africa, including Ghana, Nigeria, Congo and South Africa.

That mix has shaped how younger generations experience and share the culture. The energy has been present for a long time and continues to grow. What has changed is that more people from outside the culture now recognise and engage with it, helping it reach a wider audience.

La Révolution became the first international crew to win Red Bull Bring The Vim. Does that change the standard UK crews are chasing?

Kurtis “Kurtyswift” Agyekum: It is exciting to have the first international Red Bull Bring The Vim champion. La Révolution’s win demonstrates the depth of talent across African dance worldwide, but I do not think it changes the standard UK crews are pursuing. The battle scene is like football: every top-flight team has a chance to win.

The UK and other European countries have strong identities and distinct forms of expression, so the result often comes down to taste, music, preparation and execution. France won this time, but the UK and the rest of Europe will not make it easy next time. That competitive tension will make for a beautiful competition.

What does “Vim” mean to you, both on and off the floor?

Kurtis “Kurtyswift” Agyekum: For me, Vim is feeling, its energy and spirit. The term Vim has been used in Afrobeat music for over a decade and has always been used as a term of encouragement and power to all that use it. I believe that this stays true both on the floor and off the floor. Even in day-to-day life, vim is that cultural way of being tenacious and authentic. More than just a dance term, but a term that relates to life and culture.

What is next for HomeBros? Are there any showcases, collaborations or projects on the way?

Kurtis “Kurtyswift” Agyekum: HomeBros are committed to the growth, education and artistic exploration of modern African street dance styles, from a grass root level, all the way through to professionals. We aim to share and uplift the culture in the UK and internationally. Expect us to continue traveling the world delivering workshops, choreographing for stage and screen. As well as providing events and spaces for dancers to explore and grow. We are very blessed to be in this position and we don’t take it for granted. Africa to the world. #feelingfirst”

Welcome to GUAP’s weekly newsletter.

We have curated a selection of creative opportunities for you to digest. We know how difficult and overwhelming it can be to find opportunities. So as a way to support your creative journey we have separated this newsletter into different mediums. We hope you find something that resonates with you and helps lighten the load.

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We’re hosting a free online event exclusively for GUAP community members with Kandre Aramide Hassan, an artist whose practice draws on a background in social anthropology.

Session Topic

Creating from memory: an interactive workshop for anyone who has ever felt they need a reference image to bring an idea to life. Drawing from their artistic practice and background in social anthropology, Kandre will guide participants through a series of short drawing exercises, exploring how sensory details, memories and personal associations can be transformed into abstract drawings, using memory, lived experience and cultural knowledge as the starting point.

Curated & Hosted by OURPPLS

Date: Monday 19th October 2026

Time: 6:30pm - 7:30pm

To RSVP please sign up below.

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Almost a decade after entering the music industry at 17, Grace Carter is learning how to meet herself where she is. Her debut album, When Saturn Returns, marks a shift away from the childhood experiences that defined much of her earliest music, turning instead towards the complicated reality of becoming an adult : relationships, womanhood, autonomy, self-sabotage and the pressure to have everything figured out.

Named after the astrological phenomenon associated with the transition from your twenties into your thirties, When Saturn Returns embraces the uncertainty of this stage of life rather than trying to resolve it. On “Party Baby”, Carter questions the expectations placed on women to grow up and settle down; elsewhere, she examines escapism, self-destruction and the uncomfortable process of figuring out who you are while still becoming that person.

The album itself arrived after a period when Carter wasn’t sure she would make another record at all. Following years of writer’s block, an impromptu ten-day writing trip to Stockholm became the catalyst for a new creative chapter, with almost all of the album’s songs written during the trip. Freed from the expectation to recreate the artist she had once been, Carter found her way back to the reason she started making music in the first place.

“I’m no longer speaking from my child self,” she says. “I am a woman now.” GUAP caught up with Carter to speak about her debut release going out into the world, how she navigates artistry, and what this new chapter means for her.

Why When Saturn Returns for the name of your debut album?

I’m in my Saturn return, which is hell and borrow, and this album explores all of the challenges and feelings I have been facing in my mid to late twenties. I feel like this stage of life can feel very isolating as there is a lot changing and it’s easy to feel lost. I wanted the title to be something that people feeling similarly to me could recognise and resonate with.

Why is now the right time for a debut album?

To be honest it’s not about it being the right time. I have had a very turbulent career, a lot of the mess has happened in private and I got to the point where I didn’t think I was even capable of making a body of work ever again. Last year when I flew to Stockholm to write and came out 10 days later with an album’s worth of songs it felt like a cop out to call it anything but my debut album. The whole process of making it felt like it was meant to be, especially after years of writer’s block. This is my proudest work yet and is the best representation of me as a human and an artist yet and I couldn’t be happier with the body of work I get to call my debut album.

“Party Baby” speaks about not knowing when the party ends. What have you learnt to celebrate at this stage of your life?

We feel so much pressure at this stage of life to rush and do grown up things. Party Baby is about having children and I think something I have learnt to celebrate as I’ve got older is turning that pressure into power. I have a choice, I don’t have to follow the path someone else set out for me. I have autonomy and that is something to celebrate. Generations of women have fought for us to be able to have a voice and a choice and right now I’m running with that.

You’ve been a part of the music industry for almost a decade. What have you learnt about longevity?

It has been a while and it has been nowhere near straightforward but I think the main thing I’ve learnt is intention. The reason I make music is because I love making music, not because I necessarily want to be the most famous singer in the world (although I’d like my flowers one day haha). I think one of my biggest difficulties in this business is the fact that I have an opinion and although when I was younger I was quite easy to influence as I’ve got older I find it very hard to go against myself. I think it’s a blessing and a curse. Maybe if I said yes to more people I’d be further on than I am but what no one can argue on is my authenticity. I’m still here because I love being creative and I love creating things bigger than me.

You wrote all but two tracks during a creative period in Stockholm. Did the tracklist also present itself during this period, or did that come later?

To be honest it all kind of happened very naturally. A lot of thought went into the early stages before sitting down to write but everything about this album felt like flow state. All but 2 songs we wrote in that 10 days ended up on the album and which is pretty mental!

On “Bittersweet Escape”, a lyric struck me: “You gave me flowers, and all I could do was light it.” It feels like such a strong image for self-sabotage. Why was that the metaphor that felt right for the song?

To be honest that line has multiple meanings. I wrote Bittersweet Escape about my relationship with weed so in the literal sense it’s about that but also the whole song is about self destruction and I see that line as a metaphor for me just ruining everything nice in my life. I’m so proud of the lyrics on this album and hope that with every listen people discover new things.

You’ve described the album as capturing your “adult adolescence”. What do you think adults are most dishonest about?

Being ok. I think we often feel like we have to act like we have it all together when we don’t and that feeling is exhausting. I want the album to be something people can listen to for comfort.

There’s a tension throughout the album between freedom and expectation, particularly around growing older and womanhood. What expectations have you had to unlearn?

That one day I’ll wake up and everything will just make sense. We’re constantly learning and evolving, nothing is straight forward and that is ok. I have grown so much through discomfort and although in the moment it feels horrific I wouldn’t change any of it. Without sounding cliche I would not be who I am today if I hadn’t experienced the things I have. What is meant for me will not pass me by.

Your earlier work was so closely connected to your childhood and the experiences that shaped you. Did making this album feel like an opportunity to introduce people to Grace beyond her past?

When I was making this album I wasn’t thinking about anyone else and I think that’s why it’s so special to me. I had to make this album for myself. My first project was about my childhood and for years I have been defined by those years of my life. I went through a lot, I had a lot of pressure on me to keep creating from that place and it completely stunted me. I didn’t write for years as a result. This album has changed my life in ways I don’t think I’ll ever be able to put into words, it reminded me of my love for making music. I’m no longer speaking from my child self, I am a woman now and have experienced so much more than having a deadbeat dad. Now I’m dealing with wastemen, identity and my relationships with myself and others haha. I am so excited for people to hear me. Not what’s happened to me. I am proud of what I made before but I am even prouder of this.

If your younger self (17-year-old Grace who was just entering the industry) could sit down and listen to When Saturn Returns with you, what do you think she’d say, or what would that conversation sound like?

I think it would be the album me and my friends would play in my Mum’s basement on a Friday night when we were chilling. My goal for years has been to make music me and my friends would genuinely stick on. We grew up listening to solange, frank ocean, sza, erykah badu, Adele, lauryn hill and I think i’d really like listening to this album if it came out then. I think a 17 year old me would be very proud of this body of work.

What’s next for Grace Carter?

So much! I can finally see the future. My ambition is bigger than ever and I can’t wait to give people more! More shows, more music! I guess in a way 2026 has felt like starting again so I’m just excited to really solidify who I am as an artist in the years to come. Exciting times ahead

He was born in Setúbal in 1963, the son of Félix Mourinho, a professional goalkeeper who later became a manager. José tried playing himself, but the career never arrived. He studied sports science, took coaching courses, worked with young players, and eventually found himself beside Bobby Robson at Sporting Lisbon. His official job was translation.

It is one of those details that sounds almost too neat in retrospect. The future José Mourinho, the man who would eventually make press conferences feel like heavyweight contests, started his career listening to somebody else speak.

Robson took him to Porto and then Barcelona. At Barcelona, Louis van Gaal arrived and kept Mourinho close, eventually giving him responsibilities far beyond translation. Mourinho learned how managers spoke to players, how they prepared opponents, how they built authority, how information moved through a dressing room. He was watching football from the inside without being the person everybody was watching.

That position probably mattered more than the word “translator” suggests.

A translator has to listen for things that aren’t literally being said. Tone. Hesitation. What somebody means when they choose one word instead of another. Which part of a sentence matters. Which part should disappear.

Mourinho would eventually turn that into a managerial skill.

He also learned something less technical. Football is full of people trying to control the room.

The chairman. The manager. The captain. The star player. The journalists. The supporters. The referee. The opponent. Everybody is telling a version of the story.

Mourinho simply became unusually interested in who got to tell it.

His first serious managerial job came at União de Leiria. Then, in January 2002, Porto hired him. Eighteen months later he had won the Portuguese league, Portuguese Cup and UEFA Cup. A year after that, Porto were European champions.

The famous image came in between.

Manchester United had just been eliminated in the Champions League. Porto had scored late at Old Trafford. Costinha put the ball in and Mourinho sprinted down the touchline, arms out, black coat flying, looking less like a coach celebrating qualification than somebody who had just escaped from a burning building.

The picture mattered, and Mourinho understood pictures.

When he arrived at Chelsea in 2004, he walked into his first major English press conference and introduced himself with the line that would follow him for the rest of his career: “I think I am a special one.”

It was funny because it was outrageous. It was effective because he said it before anybody else could decide what he was.

The phrase became a nickname. The nickname became a character. The character became part of the job.

That is the strange thing about Mourinho. His personality was never decoration around his football. It was one of his working tools.

At Chelsea, he did not simply tell his players they could win. He created an atmosphere in which winning became socially expected. He talked about being able to “smell success” at the club before Chelsea had actually won the league.

That sounds like theatre until you understand what theatre can do.

A dressing room is a small society. People take cues from one another. Confidence is contagious, but so is doubt. Mourinho was very good at manufacturing the former and giving the latter somewhere else to live.

The 2004/05 Chelsea team conceded just 15 league goals. They won the Premier League with a defence that seemed almost insultingly organised. Mourinho’s football was often described through the language of pragmatism, but there was something more interesting happening. He was trying to reduce randomness.

Training sessions were built around situations. Players were shown video of their own performances. Opponents were dissected. Individual responsibilities could be extraordinarily specific. UEFA described his approach at the time as unusually scientific, including his use of video analysis and specialist preparation.

He did not want football to remain mysterious for his players, he wanted them to know what was coming.

