Interview by David Kane | Photography by James Pearson HowesIn Summer 2024, when Ashley Thomas also known as Bashy returned to making music with the release of Being Poor Is Expensive, many of those familiar with his face would have been forgiven for not knowing that he even made music in the first place. It was his first album in 15 years. Since then, his acting career has flourished with roles in Black Mirror and Top Boy, as well as US performances in HBO’s The Night Of and the lead in Them - a slow-burn, psychological horror set in the ’50s that exposes how racism seeps into the mind and the idea of the American home itself. The Guardian described his performance as “magnificent”.Yet the music itch persisted, and Being Poor Is Expensive proved a revelation in sound and narrative scope, earning its place in the evolving canon of UK rap. We spoke at a live Q&A at the Patta London store and again towards the end of 2025. Looking back at his cultural highlights, Bashy namechecks Adolescence and the “incredible” Sinners film, alongside albums by Clipse and Jim Legxacy, and — in the year where he turned 40 -  winning Album of the Year and Best Hip-Hop Act at the MOBOs, and being nominated for an Ivor Novello award for "How Black Men Lose Their Smile".Looking ahead, he is performing at the National Theatre alongside Letitia Wright in The Story, a play about “journalism, race, and gender politics”, sandwiched between recording TV shows for Netflix and FX. The following conversation has been condensed for clarity.Bashy is wearing the Patta Washed Canvas Jacket.A lot of people discovered you through the song “Black Boys”, which inspired a lot of people — and artists I spoke to for my book. I also saw Enny speak about it on The Reasoning. Were there specific songs in your formative years that made you think about the world differently?Reggae, definitely — Bob Marley, through my parents. And I listened to a lot of A Tribe Called Quest. The first album I ever bought was People’s Instinctive Travels and the Paths of Rhythm. They’re probably my favourite artists. “Stressed Out”, and Nas’ “If I Ruled The World” — I loved that blend of something melodic with proper bars.You came up in that late-garage, early-grime period, but many artists from that era can be quite tribal — UK hip-hop or grime. Your style feels less tied to one lane. How do you define your music?A hybrid. I don’t think it’s unique to me, I think it’s just when I was born — 1985. You grow up listening to jungle, garage, hip-hop, grime. That’s the palette I use. And it’s not just me; people from that time can tell their story over different tempos and styles. There’s a small window — maybe early ’80s to early ’90s — where a lot of MCs move between genres.Something else that’s quite unique about you: you don’t get many artists who admit they’ve had a day job while doing the music. Why is it important to acknowledge that?Just being honest. I think it matters that the stigma is tackled, because a lot of people pursuing creative things feel embarrassed. I was driving a bus and I kept it low, but it put money in my pocket so I could get to auditions. It was funding the dream, rather than sitting there depressed because I was broke.That’s a bad headspace for creativity — worrying about money all the time. You mentioned driving the bus. I remember D Double E talking about getting inspired by what he hears in markets or in bookies — everyday life. Did that kind of stuff inform your world-building?Not so much ad-libs, but it definitely informs my story. It gave me things I wanted to talk about — the feeling. On “Sticky”, when I say “Mill Hill and back” and repeat it, that’s what it felt like when I was driving.So in a way, it inspired you.It did. I lived a more traditional life before I transitioned into this. It gives you perspective. I know what it’s like to get up at 4 a.m. and have a job. I was a postman as well — I worked retail for a bit, too.You began working on Being Poor Is Expensive at the start of Covid, right? What was your headspace, and how did the album come together? And were you surprised by the impact?I started writing it in 2020 during lockdown. I was reflecting on my life, like a lot of people, because I didn’t know where the world was going. People were losing family members; people were dying around us.Very unsettled times.It was unsettled and unpredictable. I was in Los Angeles filming a TV series called Them. When Covid hit, production paused, and I had to stay in LA because they didn’t know if I’d be able to get back into the country if filming restarted. So I stayed. I was in my apartment, and I had to build a routine, because I can go inside my head and end up in a negative space.To counteract that, I made an itinerary I’d follow every day: work out, read a book, watch a film, watch a TV series, meditate, sit in the sun, write lyrics, and cook food. I did it religiously, ticking it off, and it gave me a sense of purpose.Writing lyrics became the key thing. It was the first time in a long time I’d had room to be creative because I’d been focused on acting. I thought: if I don’t write this now, I don’t know when I’ll get another chance. So I promised myself I’d write 100% the truth.In hip-hop, people lie or embellish. You might have had an argument with two people, and twenty years later it’s a war with twenty men. It makes a good story, but it’s not the truth. So I told myself: if anything felt exaggerated, I’d scrap the lyric and start again. That was the foundation — always checking, “Is it the truth?”Toddla T and my friend, the producer Casa, were encouraging me to make music again. That sparked it. I’m telling it backwards, but that’s how it started: “Okay, let me try.” And then, as I was writing, everything started coming up.I’d associated music with a traumatic time in my life — growing up in the ends. I had to unpack a lot of trauma, just being a young Black brother from London trying to navigate that. It was hard writing it, but it was therapeutic. It helped me unpack feelings I’d never addressed and had bottled up while moving through life.One of the lines is, “Keeping it real, I spent most of my teens shook.” And I was. When I was 17, 18, I was outside putting on this armor, but