This is probably why Mourinho’s press conferences were never quite separate from his tactics. They were another form of preparation.

He could praise an opponent, irritate a referee, protect a player, provoke a rival manager or create a siege mentality without ever needing to draw a formation on a board.

He understood that a football match begins long before the players walk onto the pitch.

Sometimes it begins with a sentence.

His genius, when it worked, was making other people react to the sentence he had chosen.

There was a slightly old-fashioned quality to this. Mourinho dressed like a man who understood that clothes communicate rank. Dark suits. Coats. Watches. Sunglasses. The carefully controlled touchline silhouette. He never looked accidental.

This was before Instagram turned managers into lifestyle, but unlike a footballer selling a watch or a pair of trainers, Mourinho’s product was authority itself. He was selling the idea that he knew.That distinction became especially useful whenever his teams were under pressure.

At Porto, he could build himself into the leader of an outsider. At Chelsea, he could turn a club desperate for its first league title in half a century into a machine that expected the title. At Inter, he could convince an experienced squad that Europe was something they were capable of taking back. In Madrid, Manchester and later elsewhere, the calculation became harder because Mourinho was no longer arriving as the outsider who had something to prove, he was arriving as Mourinho.

That changes the psychology of the room.

The 2010 Champions League semi-final against Barcelona is probably the clearest example of how far his football could go when the circumstances demanded it.

Inter won the first leg 3-1 in Milan. In the return at Camp Nou, Thiago Motta was sent off in the first half. Inter played for more than an hour with ten men against Barcelona, defending their aggregate lead while Barcelona circulated the ball around them. Mourinho’s players blocked, retreated, covered spaces and absorbed pressure until Gerard Piqué scored late. It wasn’t enough. Inter went through 3-2 on aggregate.

Mourinho sprinted onto the Camp Nou pitch afterwards. Again, the image became part of the football.

But look closer at what actually happened: he had taken the game and made it smaller.

Barcelona wanted space. Mourinho gave them almost none. They wanted rhythm. Inter interrupted it. They wanted the match to become a demonstration of their superiority. Mourinho turned it into a problem to be solved.

That Inter side eventually won the Champions League, Serie A and Coppa Italia treble.

Mourinho had not discovered some secret formula for beautiful football or ugly football.

He had discovered something more useful, how to make a match feel like his kind of match.

This is where the Guardiola rivalry becomes interesting without reducing it to the usual football-manager soap opera. Guardiola’s Barcelona represented a very particular faith in the ball: possession as control, circulation as territory, technique as authority.

Mourinho was interested in everything surrounding the ball.

The referee. The crowd. The emotional temperature. The opponent’s habits. The press. The little grievance that could make eleven players run five percent harder for each other, he treated football as an ecosystem; and, sometimes, he seemed almost fascinated by the people watching it.

His press conferences could become miniature psychological experiments. He would pause. Refuse a question. Give too much information. Give none. Praise someone suspiciously. Say something ridiculous with a completely straight face.

“I prefer not to speak” became one of his most recognisable phrases because it was almost a joke about the machinery itself. Journalists needed him to speak. Mourinho understood that refusing to speak could become another kind of statement.

There is something slightly strange about how much of modern football already resembles Mourinho.

Managers are now photographed arriving at training. Players have personal brands. Every post-match sentence is clipped, reposted and analysed. Touchline behaviour becomes content. Coaches are expected to have an opinion on everything.

Mourinho helped create the environment in which this became normal.

He understood earlier than most that the manager could become a cultural figure independent of the players.

Not just the man drawing arrows on a tactics board, but the man whose coat people noticed, whose facial expression became a meme, whose argument with a referee could become tomorrow’s front page.

And yet there was always a danger in being that person.

The character requires maintenance and the room eventually knows your tricks.

The siege mentality that can make a team feel invincible can also exhaust it. The constant confrontations, public battles and emotional pressure that once made Mourinho’s teams feel bonded could eventually become part of the burden. His career contains several cycles in which extraordinary success is followed by tension and collapse. That pattern is real, although it is too simple to turn it into a universal law about his teams.

The fascinating part is that Mourinho never really abandoned the method.

Even when the football changed, the instinct remained.

Control the environment, control the information, control the emotional temperature, control the story.

Maybe that is why the word “theatre” belongs here. Not because Mourinho’s football was fake. Quite the opposite. The football was often brutally concrete. The theatre was everything around it.

The entrance. The clothes. The timing. The press conference. The enemy. The quote. The celebration. The silence afterwards.

He understood that winning does not happen in a vacuum. It happens in front of people, inside institutions, under cameras, with egos involved.

And Mourinho has always been fascinated by the human machinery of it. That may be the most revealing thing about the man who began as somebody else’s voice, he eventually became one of football’s loudest.

But his real education happened before anyone was listening to him, he spent years standing beside the manager, translating the words. Then he started studying the room and after he started controlling it.

And eventually, almost without anyone noticing exactly when it happened, the room became part of José Mourinho’s football.

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From a $5 banquet in 1929 to an invitation-only event watched by millions around the world, the Academy Awards have undergone nearly a century of evolution. But while the ceremony has expanded its reach and categories, questions about whose stories receive recognition remain.

The Best International Feature Film category, formerly known as Best Foreign Language Film, was introduced at the 29th Academy Awards in 1957, recognising films produced outside the United States in languages other than English. Although the category opened the door to international cinema, it also placed films from vastly different cultural, linguistic and filmmaking traditions into the same competition.

For African filmmakers, this raises a difficult question: Are African films not worthy of an Oscar, or are the Oscars too white to understand African cinema?

A history of recognition and exclusion

The category’s history offers some context. Three films representing African countries have won the award: Algeria’s Z (1969), an Algerian-French production; Black and White in Colour (1976), a French-Ivorian co-production; and South Africa’s Tsotsi (2005), which won at the 2006 ceremony. Since Tsotsi, no film representing an African country has won the category.

Two decades later, African countries continue to submit films to the Academy, including entries from Nigeria, South Africa, Morocco, Côte d’Ivoire and Tanzania. Yet the journey from submission to international recognition remains a difficult one.

Nigeria’s Lionheart and the language question

Nigeria’s relationship with the Academy offers a particularly revealing case study.

In 2019, Nigeria made its debut submission with Lionheart, directed by Genevieve Nnaji. The film was subsequently disqualified because most of its dialogue was in English, despite English being Nigeria’s official language. The decision sparked widespread criticism, with many questioning whether the Academy’s eligibility rules adequately understood the linguistic realities of postcolonial countries.

Nigeria’s official language is English, but its cultural and linguistic landscape extends far beyond it. English is spoken alongside hundreds of indigenous languages, and it is deeply embedded in the country’s institutions, education system and everyday interactions. For a film to be disqualified on linguistic grounds when it reflects a genuine part of Nigerian life raises a larger question: who gets to determine what an authentically Nigerian story should sound like?

Subsequent submissions, including Desmond Ovbiagele’s The Milkmaid (2020), C.J. Obasi’s Mami Wata (2023) and Prince Daniel Aboki’s Mai Martaba (2024), have continued Nigeria’s attempts to gain recognition from the Academy. These films also demonstrate the breadth of Nigerian storytelling, from conflict and tradition to mythology and contemporary social realities.

When Nigerian stories travel under another flag

Then came My Father’s Shadow, directed by Akinola Davies Jr. and submitted by the United Kingdom for the 2026 Oscars. Although the film tells a Nigerian story through the experiences of a father and his two sons during the 1993 Nigerian presidential election crisis, its British submission brought renewed attention to the complicated relationship between African stories, diasporic filmmakers and the institutions that recognise them.

Who gets to represent a story? Does a film’s relationship with Nigeria change depending on where it is produced, who submits it or which audiences it reaches? And why can a Nigerian story gain international recognition through another country’s submission when Nigeria itself has yet to secure a nomination in the category?

These questions are not an argument against diasporic filmmaking. Rather, they reveal how national borders, funding structures and international distribution can shape the journey of stories that are not easily confined to one country.

How do you prove your worth to an institution when its criteria may not fully account for the realities of your experience?

Nigeria has one of Africa’s largest film industries, yet it has never received a nomination in the Best International Feature Film category. That absence does not mean Nigerian cinema lacks quality, ambition or cultural significance. It does, however, invite scrutiny of the systems through which international recognition is distributed.

And Nigeria is not alone in this pursuit.

Africa’s next Oscar hopefuls

For the 2027 Academy Awards, African countries have once again put forward films that reflect the continent’s varied histories, identities and filmmaking traditions.

• Rwanda submitted Ben’Imana, a film set in 2012, eighteen years after the genocide against the Tutsi. Through a village grappling with reconciliation between survivors and perpetrators, the film explores the emotional complexity of forgiveness. Its central character, Vénéranda, has spent years helping others confront the words left unspoken between them. When her own daughter’s future becomes entangled with the past, she must confront a history that is no longer someone else’s to resolve.

• The Democratic Republic of the Congo submitted Rumba Royale, set in 1959 Léopoldville, now Kinshasa, during the final months of Belgian colonial rule. Following photographer Daniel, played by Congolese music star Fally Ipupa, the film explores a society on the brink of political change, where personal ambition and tragedy intersect with a changing national identity.

• Nigeria’s entry, Damilola Orimogunje’s Dear Ajayi, turns its attention to family, faith and women’s independence. Set in 1990s southwestern Nigeria, it follows estranged sisters Ade and Titi, who reunite to care for their paralysed mother after their father’s death. Their contrasting lives - Ade as a devout Christian and family breadwinner, Titi as an aspiring singer pursuing independence bring long-standing tensions to the surface.

• South Africa’s submission, Variations on a Theme (Variasies op ‘n Tema), directed by Devon Delmar and Jason Jacobs, adds another perspective to the country’s continuing engagement with the category.

These submissions are not simply competing entries in an awards race. They represent distinct cinematic traditions, languages, histories and approaches to storytelling. From the aftermath of genocide to the end of colonial rule, from complicated family relationships to individual struggles for independence, African filmmakers continue to explore experiences that resist being reduced to a single continental narrative.

But submitting a film is only the beginning. The Academy’s selection process, the international visibility of a film, its distribution and the attention it receives from industry decision-makers can all influence how far it travels.

This is where the conversation must move beyond the question of whether African films are good enough.

Beyond the Oscar: who defines cinematic excellence?

The Oscars are not the sole measure of cinematic excellence, and an Oscar nomination cannot independently validate the worth of an entire film industry. African cinema has its own audiences, festivals, critics, award platforms and histories of innovation. Nevertheless, the Academy remains one of the most visible institutions in global cinema, and recognition there can open doors to wider audiences and new opportunities.

The issue, then, is not whether African cinema deserves to be at the Oscars. It is whether the structures through which the Academy recognises international filmmaking can meaningfully accommodate the continent’s diversity.

The shortlist of 15 films for the 2027 Best International Feature Film category is scheduled to be announced on 15 December 2026, followed by the announcement of the five official nominees on 21 January 2027.

As African filmmakers await the results, perhaps the more important question is not whether one of their films will finally make the cut.

It is this: What does it mean to be recognised by an institution that does not always understand the realities from which your stories emerge, and how much power should that institution have over the stories the world considers worthy of being told?

If you are interested in becoming a GUAP contributor and telling stories that matter to the culture we want to hear from you. We commission emerging writers, journalists and video creators every month to cover the people, communities and moments our audience needs to discover. Your subject. Your voice. No brief.

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It has come to my attention that for a while now, I’ve been listening to gospel music whenever I need a drastic shift in previous sounds I’ve listened to or the nurturing sense to hear strong, stacked vocals and high vibrational harmonies and as much as I can go back and write about the fundamentals of gospel music, that being the influence it had in America, the rise of uk gospel music hasn’t necessarily been studied or that much opened in my opinion. And I say this because effort is made, creativity is proven and even without the clear messages from the Word of God, I do believe gospel music can still be a source of inspiration and wisdom. As a non-religious person, growing up in a Muslim household and being surrounded by Christianity, there were some twists and turns throughout my discovery in music and ever since I detached from the concept of religion, I felt free enough to explore it on my own terms. The idea of “only Christian’s can listen to gospel music” made me fear a resonance of a song that powered the love of God through their tongue but as of now, it feels safe, nurturing and healing. Some songs can take you away from the suffering but also demand you to confront your demons. Whether it resonates with you or not, I find that gospel music can be interpreted in any season in your life whether you’re religious or not and it’s a fundamental product in receiving love.

We’ve all seen the melodramatic church scenes in our favourite American tv shows/movies with the priest congregating, beautiful, outspoken singers forming a choir. You’ve got the First Lady shining the torch down while the rest, supporting her vocals, ever so gently but soaring the crowd as she yearns her way to the top! And that representation stuck with me for a while. I could be biased and say that back then gospel music felt too loud [which was lol] but their reasonings to this were purely from the touch of God and their true representation in his words. The exaggerated screams and ‘PRAISE GOD’ HALLELUJAH’ all felt like method acting and a tiny bit of ‘pick me syndrome’ but all of this was from a mind that wasn’t accepting the essence of gospel music. With my sole tie to r&b, we all know that rhythm and blues are the reason why we have singers like Brandy, Whitney Houston, Jennifer Hudson that took us all the way back to the church settings, flourishing the traditional shivers of vocals that deepens a vision that till now, pours in every R&B song you’ve heard-and that’s on period.

But my concerns lie within the gospel music scene in the uk. And all of this ties in to the sounds of Afrobeats-being known as the consumer of the genre I never realised most of my frequently listened songs, implement sombre, melodic tunes that allow us to rekindle a time that was nostalgic yet emotional but a distinctive sound that makes us blink twice, forming a sense of community and the positive impact towards west African culture appreciation. It wasn’t around the late 1960’s that gospel music became a staple in the uk especially it being tied to the windrush generation from the Caribbeans. Choirs became the ultimate cultural shift in churches, demanding a sound not too unknown to the ears but shifting us to a new presence of worship and praise. As time went on, Gospel music became the outspoken frequency of love, slowly pouring into mainstream music and into genres such as R&B, pop and jazz that still to this day has a lot of influential elements to it. With well known public figures/singers who have gravitated to the importance of gospel music mainly holding down choirs and allowing them to share the stage at concerts, festivals or even award shows. The richness of gospel music grew wider and wider, and entering the 2010’s and 2020’s, it placed a vision that some of us thought would be the righteous outcome of gospel but from my own intake, especially now, I haven’t seen the push on media for this genre.

Artists like Paulade, Laura Ehio, Chantelle Rutendo and even Stormzy’s exceptional, grand performance on ‘Blinded by your grace’. There’s more and more artists shaping the sounds of gospel/christian music, especially honing a deeper meaning towards their projects they put out In a contemporary manner, shifting the narrative of following traditional melodies and alternating towards mainstream genres, still replenishing the word of God and their raw testimony. And what I find so fascinating about gospel/christian music which I previously mentioned before is how influential the genre is becoming. As of now, the music feels more connected to the R&B realm, purging out vocals that imitate the likes of brandy, Whitney Houston, Jill Scott and many more. There’s more of a connection that feels relatable but also tying towards a generation that can feel seen and also heard. Within my growth towards this defining genre, it’s made me grab the interest of the upcoming christian singer [Paulade]. Known for his soothing, airy vocals that dim the impressions of Brandy. Paulade has gained popularity through his diverse ways of interconnecting his faith and also struggles that turn into hope. His newest EP ‘On the Go’ consisting of 6 songs, focuses on the artist’s journey with his faith and the trials and tribulations, encountering pain and tears. And this ties in with today’s question on can gospel music be consumed by non religious people?

On the rise of christian music, I believe it is fair to say that it is okay for non religious people to tune into a world that they/used to believe in. How many people consume music may alter differently to how others do. And from my own intake, this genre has built a sense of normality and guidance in my foundation of searching for the truth. As much as some elements may not resonate with me, it’s mainly up to the listener on how they can incorporate lyrics into their own mindset. In today’s age, christian music sparks debates and sometimes leads into a controversial intake but for most, it’s a genre that has produced the rise of some of our favourite sounds and singers. Without the church there wouldn’t have been any gospel music or choirs holding down the ultimate shift into mainstream music. And with the UK still trying to cope with the R&B genre, I hope that gospel/christian music can gain that success and reach a level that can feel merely as important as other genres.

My initial standpoint lies within the importance of exploring different genres and finding ways to escape but also educating a mind that may feel indecisive to try something that doesn’t align with their initial beliefs. As much as christian music hasn’t been the main impact in my life, it has allowed me to find ways to connect to music that speaks clarity and also yearn over production that resembles genres such as R&B/soul and jazz, allowing myself to rekindle the importance of these sounds but also not being afraid to ponder around the greatness of black music.

If you are interested in becoming a GUAP contributor and telling stories that matter to the culture we want to hear from you. We commission emerging writers, journalists and video creators every month to cover the people, communities and moments our audience needs to discover. Your subject. Your voice. No brief.

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Welcome to GUAP’s weekly newsletter.

We have curated a selection of creative opportunities for you to digest. We know how difficult and overwhelming it can be to find opportunities. So as a way to support your creative journey we have separated this newsletter into different mediums. We hope you find something that resonates with you and helps lighten the load.

Read more

Every October, we celebrate Black History Month in Britain through events, campaigns, articles, businesses, media and more. But I realised something: I didn’t actually know how Black History Month came to Britain in the first place.

So, let me introduce you to Akyaaba Addai-Sebo.

A Ghanaian analyst, journalist and Pan-African activist, Addai-Sebo is widely credited with initiating the UK’s annual Black History Month, first celebrated in 1987.

But he didn’t do it alone.

“Although I initiated the idea, making Black History Month was a collective effort,” Addai-Sebo has said, acknowledging the many people and organisations who helped bring the idea to life.

Born and raised in Kumasi, Ghana, Addai-Sebo was part of Kwame Nkrumah’s Young Pioneer Movement, a national youth organisation founded in 1960 that promoted patriotism, discipline and Pan-African ideals.

His education later took him to the US in the 1970s, where he became involved in the Pan-African liberation movement. There, he witnessed the transition from Negro History Week to Black History Month.

What stood out to Addai-Sebo was not simply that Black history was being recognised. It was what that recognition could do for Black children.

“I had lectured about African traditions in the United States,” he recalled, “and children and their parents told me it had given them a new sense of self.”

That idea stayed with him.

In 1984, Addai-Sebo moved to Britain, seeking refuge from political persecution in Ghana during the regime of Jerry John Rawlings. He settled in London with his wife and quickly became involved in the city’s Black activist community, living alongside Pan-African intellectual C. L. R. James and his nephew, activist Darcus Howe.

Within a year of arriving in Britain, he had become Special Projects Coordinator at the Greater London Council, Chairman of the African Refugees Housing Action Group and later Operations Manager of Notting Hill Carnival.

It was through his work and community involvement that he became increasingly aware of a problem affecting Black children in Britain: identity.

In the mid-1980s, Addai-Sebo became concerned by the way some Black children viewed their African heritage. One conversation, in particular, stayed with him.

A colleague came to work visibly upset. Her six-year-old son, Marcus, had been deliberately named after Marcus Garvey. Yet the night before, he had asked his mother:

“Mom, why can’t I be white?”

His mother was devastated.

“I named my son after Marcus Garvey,” she told Addai-Sebo. “And here he is, just six years old, questioning his identity. I’ve failed my son.”

His response was immediate:

“No, you haven’t failed your son. The national curriculum, local authorities, churches and the institutions — they have failed your son. Not only your son. They’ve failed all children growing up in this country.”

That conversation forced Addai-Sebo to think about what could be done.

For weeks, he observed and spoke to young Black children in schools, buses, parks, and playgrounds across London. He noticed a wider identity crisis. Some children were embarrassed by being African, while others struggled with the distinctions between African and Caribbean identities.

Reading this part of Addai-Sebo’s story really struck me because I recognised something in it.

Growing up, I was ashamed to be African.

At the time, it wasn’t considered cool to be African. I also felt like Africa was reduced to a handful of countries — Nigeria, Ghana and Congo. Barely anyone knew where Angola was, or even that it was a country to begin with.

So whenever people asked me where I was from, I would say Portugal instead.

Looking back, I still can’t believe I claimed to be from the coloniser.

But from secondary school onwards, my relationship with my identity started to change.

I met and became friends with people from Sierra Leone, Côte d’Ivoire, Tanzania, Morocco, Congo, Nigeria, Ghana, Gambia, Senegal, Jamaica, Trinidad, St Lucia, St Kitts and more. Seeing people confidently share and embrace their culture made me more comfortable sharing mine. I also met fellow Angolans who weren’t family members – people who were proud of where they came from.

I no longer claim to be Portuguese.

I am Angolan.

For Addai-Sebo, creating that sense of pride was bigger than simply putting African history into a calendar.

He wanted children growing up in Britain to understand and appreciate Africa, Africans and people of African descent, including their contributions to civilisation and to the development of Britain and Europe.

He wanted to create a cultural space that could help address the identity crisis he was witnessing.

With support from the Greater London Council, the Inner London Education Authority and people including Ansel Wong, Head of the GLC’s Ethnic Minorities Unit, Addai-Sebo began working towards an annual celebration of African and Black history.

But before Black History Month officially began, the groundwork was already being laid

In 1986, Addai-Sebo and colleagues organised the GLC Historical Lectures and Concerts, a programme designed to highlight Africa’s contribution to civilisation. For a week, the Royal Albert Hall was filled with schoolchildren listening to music and talks, while speakers travelled into communities to create conversations around Black history and culture.

The programme brought together education, culture and entertainment. Figures including Jesse Jackson, Angela Davis, Winnie Mandela, Marcus Garvey Jr. were among the prominent figures connected to the wider political and cultural activity taking place in London during this period.

Black history was being brought into communities through education, music and public events.

The groundwork was being laid.

On 1 October 1987, the first UK Black History event was held in London, with the GLC hosting DR Maulana Karenga, the founder of Kwanzaa. The event marked the contributions of Black people throughout history and formed part of the wider African Jubilee Year activities.

But why October?

Britain didn’t simply copy the United States and move Black History Month to February.

For Addai-Sebo, October made sense because of the children.

It marked the beginning of a new school year. Children had returned from their summer holidays, their minds were refreshed and they had more time before exams and tests became a major focus. Addai-Sebo wanted their surroundings to be filled with positive images, education and conversations about their history and origins.

October also held significance within African cultural traditions, including its association with harvest, reflection, tolerance and reconciliation.

At the centre of it all was self-pride.

“Self-pride is the catalyst for achievements.”

And there is something powerful about that idea.

Almost 40 years after the first UK celebration, Black History Month has evolved into a month where people highlight Black British people who have contributed to the country, while celebrating music, culture, literature, fashion, theatre, art, food, businesses and community.

But learning how Black History Month began has made me think about the month differently.

When I think about Akyaaba Addai-Sebo’s story now, I think about that little boy who asked his mother why he couldn’t be white.

I think about the children he wanted to see themselves differently.

And I think about the younger version of myself who once felt embarrassed to say I was African.

During my BA in Creative Writing, I eventually wrote a poetry collection centred around celebrating Blackness. This was around the time George Floyd was killed and conversations around Black Lives Matter were everywhere.

So much of what we were seeing centred on racism, police brutality and trauma. I wanted to create something that focused on the positives of being Black — Black love, Black hair, Black beauty and Black culture.