really it was because I was scared.Those are the stories I wanted to tell — my life, my parents’ lives, my friends’ lives, my community. I wanted to be specific. That’s why I made it about Brent, northwest London, and what I saw there. I think that specificity is what’s connected with people.Bashy is wearing the Patta Whole Lotta Labels Denim Jacket.Something else I really enjoyed were the references — MJ Cole, Wookie, Dizzee. It felt intentional, like you wanted to recognise this period in British music. It almost feels like you, Toddla, and your producer were like kids in a candy store, sampling all these sounds.Some of it was like that. I’m heavily inspired by US hip-hop. And the ingredients of the production — the soundscape — in a lot of the hip-hop I listened to, and still listen to, come from the music those rappers grew up on. The lyrics are one layer, but if the music supports it, it can transport you to the time, the place, the people I’m talking about. That’s what we wanted to achieve. As for how I feel about the album: it’s exceeded my expectations. The way it’s been received, the awards, the critical acclaim — it feels good.And we’re not going to wait as long for the next one?We’ll see. I’m between acting and music, so when it lands, it lands.There are many themes on the album, but one is in the title. There’s a line: “There were many times when I never had a grand… now when I buy something nice, I feel bad.” How do you reconcile your success now with the struggle it took to get here?A lot of people from where I’m from suffer from what me and my friends call “post-traumatic poor syndrome.” You grow up without things, and even when you have money, because you know [how hard it is] being broke, you almost don’t want to spend anything. You’re like, “I’m not putting my money on that.”That’s what that line is about. My friends still tell me, “What’s wrong with you? Just buy it.”I just never want to go broke again. Being broke is rough. It can be a dark place. That’s why on the opening track, “London Borough of Brent”, I say:When you’re broke, you would do mad thingsWhen you’re broke, you would do bad thingsWhen you’re broke, you would do sad things.When you’re broke, you’re desperate to escape that place. I don’t want to be back there. I want to be in a place of abundance where I can help people, take my time on decisions, and make the right choices. Because when you’re doing things purely for money, your judgment’s clouded, and the choice can be a bad one.You’ve spoken about therapy before, and the album is very vulnerable. I get the impression that even though it’s painful at times, it was cathartic to make — that the process of creating is catharsis for you.It’s very cathartic. It helped me understand myself. Music and writing are my medium for release. With acting, I don’t go into a character to find release or live something out through a role. Writing lets me exercise whatever demons I’m dealing with, or speak about an issue or a feeling — about myself.This album is very internal: how I see myself and my community. I don’t know what the next album will be — maybe it’ll be how I see the world differently — but this one helped me get outside my mind and put my thoughts and feelings down.Bashy is wearing the Patta Whole Lotta Labels Denim Jacket.What do you look for in an acting role?I'm interested in roles that are a challenge; I aim for roles that push me to grow as an actor and creative. [The Amazon Prime show] Them is a good example. To get into character, I look at a person's core essence and principles, and try to find similarities or differences with myself. Or I'll look for clues in the script, and observe people from the time period through reading, watching documentaries, and viewing photographs and memoirs. Ultimately, I'm interested in original works with original ideas.It sounds like two distinct headspaces — actor vs musician/writer. Do you ever see yourself combining them? Directing, writing a screenplay?I write. I’ve got scripts — a few short films.Anything that’s been made, or anything in the works we can talk about?Not yet. Just getting the ideas out, which I think is important. People always say, “That film is dead,” or “I could do better than that guy.”Maybe you could.Maybe — but then you should do it. I try not to criticise film or TV. If I want to tell a story, I should try and write one. So that’s what I’ve been doing. There are TV scripts there. Even if they never come out, at least I got them out of my mind. I didn’t die with the idea.As an independent musician who self-releases while also working as an actor, how do you feel about the compensation from the streaming industry? Streaming’s a catch-22. It gives access, but it doesn’t always value the work. I was lucky — acting gave me the space to release the album on my terms. When it landed, people realised what I was saying mattered. That was the point.Touring has helped too — you’ve done shows, a UK run?I’ve done two headline dates at Bush Hall, and they sold out straight away. That was another way to enter the music industry — another element of the career. Then there were festivals: Glastonbury, We Out Here, Across The Tracks, Colours — and brand situations.So there are ways to navigate it as an independent artist, and it’s been good for me. It shows there’s a blueprint — that you can navigate music and come out in a good position.Something sustainable.Yes. There’s an audience out there. And cultural impact — cultural currency — can be as valuable as the financial side.That’s what you want, right? Artists creating work that has cultural currency rather than just being part of the noise.Exactly. Because cultural impact lasts longer than a number-one hit or an award. If you ask who won what award in 2003, nobody knows. But if you ask someone their favourite album, they’ll tell you: Boy in da Corner, Kano’s Home Sweet Home — those things last.That era was all mixtapes. No social media. Everything was in the moment. How do you feel about the promotion side now — the relatively newer part of being an artist?I like to create and release. I’m not with the extra antics.Patta Magazine Volume 6 is available now at Patta chapter stores in Amsterdam, London, Milan and Lagos.