One of those poems was specifically connected to my Angolan heritage.

I think that’s part of what Black History Month can do.

It can remind us that our histories aren’t only about what happened to us. They are also about what we have created, what we have contributed, what we have survived and what we continue to build.

So, what now?

We can’t rely solely on schools to teach us everything about our history.

That doesn’t mean institutions shouldn’t teach Black British history — they absolutely should. In fact, more of it should be taught.

But as individuals and communities, we can also read. We can research. We can attend events, support Black creatives and Black-owned businesses, learn about pioneers and share what we discover.

We can talk to older generations.

We can preserve stories.

We can create our own work that reflects our Blackness.

We have to be the change we want to see.

Every October, Black History Month gives us reason to pause and look at the people, communities and histories that have shaped Britain and the wider world.

It isn’t just a month on the calendar.

It came from a concern about children knowing their history. It came from community activism, education and the belief that seeing yourself reflected in history can change how you see yourself.

Nearly 40 years after the first UK celebration in 1987, I’m spending doing something very simple:

Learning.

Because if Akyaaba Addai-Sebo helped create the space for us to celebrate Black history, the least I can do is use it to learn more about my own.

If you are interested in becoming a GUAP contributor and telling stories that matter to the culture we want to hear from you. We commission emerging writers, journalists and video creators every month to cover the people, communities and moments our audience needs to discover. Your subject. Your voice. No brief.

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I remember when I first heard about Professor Jason Arday. It was 2023, when he was appointed the youngest Black professor at Cambridge University at the age of 37. I never knew him personally, but I was proud of him. As a neurodivergent Black woman, knowing what he had achieved while navigating autism felt significant. Cambridge is one of the most prestigious educational institutions in the world, and he had earned his place there.

But I noticed something. The news of his appointment was not particularly widespread. It was only when the plagiarism accusations came, three years later, that his name was broadcasted across the media.

Plagiarism in academic institutions is not uncommon. In most cases it is handled internally, quietly, without public spectacle. But as a Black person, I learned early that you are not afforded the same grace as others when you make a mistake, or when you are accused of one. What might be a minor internal matter for someone else becomes a major public transgression when it is you. The same institutions that protect their own will expose you without hesitation.

What made this particularly disturbing was learning that other individuals at that same institution had faced allegations of a far more serious nature, including sexual abuse. Those men, white men, were largely able to keep their positions. The media had very little to say about them. The contrast was stark and it was deliberate.

Jason Arday’s death after weeks of media hounding devastated me. It broke my heart. The press showed little concern for his mental health or his vulnerability. I expected that from certain corners of the media. What I did not expect, and what hurt more, was the response from some Black people. Platforms run by and for Black audiences that had been largely silent during his Cambridge appointment were suddenly very present during his public shaming, seemingly relishing in it. It was a painful reminder of what low racial self-esteem can do to a community. Instead of defending one of our own, some chose to pile on, justifying the media’s behaviour by repeating unverified claims as though the hounding was somehow proportionate to the alleged offence.

It was not. Nothing warranted what was done to him.

I also want to speak about something I witnessed at a panel discussion held in the aftermath of his death. A white man was present who considered himself an ally and was involved in efforts to bring awareness to the injustice Jason faced. His presence was welcome. But some of what he said was not.

He repeatedly centred the oppression of trans people and Muslim people, at one point suggesting they are the most discriminated against groups in the media. This was said in a room convened specifically to discuss what had happened to a Black man. The deflection was uncomfortable. And it ignored something important: Black people can be trans. Black people can be Muslim. Intersectionality is not a footnote.

But the comment that truly stunned the room came when he described his last contact with Jason in the days before his death. Jason had been reluctant to attend a public event, afraid of being recognised. His safety felt compromised. His anxiety was real and it was reasonable. This man’s response, delivered with a laugh, was to tell him not to worry because the event would be mostly white people, and to white people all Black people look the same, so no one would recognise him.

He laughed. He did not register that the room had gone quiet.

That moment encapsulated something I have been thinking about ever since. Allyship is not a fixed identity. It is a practice, and it requires constant self-examination. You can show up for a cause while still carrying assumptions that undermine the very people you claim to support. The man at that panel was not a bad person. But what he said was racist, whether he understood it or not, and the fact that he did not understand it is precisely the problem.

Jason Arday deserved better. He deserved better from the media that hounded him, from the institution that did not protect him, from the community members who turned on him, and from the allies who did not always know how to hold him with the care his vulnerability required.

He was a Black neurodivergent man who reached one of the highest positions in British academia. That achievement should have been celebrated loudly and protected fiercely. Instead, it became the foundation for a public dismantling that he did not survive.

In the words of London reggae group The League of Rebelz, “I’m not a tool that you can use and make me do what you want me to.” That line from Rebel in Babylon came back to me when I watched what happened to Professor Jason Arday. Because that is exactly what institutions do: they use you, celebrate you when it is convenient, and discard you when you become inconvenient.

We should say his name with pride. We should remember what he achieved. And we should be honest about what we failed to do while he was still here.

If you are interested in becoming a GUAP contributor and telling stories that matter to the culture we want to hear from you. We commission emerging writers, journalists and video creators every month to cover the people, communities and moments our audience needs to discover. Your subject. Your voice. No brief.

For more information/submit a story - click here.

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• Monthly online events - masterclasses, workshops, live interviews and community gatherings ran by OURPPLS.

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For only £6 a month (price of a coffee) you get access to the opportunities, the knowledge and the community that keeps you close to the culture. Whether you are building something or you just care about what is happening - this is where you want to be. And every membership puts money directly into the hands of the writers and creators telling the stories that actually matter.

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I have been thinking about Pidgin English and how much it has quietly become a part of who we are as Nigerians, especially the youths.

Not just the language we use to communicate, but the language we use to tell people who we are, where we were raised and what affiliations define us. Pidgin started, or at least was largely understood, as “broken English.” Natives trying to speak the language of the colonial master, but not quite speaking it the way the master did. So, naturally, we did what Nigerians have always done with things that come into our space: we made them ours. We break them into pieces and mould them, sometimes into complicated elements or wild things begging to be useful to our tongue.

We took the English words, mixed them with our local languages, added our accents, borrowed from neighbouring countries, picked up words from foreigners we met through trade and travel, threw in some slang and somehow created something that could travel from one end of Nigeria to another, and now we’ve made them our national tongue with more and more people jostling to pick the everyday lingo for their own entertainment in other to connect with more Nigerians.

Take pikin, for example. The word is generally linked to Portuguese influence and is now so comfortably Nigerian that you hardly stop to ask where it came from. Most Nigerians don’t even know the origin of the word itself, they might likely argue that it was culled from one of our local languages. Then there is panya, which has been used in Nigerian Pidgin to mean a far or distant place and is associated with Equatorial Guinea. It’s simply of corruption of the word España (Spain), as Equatorial Guinea was once formerly a Spanish colony.

That’s the kind of magic in words that makes the creativity in pidgin so rich, it’s mind blowing. I find this particularly fascinating because language is sometimes a record of where people have been, who they have met and what they have absorbed. Pidgin is like that. But there is another thing about Pidgin that I find even more interesting.

There is no one Pidgin. The Pidgin you hear depends on where the person is from, the language they grew up speaking, the people around them, the social group they belong to and, sometimes, who they are talking to.

A young person can speak one kind of Pidgin with their friends and another kind at home. The same person who is completely unfiltered with their classmates can suddenly become very deliberate when speaking to their parents. And then there is the Pidgin we speak when we meet people we are not sure about. You know that one, You are somewhere and you cannot quite place the person in front of you. You don’t know whether they are harmless, whether they have authority, whether they are somebody you should respect, or whether they are the kind of person who can make trouble for you.

Suddenly, your language changes, you filter your lingo, either to assert authority first or to show submission or co-operation. You adjust quickly and listen more carefully. You may even change your accent to fit the style of the opposition. Because language is not always just about what we want to say. Sometimes it is about what we want the other person to believe about us. And young people are particularly good at this.

A young Nigerian may be Igbo, Yoruba, Hausa, Ijaw, Efik, Urhobo or any of the many identities that make up this country, but their Pidgin can tell you another story. It can show you where they have lived, who they have spent time with, what kind of music they listen to and moreso, what streets they have walked. And sometimes, how much “street” they want you to believe they have.

I have noticed, for instance, that certain variations of Pidgin have acquired their own social personalities. Port Harcourt Pidgin for instance, can carry a kind of sharpness and street wisdom. There is something in it that can make the speaker sound like someone who has seen life from a certain angle, and then there’s the Lagos Pidgin which can make someone sound accessible. Like, “Relax. We can do business. I understand how things work.” And Warri Pidgin? There is often a kind of confidence to it. A versatility, that feeling that if something happens, somebody will know what to do about it, and probably tell you exactly what to do too.

These are stereotypes, of course. They are not scientific measurements of people’s personalities. But stereotypes become interesting when enough people believe in them to begin shaping how we see one another. Now, that is where Pidgin starts becoming an identity marker. You may be born in one part of Nigeria, but the Pidgin you speak may tell people that you have lived somewhere else and interacted with certain kinds of people.

You may speak perfect English, but your friends may still judge your “street credibility” by how naturally you can enter a Pidgin conversation. There are even expressions that travel. A word can begin in one community, get picked up by young people somewhere else, change slightly in meaning, and eventually become so common that nobody remembers where it started. That is the thing about Nigerian Pidgin. It is always borrowing, and often always changing in form and meaning. It is always making room for somebody else’s word, and sometimes, the same word can mean something slightly different depending on where you hear it.

Take yawa, for example. In one setting, it can mean trouble. In another, it can be used playfully to describe an embarrassing situation. The meaning is not always in the word itself. Sometimes you need the tone, the facial expression, the relationship between the speakers and the situation to understand what has actually been said.

That is why Pidgin is more than vocabulary. It is in the context with which it is used, the tone it inflects, and the attitude the speaker carries it with. It is also knowing when “my guy” means affection and when “my guy” means, Oga, I am watching you. It is knowing when someone says “no wahala” and genuinely means there is no problem and when they are simply postponing the wahala until later.

Young people have taken this fluidity and run with it. Social media has made it even faster.

A phrase can start somewhere in Warri, appear in a Lagos skit, enter a song, travel through TikTok, land in a university hostel in Nsukka and before you know it, someone in Abuja is saying it as though they were born with it. We are constantly borrowing from one another. And perhaps that is one of the most beautiful things about Pidgin. It does not ask for ethnic purity, nor does it care that your father speaks Igbo and your mother speaks another language. It can pick something from one place, add something from another and still make itself understood somewhere else.

But I also think something deeper is happening with young people, Pidgin is becoming a kind of social passport. You can walk into a new environment and the way you speak can determine how quickly people accept you. Speak too formally and someone may tell you to “free yourself.” Speak the right Pidgin and suddenly you are one of us.

There is something almost amusing about how quickly language can change the distance between people. And perhaps that is why young people use it so deliberately.

Sometimes Pidgin makes you sound approachable, at times it makes you sound street-smart, some other times it makes you sound funny. It can give you authority in places you least expect, sometimes it helps you hide vulnerability. And there will be times, it simply helps you belong.

This is where I think Pidgin is beginning to reshape youth identity. It is no longer only about communicating with someone who may not understand standard English, it has become a way of performing who you are. The kind of Pidgin you speak can become part of your image. Your accent can become part of your credibility, your vocabulary can become part of your tribe, and your ability to move between different forms of speech can become a demonstration of how many worlds you can enter.

A young person can move from standard English in a job interview to Pidgin with friends, to their mother tongue at home and back to English on social media without necessarily feeling that they have changed identities.

Perhaps they have simply learnt how to carry several identities at once, and just maybe that is what Nigerian youth culture is becoming, a constant movement between worlds. We are Nigerian, but we are also Lagosian, Warri boy, Port Harcourt girl, Abuja babe, campus people, street people, corporate people, online people.

Sometimes we are all of these in one person, Pidgin gives us a language for that movement, it also tells us something about how culture travels in Nigeria.

The young person does not have to visit Warri to pick up a Warri expression, neither do they have to live in Lagos to absorb Lagos slang. They can meet it online, in music, through a friend, in a movie or through a joke that suddenly becomes popular. Language now travels faster than people, and young people are its greatest carriers, they are embracing it fast and integrating this social identity into their way of life.

So when we talk about Pidgin, I don’t think we should only ask whether it is grammatically correct. Perhaps that question misses the point, instead we should ask what it is doing to us, to others, with us and for us? What is it allowing us to say? Who is it allowing us to become? Who gets accepted because they speak it well? Who gets judged because they speak it differently?

And what happens when a young person’s Pidgin becomes more recognisable to their peers than the language their grandparents once used to define home? That, to me, is where the conversation becomes bigger than language. Because Pidgin is now sitting somewhere between culture and identity, it carries with it pieces of our history, but young people are giving it new meanings. It carries words from places we may never have visited.

It carries the humour of our streets, the frustrations of our everyday lives, the creativity of our music, the sarcasm of our friendships and the survival instincts of a people who have always learnt how to make something out of what they have. It started as “broken English.” But perhaps we should be careful about calling it broken. Because broken things do not usually travel this far. Broken things do not create belonging, and broken things do not cross ethnic boundaries and become something millions of people recognise as their own.

Maybe Pidgin was never simply broken English. Maybe it was English being broken open. Broken open enough for Nigerian languages, Nigerian humour and creativity, Nigerian history, Nigerian streets and Nigerian people to enter it. And now our young people are carrying it somewhere else entirely. They are not just speaking Pidgin for accolades, they are using it to tell us who they are. And perhaps, if we listen closely enough, we may realise that the language is telling us something about who we are becoming too.

If you are interested in becoming a GUAP contributor and telling stories that matter to the culture we want to hear from you. We commission emerging writers, journalists and video creators every month to cover the people, communities and moments our audience needs to discover. Your subject. Your voice. No brief.

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For a while, Britain became obsessed with beautiful men.

Not beautiful in the old way. Not the polished, distant kind that belonged to film stars in tuxedos or aristocrats in oil paintings. This was a new sort of beauty: skinny, insolent, slightly decadent. Hair falling into the eyes. Cigarette between fingers, tight trousers, boots, jewellery and a face that looked better photographed than explained.

The country was getting younger, and with that, considerably less interested in behaving.

The boys who had grown up during the war were now fathers with mortgages. Their sons had different plans. They wanted records, clothes, girls, cars, noise. They wanted to stay out. They wanted to look like somebody else. Carnaby Street was selling an idea of London that had very little to do with London itself. The boutique became a kind of theatre. You went in to buy a shirt and came out with an imaginary life.

Music had already figured this out. Football hadn’t. Well, not properly at least. Then, somehow, a boy from Belfast appeared, as if he’d wandered into the wrong industry.

He had a footballer’s feet and a pop star’s face. He could walk into a nightclub looking like a singer and walk onto a pitch looking like somebody had made a clerical error.

His name happened to be Best. George was almost an afterthought.

There is something faintly ridiculous about how perfectly the name worked. George Best.

It sounds invented. A stage name. A headline waiting to happen.

He was born in 1946 in Cregagh, east Belfast, into a working-class Protestant family. His father, Dickie, worked at Harland and Wolff. His mother, Anne, had been a talented hockey player. George was one of six children, a quiet boy with an appetite for football that was considerably larger than his appetite for school.

At fifteen, Manchester United scout Bob Bishop saw him play for Cregagh Boys and sent Matt Busby a telegram:

“I think I’ve found you a genius.”

The genius went to Manchester. Two days later, he went home, homesick.

It is one of those details that makes the whole story feel less preordained. We know what happens to George Best because history has made the ending impossible to miss. But the fifteen year old himself had no idea that his face would one day be on walls, that people would fly across the world to see him play, that strangers would discuss his sex life over breakfast, that his mother would become famous because of him, that his name would become a cultural shorthand for a particular kind of beautiful self-destruction.

He just wanted to go home. He was persuaded to return, but this time, he stayed and Manchester got its boy.

The first time Best became properly dangerous, it wasn’t because of anything he did with his hair, it was Lisbon. Manchester United went to Benfica in March 1966 and won 5-1. Best scored twice. He was nineteen. The Portuguese press called him the fifth Beatle.

People sometimes repeat this as though it were merely a charming nickname. It wasn’t. It was a cultural relocation.

The footballer had been moved into the territory of the pop star.

Suddenly the things surrounding the performance were available for consumption too. The face. The clothes, the girlfriend, the night out, the photograph, the haircut, the entire story.

You could have no particular interest in football and still know George Best. That was the trick.

The National Football Museum now describes him as arguably the world’s first true football superstar, and the distinction is useful. A football star belongs to football. A superstar belongs to everybody. Best was beginning to belong to everybody.

That was both his greatest success and the beginning of his problems.

The photographs from that period are almost offensively good.

Best in a polo neck. Best in a suit. Best with his hair falling over his forehead.

Best leaning against a car. Best with women etc. He had that rare quality of looking good while apparently doing nothing at all.

And then he would play. That was the part that made the rest dangerous.

If he had merely been beautiful, he would have become a minor celebrity. If he had merely been brilliant, he would have become a football legend. But He was both, even worse, he was funny also.

He was charming, he could be shy, he could be rude, he could be extremely generous, he could also be a complete bastard.

The contradictions weren’t a flaw in the story, they were the story.

People sometimes talk about Best’s fashion as though he simply wore nice clothes.

He didn’t. He dressed like a man who had discovered that his body was another piece of media. Sharkskin suits. Polo necks. Medallions. Cuban heels. Chelsea boots. Hip-huggers. Suede. Jewellery. The famous Jaguar. The clothes were part of the silhouette and the silhouette was George.

The Guardian’s history of football and fashion describes him as the patron saint of footballer style and recalls the moment that Best and Manchester City winger Mike Summerbee opened a boutique together. The boutique was called Edwardia.

This is one of those facts that feels almost too perfect to have actually happened.

Two footballers, from rival Manchester clubs, opening a fashion shop while still playing.

Today it would barely raise an eyebrow, at the time it was outrageous enough to feel futuristic. Best wasn’t waiting for football to give him permission, he had already wandered off.

There was money in it, obviously, but money isn’t quite the interesting part.

The interesting part is that Best discovered how quickly a person’s face could become an object of commerce.

He endorsed products. He appeared in catalogues. He had a boot deal with Stylo reportedly worth £20,000, a considerable sum in the late 1960s. He was turning up in advertisements because he was George Best. Not because he had developed some expertise in whatever was being advertised.

This sounds normal now because we live in a world where a footballer’s breakfast can have a sponsor. The strange thing is that he didn’t seem particularly interested in becoming an empire.

He wanted the good things in life, he was not collecting money. He was spending it on being alive!

That distinction becomes increasingly important the further into the story you go.

His house was called Que Sera. Doris Day. Whatever will be, will be.

He had heard the song during childhood holidays with his maternal grandfather, George Withers, and later gave the name to his house in Bramhall. His friends, the loose collective known as “The Chaps,” would gather there on Sundays to drink, watch television and talk about everything from politics to religion.

I like this detail because it makes the lore smaller.

Que Sera is not a nightclub, it is a house. There is a George Best in the public imagination who never sits down. He is always arriving somewhere. Always leaving somewhere. Always holding something. Always surrounded.

The George Best at Que Sera could apparently spend a Sunday talking about religion.

He could sit with Bobby Charlton and ask how much his carpet cost.

He was apparently very good at cryptic crosswords. He watched University Challenge.

The Guardian’s review of Duncan Hamilton’s biography describes this oddly domestic side of him, including Best’s questions about Charlton’s cleaner and the cost of his carpet.

There is something almost hilarious about it. George Best, serial tabloid fantasy, thinking about carpets.

That is the kind of detail that survives a biography because it refuses to fit.

Good. Let it refuse.

The public had decided he was a playboy.

The private man was stranger. He was reportedly shy. He could be intensely private.

He could become lonely despite being surrounded by people.

Rosalyn Hollidge, who was close to him later in his life, remembered watching Mastermind and University Challenge with him and described his ability with cryptic crosswords. She also said his drinking worsened when he was alone.

There is a photograph of George Best that doesn’t exist. The one where he’s not performing.

One where he is not smoking, drinking, being a bad boy. Just sitting somewhere on an ordinary Tuesday with nothing particularly interesting happening.

That might be the person we know least because the public George was spectacular.

And spectacular people have very little privacy.

The cameras followed him, the newspapers wanted him.

Women wanted him, men wanted to be him.

Clubs wanted him at their tables, brands wanted his face.

His family got dragged into it.

His mother, Anne, eventually developed an alcohol dependency and died from alcohol-related heart problems at fifty-four. She had been teetotal for most of her life. Accounts of her decline describe the pressure of George’s celebrity and the relentless attention around the family.

This is the part that makes the glamorous photographs feel slightly poisonous.

George left Belfast, but the fame didn’t, instead, it came back to the house. It came through the letterbox and it sat in the family kitchen, and worst, It followed his mother around.

The fantasy had consequences for people who hadn’t volunteered to participate.

And George was not innocent inside the fantasy. That matters too.

It would be very easy to turn him into a tragic little prince destroyed by fame, but that would be another lie.

He liked it. He liked women. He liked clothes. He liked drinking.

He liked the life he had built. There is a wonderful perversity in that.

The world did not force George Best to become George Best, George Best kept giving the world material.

Then the world kept asking for more.

He was twenty-one when Manchester United won the European Cup in 1968.

Twenty-one.

Bobby Charlton scored twice in the final against Benfica. Brian Kidd scored the other. Best scored too.

The image of the three of them is almost unbearably good.

Charlton, the dignified one, Law, the hard-edged one, Best, the beautiful one.

Except that Best was not merely beautiful, he was extraordinary.

That is what makes the whole thing difficult.

The glamour was not a distraction from the football, The football was ridiculous!

He could beat defenders from either side. He could carry the ball through crowds. He had a strange, almost delicate balance that made physical contact look temporary. He wasn’t especially big or obviously muscular. Watching him now, he looks almost too thin to survive the tackles.

Then somebody touches the ball near him and the whole frame changes.

This was not a model who happened to play football, this was a footballer who happened to look like a model. The distinction is everything.

And then there is the sex.

You cannot write about George Best without writing about sex because sex was not a side note to his celebrity, it was part of its grammar.

He became one of the first footballers whose desirability was openly discussed as part of his public identity. Women surrounded him and models appeared beside him.

The press documented his relationships. His face was photographed as much for its sexual appeal as for his sporting ability.

Elizabeth Taylor became fascinated by him. In a 1972 Observer piece, she spoke about her sympathy for Best during the troubles surrounding his life and recognised something familiar in the machinery of celebrity. She knew what happened when a young person’s face became public property.

That is a bizarre pairing. Elizabeth Taylor and George Best. Hollywood and football.

But culturally, they make perfect sense. They were both living inside the same new economy of beauty.

A face could open doors and sell things, it could make people curious. It could also make people forgive you. It could also make people feel entitled to you. We call this nowadays marketing and PR.

Best was not the first beautiful man.He was one of the first beautiful men in football who became famous for being beautiful. That difference is worth sitting with.

Football had traditionally offered a particular masculine fantasy: strength, discipline, toughness, victory.

Best added vanity. He added clothes alongside sexual charisma.

He added the possibility that a footballer could be looked at in the same way a singer or actor was looked at.

And he did it without becoming less masculine.

Quite the opposite. The beauty became part of the power. That is one of his most lasting cultural effects.

The footballer could be a beautiful object and still be the most dangerous man on the pitch.

The modern footballer inherited this without necessarily knowing it.

Beckham is the obvious descendant. Then Ronaldo. Then Neymar.

Then the endless parade of players arriving at stadiums dressed for photographs rather than weather.

The difference is that all of them entered an established system.

Best didn’t. He was wandering around before anyone had put up the signs.

There was no Instagram, no personal stylist, no luxury brand ambassador programme or social media manager checking whether the photograph looked “on brand.”

There was just a young man with taste, money, a face people couldn’t stop photographing and a growing suspicion that the world was quite fun if you didn’t think too hard about tomorrow.

That last part is important.

Because football had taught him that instinct worked and it really did. That was the terrifying thing. He was usually right.

The defender moved. He beat him.

The goalkeeper came out. He chipped him.

A gap opened. He took it.

At twenty-one, he had a European Cup medal and a Ballon d’Or. Imagine the psychological reinforcement of that! Every time you trusted yourself, something happened.

Why would you suddenly decide to become cautious?

His career at Manchester United ended when he was twenty-seven.

That sentence is still insane. Twenty-seven. He had already done enough to become immortal.

He had also begun missing matches, drinking heavily and allowing the life around football to become more important than football itself.

He played in America, at Fulham, Hibernian, San Jose and elsewhere.

There were flashes. Always flashes. That might be the cruelest part. The talent did not leave him cleanly. It came back at inconvenient moments. He could still make a footballer look stupid or produce a goal. He could still remind everyone why the whole thing had started.

Then the night would come back hand in hand with the drinking, newspapers and ultimately the next version of George Best.

This is something I love about Best. He was not even a reliable witness to his own legend.

Different versions of famous anecdotes changed depending on who was telling them, where the event supposedly happened, how much money was involved, who was supposedly in the room. Biographer Duncan Hamilton spent years interviewing people around Best partly because so many of the stories had mutated over time.

Of course they did. George Best was exactly the kind of person around whom stories would reproduce. Most of these versions contain something true, but none of them contain all of him.

That is what makes the title work. Everybody knew the Best. But which one?

The saddest thing about George Best may not be that he drank himself into ruin.

It may be that he became famous before he had developed the luxury of being boring.

He was never really permitted to become ordinary. Even his quietness became interesting.

Everything was content before content had been invented. And once a person reaches that level of visibility, disappearing becomes almost impossible.

There is a photograph from 1967 of Best celebrating the opening of his boutique, champagne around him, surrounded by people. He looks young enough to be somebody’s younger brother.

That is perhaps the strangest thing about the whole story.

He was. He was somebody’s son, somebody’s brother. A boy who missed home.

Then the face, the name and body became famous while the football became immortal.

And the private person had to live somewhere underneath all of it.

George Best died in London in 2005 at fifty-nine.

By then, the photographs had been circulating for decades. His name had become almost impossible to separate from the idea of excess.

But before all of that, before Beckham, before Instagram, before footballers became fashion properties, before athletes had stylists and creative directors and entire teams dedicated to making them desirable, there was a young man from Belfast who walked into a changing culture and looked completely at home.

Not because he had planned it or because he was trying to invent anything.

Because, for a brief and ridiculous stretch of time, the world looked exactly like the place he wanted to be.

And everybody wanted to come with him.

Everybody knew the Best.

George.

If you are interested in becoming a GUAP contributor and telling stories that matter to the culture we want to hear from you. We commission emerging writers, journalists and video creators every month to cover the people, communities and moments our audience needs to discover. Your subject. Your voice. No brief.

For more information/submit a story - click here.

Consider becoming a paid subscriber and gain access to:

• The full GUAP Daily: five deep-dive articles/video essays written by and for the culture, a week straight to your inbox, Monday to Friday.

• The Sunday opportunities newsletter - jobs, freelance roles, commissions, casting calls and industry openings every week

• Monthly online events - masterclasses, workshops, live interviews and community gatherings ran by OURPPLS.

• Discounts/Perks from our community partners including Tunecore,

For only £6 a month (price of a coffee) you get access to the opportunities, the knowledge and the community that keeps you close to the culture. Whether you are building something or you just care about what is happening - this is where you want to be. And every membership puts money directly into the hands of the writers and creators telling the stories that actually matter.

Subscribe now

Welcome to GUAP’s weekly newsletter.

We have curated a selection of creative opportunities for you to digest. We know how difficult and overwhelming it can be to find opportunities. So as a way to support your creative journey we have separated this newsletter into different mediums. We hope you find something that resonates with you and helps lighten the load.

Read more

We’re hosting a free online event exclusively for GUAP community members with Jedidah M, director, editor and founder of CTRL + CREATE. She’s worked with brands including Sony, Nike, Tate Britain, Converse and Estée Lauder, and is represented by Ocurens on their Octane Director’s Roster across the UK and France.

Session Topic

• How Jedidah M builds a portfolio that stands out: Applying for work but don’t know where to start? Interested in securing your next big project but need help showcasing your skills? Join Jedidah for a live portfolio-building session covering how to put your work together in a way that actually gets you noticed.

Curated & Hosted by OURPPLS

Date: Monday 5th October

Time: 6:30pm - 7:30pm

To RSVP please sign up below.

Read more

2013, Irene Agbontaen founded TTYA ( Taller Than Your Average) after experiencing a problem the fashion industry had largely overlooked: finding clothes that actually worked for tall women. What began as a personal frustration grew into a brand stocked by some of the world’s biggest retailers, before evolving into something much bigger across fashion, music and culture.

Now, more than a decade later, Irene is bringing TTYA back as TTYA [LAB], a new chapter centred around experimentation, community and designing with tall women in mind from the beginning. Shot by Gabriel Moses, the relaunch marks a return to the original idea, but with everything Irene has learned from years spent building brands, platforms and cultural spaces.

From working with artists including Tyla, Central Cee and Burna Boy to hosting conversations with some of culture’s most recognisable voices through TTYA Talks, Irene has built a career around spotting what’s missing — and bringing the right people together to create something new.

Irene Agbontaen caught up with GUAP to talk TTYA [LAB], building across fashion, music and culture, and what it means to create spaces where people no longer have to make themselves smaller to fit in.

TTYA started from a very personal frustration with fashion: the lack of clothes that worked for tall women. What does it feel like to return to that original problem more than a decade later, but with everything you’ve learned since?

It feels both full circle and completely new. When I first started TTYA, I was solving a problem that I experienced personally. I’m 5’11”, I loved fashion, and I was frustrated that the clothes available to me rarely reflected how I wanted to look or feel. At the time, I was working instinctively. I knew the problem existed because I was living it, and I knew other women were living it too.

More than a decade later, the problem hasn’t disappeared, but I’ve changed. I understand business, brand, culture and consumer behaviour in a much deeper way. Most importantly, I have spent years listening to our community. I now know this isn’t simply about making a trouser longer. It’s about proportion, fit, confidence and giving women the freedom to participate in fashion without constantly having to compromise.

Returning to TTYA with that knowledge feels powerful. I’m not starting again. I’m building from everything the first chapter taught me.

Why is now the right moment to relaunch TTYA as TTYA [LAB]? What changed for you, and what changed about the world around the brand?

The first time I built TTYA, I was trying to prove that tall women were a customer worth paying attention to. Today, the conversation has moved forward, but the product offering still hasn’t moved far enough with it.

Consumers are much more informed now. Young women understand branding, construction, quality and representation. They can immediately tell when a brand has genuinely considered them and when inclusion has been added at the end as a marketing exercise. They don’t just want to be visible in a campaign. They want the product itself to work.

What changed for me was that I became much clearer about what TTYA could be. I didn’t want to return simply because there was nostalgia around the original brand. I wanted to come back with a stronger proposition, the right infrastructure and a clear reason to exist.

TTYA [LAB] is wardrobe systems for tall women. It is designed around how women really dress: rotating, layering and repeating pieces across different parts of their lives. This felt like the right moment because the community was ready, I was ready, and I finally had the experience to build the business at the scale of the original idea.

The word “LAB” suggests experimentation, collaboration and research. What does TTYA [LAB] represent to you that TTYA didn’t?

The original TTYA was about identifying the problem and creating visibility around it. TTYA [LAB] is about going deeper into the solution.

“LAB” gives us permission to research, test, listen and keep improving. Tall women aren’t one body type, so it would be dishonest to pretend there is one simple answer to fit. We want to learn from the women wearing the product and use their experiences to develop better proportions, better wardrobe systems and, over time, better technology.

It also reflects the way I naturally work. I like bringing different disciplines and perspectives into one space: fashion, culture, technology, sport, community and consumer insight. The LAB is where those ideas can meet.

For me, it signals that this brand will never consider the work finished. We’re not presenting ourselves as having solved everything with one collection. We are building an ongoing study into how tall women live, dress and want to feel.

You’ve described yourself as someone who spots gaps rather than necessarily seeing yourself as a traditional designer. Has that distinction become clearer to you as your career has developed?

Definitely. When I was younger, I thought that to build a fashion brand I needed to fit the traditional image of a designer. Over time, I’ve realised that my strength is seeing what is missing, understanding why it matters and bringing the right people together to create a solution.

I’m deeply involved in the product and the creative direction, but I don’t need to pretend that I sit alone sketching every garment. Building something meaningful is rarely one person’s work. My role is to hold the vision, understand the customer and make sure every decision connects back to the problem we are trying to solve.

I think that distinction is particularly important for young people to hear. You don’t always have to fit an existing job title to contribute something valuable. Sometimes your skill is connecting dots that other people haven’t connected yet. That is a creative discipline in itself, and learning to trust that has made me a much stronger founder.

You chose Gabriel Moses to shoot the campaign. What was it about his visual language that felt right for this new chapter of TTYA?

Gabriel has an ability to make images feel timeless, emotional and culturally specific without overexplaining them. There is a real depth to his work. He photographs people with strength and sensitivity, and the result never feels like a trend or a moment that will disappear in six months.

It was also important to me that this new chapter was documented through the perspective of two British-born Nigerians. There is a shared cultural understanding between us, but I didn’t want the campaign to feel literal or expected. I wanted the clothes and the women wearing them to feel powerful, considered and monumental.

TTYA [LAB] is functional, but it also carries emotion. For tall women, clothing can be connected to years of shrinking yourself, feeling exposed or being told that your body is the problem. Gabriel’s visual language gave the collection the weight it deserved. He didn’t just photograph clothes. He captured presence.

You’ve worked across fashion, music and culture, from building TTYA to working alongside artists like Tyla, Central Cee and Burna Boy. What connects all of those worlds for you?

For me, the connection is identity. Fashion, music and culture are all ways people communicate who they are before they have even said anything.

Working with artists has taught me a lot about world-building. The most compelling artists don’t only release music. They create a visual language, a feeling and a community that people can recognise and belong to. I think about brands in a very similar way.

Across everything I do, I’m interested in how an idea moves through culture and how you protect what makes it special while helping it reach more people. Whether I’m working with an artist or building TTYA [LAB], I’m always asking: What is the truth at the centre of this? Who is it for? How do we make it bigger without diluting it?

The industries may look different from the outside, but the work is often the same. It is about understanding people, building trust and turning a clear point of view into something others can feel.

You’ve become known for creating rooms and bringing people together. What makes a room feel culturally significant to you, and how do you create that feeling?

A culturally significant room isn’t necessarily the room with the most famous people in it. It is a room where the mix of people creates a conversation that couldn’t have happened anywhere else.

I think carefully about energy. Who is established? Who is emerging? Who has influence that might not be visible through follower numbers? Who has supported the journey quietly? I want someone at the beginning of their career to feel as considered as the person everybody already knows.

The TTYA [LAB] launch reflected that. It brought together women from fashion, music, sport, media and the TTYA community, including people who had supported the brand for years. Not everyone in the room was tall, because Taller Than Your Average has always represented more than physical height. It is a mindset. It is about refusing to make yourself smaller to fit spaces that weren’t designed with you in mind.

The most meaningful rooms create connection beyond the event itself. People leave having met someone, discovered an idea or felt part of something bigger.

Do you think the industry has genuinely become better at spotting talent and communities it previously overlooked, or has it simply become better at marketing to them?

I think both things are true. There is more visibility and access than there was when I started, and we shouldn’t dismiss that progress. Social media has allowed talent and communities to build their own audiences rather than waiting for an institution to validate them.

But visibility is not the same as investment, ownership or power. The industry has become very good at recognising the cultural value of overlooked communities, but it is still inconsistent when it comes to funding their businesses, supporting them beyond a trend cycle or giving them decision-making power.

You can put someone in a campaign and still fail to change the system behind that campaign. You can speak to a community in your marketing while producing nothing that genuinely meets its needs.

The next stage has to be about infrastructure. Who owns the idea? Who receives the investment? Who is in the room when long-term decisions are made? Representation matters, but without opportunity and ownership, it can remain surface-level.

You’ve spent a lot of your career identifying what isn’t there yet. What is one gap in culture right now that you think nobody is paying enough attention to?

I don’t think we pay enough attention to what happens after visibility.

We are very good at discovering people, celebrating a first and creating a moment around someone. We are less effective at building the long-term infrastructure that allows that person, business or community to grow after the attention moves elsewhere. There is often a huge gap between being seen and being properly supported.

This is particularly true for women. Women drive enormous amounts of culture and consumer behaviour, but they are still underfunded as founders, underrepresented in decision-making roles and frequently expected to turn influence into sustainable businesses without the same access to capital or networks.

I’m interested in what comes after the announcement, the viral moment or the feature. Who is helping women build something they can own? Who is supporting the less glamorous middle stage, when an idea needs systems, investment and patience? That is where a lot of culturally important ideas are lost.

If the original TTYA was about solving a problem you personally experienced, what problem is TTYA [LAB] trying to solve now, and what are you hoping to build towards with it?

TTYA [LAB] is solving the problem of tall women still being treated as an adjustment to the standard customer rather than a customer worthy of her own design thinking.

The issue isn’t simply that sleeves or trousers are too short. It is that most wardrobes were never considered as complete systems for our proportions. Tall women are often asked to shop reactively: find the one pair of trousers that is long enough, size up to gain extra length or accept that a garment will sit differently from how it was intended.

We want to move beyond isolated “tall” pieces and build a wardrobe that works together. Pieces that rotate, layer and repeat. Clothes that understand proportion while still feeling relevant, elevated and culturally connected.

Long term, I want TTYA [LAB] to become the global authority on designing for height. That means product, community, research, technology and eventually a much broader ecosystem. I want the next generation of tall girls to grow up believing that clothes should adapt to their bodies, not that their bodies need to adapt to the clothes.

On his latest offering, James Savage is learning that desire is rarely straightforward. On his debut album, PINE, released May 13, 2026, the Kentucky-raised singer-songwriter moves between longing, devotion and uncertainty, exploring the tension between what we want and what we actually need. Rooted in his gospel upbringing, Savage’s sound brings together soulful vocals, intimate songwriting and a rich orchestral palette, creating music that feels both deeply personal and cinematic.

Inspired by the natural landscapes of his hometown of Henderson, Kentucky, PINE takes its name from both the evergreen tree and the act of yearning. Across the album, Savage returns to the idea of growth, using the imagery of nature to explore the complexities of love, self-reflection and change. Its strings and layered instrumentation give the record a sense of cohesion, while its open-ended questions leave room for contradiction.

Having spent years developing his sound and refining his songwriting, Savage sees PINE as an introduction to his perspective as an artist. But rather than treating the album as a definitive statement, he embraces the uncertainty of what comes next. As he prepares to return to the studio, GUAP catches up with Savage to get his take on how he continues to challenge himself sonically, build on his foundations, as he prepares to create something listeners haven’t heard from him before.

What’s changed between the person who started this album, and the person who finished it?

A lot has changed. Where I’m at in life, my ideas, and the way I feel about some of the songs that I’ve written. A lot of the things I was going through while making the project, I’m not actively going through anymore, so there has definitely been a perspective shift.

What were you listening to while making PINE ?

The bulk of the album was finished after a stint spent in New York. I spent a week out there with my friend Jack (Harlow) on his project. We were working out of Electric Lady studios, and I was listening to a lot of D’Angelo during that time, and on the way home from the studio too. He unfortunately passed around that time, and I was going through his catalogue and began to really listen to the way he would find a groove and just sit on it. That was really inspiring to me, because it didn’t matter how long the song was, he always made sure he said everything he needed to say.

Why PINE ? Break down the moment the title of the project came to you.

‘Pine’ is another word for a desire, or yearn. If you’re pining for something you want it really badly. I knew I wanted the project to be named after a tree, because nature inspires a lot of my writing- I grew up in Kentucky and spent a lot of time in nature as a kid, and it’s just always been a throughline for inspiration. Ever since I can remember, nature has always been a part of my writing. It worked beautifully in that way. With a pine tree being evergreen, and desire being the root of all the decisions we make, I thought it was a nice title to encapsulate everything I wanted to say.

I noticed there were a few consistent names on the production credits. Franklin Rankin was one of them, who else was influential to this record?

Franklin Rankin was a big one, he did most of the guitar on the album. Jermaine Paul is an amazing instrumentalist who did a lot of the bass guitar on the album, and Nick Meredith executive produced this project. He’s my engineer, and helped mix and sequence the project. He has produced a lot of records too. They were with me through every step of the project.

What is your favourite track on the album, and has it stayed the same?

It’s ‘Painful Company’, and it’s stayed the same since the moment I landed on the first word in the song. That song was exactly what I was feeling. The experience that I’m writing about is an accumulation of things, but the words, production, and emotion I sing with takes me back every time I hear it.

Why did you choose 100 as the significant amount of time on ‘100 Years’ ?

I’d love to live to one hundred. I wanted to drive home that one hundred can be a big number, but also a small one. If someone asks you to stand on one foot for one hundred days, it’s suddenly a big number, but if someone asks you to take one hundred steps, it’s suddenly not that far.

The roundness of it is subjective. Life is short, and a hundred years is not that long when you look at the bigger picture. I wanted to drive home that I would use every second I have in this life to be a better version of myself so that the person I’m singing about in the song can get the best version of me.

I know you recorded the earliest song on the project around 2022. Is it hard to sit on something when it’s not time for it to be released yet?

It’s not too hard for me, but in the beginning of my music career I just wrote songs, and tried to be as good as I possibly could be, so that when I did start releasing, I could stand on it. The song you’re referring to is ‘Red Giant ‘, which was originally called ‘Pressure’, and was originally made in 2022.

I made that with the expectation that it would never come out, because that song was pretty much a letter I was writing to myself, where I was trying to get out of my head. Nick Meredith flagged it up and pointed out to me that it felt like an exclamation point on the project, and I’m glad that it worked out that way, because I wasn’t even thinking about it for this project.

The pine tree is evergreen. What has stayed the same for you , or evergreen, during all the changes of becoming an artist, touring, having your debut album out?

My love of music hasn’t changed. It’s only gotten stronger, and become more ingrained in my life. I’ve been singing ever since I can remember and making music since I was 18. My love for it and desire to be great as an artist has only gotten stronger.

When people think of your name and collaborations, they may reference your feature on Jack Harlows Monica. Why was PINE a solo endeavour ?

I wanted my first body of work, my first offering, to be an amalgamation of all of my thoughts and ideas exactly the way that I wanted to give it to them. It was a very intentional choice.

There’s a really strong orchestral presence across PINE. What drew you towards strings being part of the album’s identity ?

I think those were kind of towards the end of the project. I really wanted something that helped drive home the idea that this is one thing. All of these are ideas about one specific topic, which is desire. Sally Gorski played all the strings, and Franklin Rankin arranged them. The strings being in the opening song, and then ‘Painful Company’, and the second half of ‘Red Giant’ was a nice throughline to carry everything through and keep that energy and momentum going. I’m glad we put the strings in those places because we wanted the project to feel cinematic.

We’ve talked about time, so what’s your take on longevity?

It’s really really important to me. I use music to express myself, so choosing as a career is me wanting to put my best foot forward and express myself and whatever I’m feeling at the time, and people being open and receptive to that. Longevity is something that is always on my mind. I wanted this project to feel timeless and I wanted the topics I spoke about to be real.

The emotion behind everything is what cuts through. No matter what I said, or how I decorated the emotion musically, I wanted to make sure the emotion cut through because it never fades. Love is love, the same as it was a thousand years ago, and the same it will be a thousand years from now. That’s the idea behind this project and how I want to approach my entire career because I want to be around in forty years, and I want my name to ring off as someone who gave it his best and put out great music every single time.

What’s the throughline of the album, for someone who hasn’t listened?

The title track ‘The Pine’ is my explanation of what the ‘pine’ is. I’m saying ‘ If heaven could speak she’d give me a call, tell me it’s all my fault,’ My desire for whatever I want is not always what I need.

Throughout the whole project I speak about the things that I want so badly, the things I wanted that I couldn’t have, and then the things that I did attain and how they affected me. At the end, ‘Red Giant’ is a ball of questions because I never really resolve those equations, and I’m kind of left in the place that I was where I started. I try my best to explain it, but it’s kind of an open ended book.

What’s the story behind the album cover ?

I had a vision of me standing in a field that looked endless. It felt like an expansive idea, and I wanted people to ask questions about it. Juan Carlos Beltrán, who directed all the visuals for this project, came with me to shoot the cover in my hometown, Henderson Kentucky. We pulled off on the side of the road, and I told him what I wanted the background to look like it just kept going forever. That’s what I grew up seeing as a kid.

That same field you see in the album cover is the same field I drove past everyday to go to school. You wonder what’s out there, and it feels like it goes on forever. I wanted it to be a cinematic cover, and match how cinematic the music feels.

What are three James Savage tracks someone who hasn’t listened to your music should know?

I’d say ‘100 Years’. I also have a song called ‘On Time’ that has been speaking to me, I’ve been performing it live. And I’d say ‘Painful Company’, since that’s my favourite song that I have out.

It takes you on a ride and on a journey. The emotion cuts through, and that’s my goal every time.

Where does the influence of gospel show up on this album?

I grew up in church, in singing and choir, singing solos. You’d be sitting there and someone would hand you a microphone. That’s where I fell in love with music. In church, I’d stare at the musicians and study them. A church on the corner in Kentucky will literally have the greatest singer you’ve ever heard. Only the people in that church would have heard them sing, and I think church is where amazing artistry is developed, and artistry with so much purpose. Church is where my understanding of music was formed, and there’s nothing that I can do to get that out of my system, because it’s so ingrained in me. Gospel is just a part of who I am.

What’s next ?

Finishing up this tour and getting back into the studio. I’m trying to figure out what’s next for me sonically, because I don’t want the next thing I do to sound completely like Pine, I want to give the people something else that they haven’t heard before. I’m really excited about what’s next. I want to figure out how I can put my best foot forward and offer people something that they haven’t experienced before. I want to thank the people who are listening to the music and the people that support me, it means a lot.

On the ground floor of Westfield London, in the main atrium, between the shops and shoppers, sat Tolu Coker’s Common Ground. When I first looked at the installation, it seemed almost out of place in its surroundings, as this is a space designed for shopping, yet among Europe’s largest shopping centre sat a self-curated exploration of memory, migration, authorship, and cultural inheritance.

Once you’re inside the installation, Coker’s creative process is shown through fashion, sound, craft, process and visual storytelling. Ready-to-wear pieces were on displayed mannequins, alongside signature designs, accessories, sewing machines and sketches. Seeing the garments and tools displayed this way gave an insight into how Coker’s ideas moved from the creative process to the final finished piece

From 11-20 September as part of Westfield Days: The Sound of Style, in partnership with Fashion Britain, Common Ground was a programme of listening, conversation and collective encounter. Having the installation in a shopping centre made me think about who gets to experience fashion in the first place.

Running alongside London Fashion Week, Common Ground was in a space that anyone could walk into. While some LFW shows and industry events are invite-only, Coker’s installation was free and open to the general public. People could come across Coker’s work simply by being at Westfield regardless of whether or not they had any sort of connection to fashion.

Later, the idea of access came up again during the panel, What We Inherit, We Remake. Journalist Yomi Adegoke was joined with Black British designers Walé Adeyemi and Charlie Casely-Hayford to talk about the people and experiences that shaped their work, and what they want to leave behind for the next generation.

Adegoke opened by asking, “What is one thing from the generation before you that you’ve decided to physically protect in your own creative practice? And what is one thing that you’ve deliberately decided to challenge?”

For Adeyemi, inheritance began with seeing possibility.

Before entering fashion, he had rarely seen someone who looked like him working in the industry at a level he could aspire to. Interning for the Casely-Hayford family changed that.

“I think it’s really important to be able to reflect on seeing someone that looks similar to yourself to be able to make sure those goals are achievable,” he says.

Adeyemi didn’t inherit clothing; he inherited the possibility of a creative future. Seeing people who looked like him in those spaces and succeeding, gave him something to aspire towards. As he puts it, “his family gave me that opportunity to dream. We all need to dream, right?”

For Casely-Hayford, inheritance was less about seeing a future and more about carrying a past he had not personally lived.

Growing up and working with his father, the late Joe Casely-Hayford OBE, he absorbed stories, cultural references and experiences that became part of his own creative identity.

“Whilst I wasn’t a part of that experience, all those varying subcultures that define who my dad is, are now a part of me,” he explains. He aims to honour those influences while continuing to develop his own creative voice: “I do my utmost to respect them and honour them whilst trying to create in a way that moves the conversation forward.”

Their experiences show that inheritance isn’t passive. Sometimes it is the ability to imagine yourself somewhere and sometimes it is carrying stories you didn’t experience yourself. In both cases, what comes before becomes material for what comes next.

The idea of passing something forward brought the conversation back to access.

Adegoke asked Adeyemi about his continued championing support of emerging talent and whether he felt a responsibility to create the same opportunities for others.

“I think it’s really important to try to put certain people in the room to communicate and to understand how you can move in certain spaces.”

Adeyemi’s approach reflected the opportunities he received himself. He speaks about having people support his ambitions and giving him time to learn during his journey, and now tries to create similar opportunities for others.

“I think it’s really important to kind of showcase and to help and to shape the next generation.”

But exchange isn’t simply a one-way street. “I’m also learning from them as well,” he adds. For Adeyemi, making space for emerging creatives also means remaining open to what they bring with them. It is part of a continuous exchange between generations whereby emerging creatives are given the space to learn whilst those that came before them can take inspiration from them.

Casely-Hayford challenges what it actually means to be “in the room”.

“We need to move beyond that to this idea of authorship, which is actually challenging the definition of the room itself.”

For him, inclusion isn’t necessarily the end goal. “You can be allowed into the room and the centre may still stay intact.” Being given access to an existing system is not necessarily the same as having the power to reshape it.

That distinction felt particularly relevant to Common Ground. By placing Coker’s work in a public space like Westfield London, the installation shifts where fashion can be encountered and who gets to encounter it. The question isn’t solely who is allowed into fashion’s existing spaces, but what happens when the space itself changes.

The digital world has already shifted some of those boundaries.

“With everyone having a voice online… it gives an opportunity for everyone to sort of put their ideas across and their feelings across,” says Adeyemi.

Social media has increased participation in fashion conversations, giving people with their own audiences opportunities to respond to and shape the culture around them. But greater access also brings its own complications.

Casely-Hayford recalls how his father’s tutor would travel to fashion shows in Paris, sketch what he saw and bring those observations back to Central Saint Martins. During Casely-Hayford’s time there, he could watch shows through live streams.

The difference is significant. Someone in Birmingham can now encounter the same references as someone in Tokyo.

Casely-Hayford describes this as “both good and bad… it homogenises ideas and it homogenises fashion in itself.” The internet can open up access to knowledge and inspiration, however, it can also mean that creative references that they’re drawing from can become increasingly similar, essentially losing originality.

That makes the physical encounter offered by Common Ground particularly significant.

Adeyemi speaks about the importance of craft and the difference between encountering a garment digitally and experiencing it in person. “You don’t always get in the digital world because you’re not touching, you’re not feeling it’s a completely different experience.”

At Common Ground, visitors weren’t limited to looking at Coker’s work from a distance. Selected pieces could be tried on in a dedicated changing room, with different sizes available. The garment became something to physically encounter rather than simply something to view on a screen.

That emphasis on craft also connects to a wider question about where fashion’s boundaries begin and end.

Adeyemi’s own career reflects this. Influenced by the emerging street style and sounds of the ‘90s, he describes his style as “somewhere between the kerb & the boutique” – a phrase that has stayed with him since ‘98.

At the time, he found himself difficult for the industry to categorise, with his work sitting between streetwear and more elevated fashion. What once existed outside of already established categories has become much more familiar within the fashion landscape. Adeyemi’s experience echoes Casely-Hayford’s argument that challenging the centre isn’t only about entering existing spaces, but about changing what those spaces can include and look like.

This brings us to our final question: what do we pass forward?

For Casely-Hayford, his father’s legacy was not only contained in the clothes he created. People remembered Joe Casely-Hayford for making introductions, opening doors and helping others find opportunities.

Thus, the BFC Foundation MA & BA Joe Casely-Hayford Scholarship was born. Launched in 2023, the scholarship continues that legacy by supporting, celebrating and spotlighting emerging Black and mixed heritage talent as they begin their journey in the fashion industry. Casely-Hayford noted that “community” was a word that repeatedly came up among the scholarship candidates, reflecting the idea of “everyone kind of coming up together.”

It brings the conversation back to inheritance. What’s passed down isn’t only an aesthetic or a technique. It can be knowledge, opportunity, confidence, community and the belief that there’s space for someone else to come after you.

Common Ground became a meeting point between the past and present, fashion and culture, digital and physical, individual and community.

What we inherit isn’t simply what came before us. It’s what we choose to protect, what we challenge and what we remake and finally, what we leave for the generation that is coming next.

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I listened to Jhené Aiko’s album ‘Westside Whimsy’ a week after its release. I think back to when she first announced she had an album on the way - I was excited, she hadn’t released anything in 6 years, I’ve always regarded her as one of my favourite voices in not just R&B, but in music. Her buttery tone, spiritual aura and life-affirming lyrics were always such a breath of fresh air to me. After what felt like the busiest week of my life, I didn’t listen straight away when the album dropped on Friday. I wanted to take it in properly, so I postponed my listening session until things felt calmer. However, whilst I wasn’t listening yet, I was observing the discourse online, most of which appeared on my feed as expected. I engaged reluctantly, not wanting reviews and thoughts to ‘spoil’ my first listening experience, but I would’ve had to put my phone down entirely for a week to avoid that, which wasn’t happening.

From the content I witnessed, I saw a pattern, the girls were TIRED of Jhené’s lyrical content, if you will. Let’s just say, if you happened to drop out of an alternate universe, and had no clue of what was going on and came across the commentary, you wouldn’t think it was just about music; you would think someone came online to trauma dump about a philanderous and toxic man they used to be with called Big Sean.

I saw fans of hers expressing how they ‘don’t have time today’ and people talking about how ‘we’ve been through enough this year already’ - it was A LOT. I will be honest, the discourse nearly influenced me to not listen to the album a little bit longer. Yes, I expected Jhené to sing about heartbreak and getting her lick back, this isn’t new territory for her but what was different this time was the audience’s fatigue. I was used to hearing how ‘healing’ Jhené’s music was and when she did do a song about heartbreak, the sentiment around it was almost always positive, she made people feel seen, her vulnerability was celebrated. I remember when ‘Triggered’ was released in 2019, her pain was felt, acknowledged and justified by the masses.

Don’t get me wrong, the response to the album has been great overall - this was just a small pattern I noticed amongst a sea of widely positive responses. The pattern also made me think about SZA’s most recent releases and how there were similar sentiments around those projects. I remember coming across TikTok videos of creators labelling SZA’s music as ‘low-vibrational’ as a result of her typical unfiltered rawness and vulnerability when it comes to singing about the trials of her romantic relationships. There were also some people who announced that they stopped listening to SZA as a form of ‘growth’ amidst a time when women particularly, were showcasing what it meant to be healed in today’s world through content about embracing a softer life, having boundaries and decentering men.

There’s definitely been a shift. Before these mentioned female artists made their mark as respected R&B songstresses of today, women had been inundated with heartbreak in music for as long as I can remember. The late 90’s through to the early 2000’s captured the torture of heartbreak like no other period. Currently having flashbacks of an 8 year old me screaming the lyrics to Mariah Carey’s ‘We Belong Together’. If you strip away the small fact that the lyrical content was softer, less targeted and less raw - it wasn’t all that different to the heartbreak music we listen to today.

Moreover, there’s more empowerment in female music than there ever was before. Though we hear it a lot in female rap mainly, it also exists in the realms of pop, soul and R&B. Though empowerment is a predominant theme, there’s also the themes of raw pain and vengeful lyrics that exist alongside this, that’s where I think fans are getting stuck.

Yes heartbreak and pain is universal but in a time like this where culture and mindsets evolve so rapidly especially with social media, even universal themes can have an expiry date….

So how do you have an identity around a particular genre that has a significant theme and express yourself, whilst your fanbase desires more from you than this? I think there’s a deeper reason as to why there’s so much fatigue around the theme. Relating back to the empowerment point, today - women are more independent, have more control in their career, finances and lifestyle. Basically, they don’t need a man.

According to a 2019 Morgan Stanley forecast, between the years 2018 and 2030, the number of unmarried women is projected to increase by 1.2 percent annually, compared with just 0.8 percent for the overall U.S. population (2019 Morgan Stanley forecast in Women’s Health 2025). In that same study it is reported that 45% of women ages 25 to 44 will be single by 2030. More often than not, music acts as a mirror to our current reality. If done right, it speaks to our current reality and culture, it’s relatable and thought provoking. It might explain why female audiences are developing fatigue towards the same topic. Albeit, a topic that they don’t want to reflect their current reality.

That being said, music has always been one of the greatest forms of self-expression. So, when did we all become so numb? It’s also interesting to note the different types of reactions to the theme from other fanbases. No one complains when Adele puts out a generational album with the theme of heartbreak threaded through its entirety. Also, with this new desire for more yearning back in music, particularly R&B music, why don’t we make the same room for raw heartbreak and vulnerability? I mean, the two go hand in hand. I’m all for experiencing music centered around growth, alignment or being hot and thriving without a man but can’t all these themes and angles can coexist? and after listening to Jhené’s album, I think she understands that they can. She still has songs where she proclaims self-acceptance for herself, where she acknowledges her role in loving herself right - and that’s balance.

If you are interested in becoming a GUAP contributor and telling stories that matter to the culture we want to hear from you. We commission emerging writers, journalists and video creators every month to cover the people, communities and moments our audience needs to discover. Your subject. Your voice. No brief.

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• Monthly online events - masterclasses, workshops, live interviews and community gatherings ran by OURPPLS.

• Discounts/Perks from our community partners including Tunecore,

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