Interview by Passion Dzenga | Photography by Dana LixenbergFew bands can claim to have shaped music history while defying every neat genre label, but ESG has been doing exactly that for over four decades. Formed in the South Bronx by the Scroggins sisters — Renee, Valerie, Deborah, and Marie — along with their friend Tito Libran, ESG took their name from three precious elements: emerald, sapphire, and gold. With their stripped-down blend of funk, punk, hip-hop, and Latin rhythms, they forged a sound so distinctive it has gone on to stand the test of time and influence generations of musicians.Discovered by 99 Records’ Ed Bahlman at a local talent show, ESG soon caught the attention of Tony Wilson, owner of the Hacienda nightclub and Factory Records, after a Manhattan club gig. Within days, they were recording with producer Martin Hannett, creating tracks like “Moody,” “You’re No Good,” and the now-legendary “UFO” — a song that would become one of the most sampled in music history. From the Beastie Boys to Wu-Tang Clan, TLC to MF Doom, generations of artists have built upon ESG’s minimal, bass-driven grooves.Over the years, the group has released influential EPs and albums, taken their music around the world, and kept it all in the family — with Renee’s children now joining the lineup. Their work has been praised by critics, revered by musicians across genres, and celebrated by fans worldwide.As the band approaches its 49th year, founding member Renee Scroggins reflects on ESG’s beginnings, their impact, and the lessons she’s carrying into retirement and passing on to the next generation.“When we started, it wasn’t the greatest thing at first,” Renee admits with a laugh, recalling ESG’s earliest jam sessions. “But we weren’t just freestyling — from the beginning, we had the intention of being a band. We were going to do this together.” The name ESG wasn’t theirs at first, but their mother’s invention: Emerald, Sapphire, and Gold. Valerie’s birth sign was Emerald, Renee’s was Sapphire, and the sisters hoped Gold would manifest into gold records.Growing up in the South Bronx in the 1970s meant music was everywhere — but so were hardship and danger. “My mom didn’t want us hanging out in the streets,” Renee remembers. “We stayed inside watching Soul! on PBS or Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert. And from our 13th-floor window, we could hear Latin gentlemen in the park playing congas, timbales, cowbells, even Coca-Cola bottles. That sound came through every night.” Latin rhythms blended with her mother’s James Brown records — raw funk and breakdowns that ESG stretched into entire songs. Add in the rock theatrics of Queen and the harmonies of Motown, and a blueprint was forming.Everything changed for the group when Wilson invited them to record with producer Martin Hannett, best known for his work with Joy Division. “Martin didn’t really change our sound,” Renee says. “He magnified it. He added a few touches, but mostly he let us be ourselves.”If there’s one ESG song from that session that refuses to fade, it’s “UFO”. Born almost by accident during their first recording session with Martin Hannett, the track was cut simply to fill the last three minutes of reel-to-reel tape.“Martin asked if we had a three-minute song because there were three minutes left,” Renee recalls. “My family hated it — I loved it. And somehow, it became the one everybody wanted.”With its eerie guitar harmonics, loose bass, and raw percussion, “UFO” sounded like nothing else in 1981. The track’s otherworldly atmosphere — written while Renee was steeped in Close Encounters of the Third Kind and Star Wars — hinted at space and alien encounters, but also carried the accidental dissonance of instruments the band hadn’t yet learned to tune “properly.” “These are notes that don’t even exist on the music scale,” Renee laughs. “So yeah, I can always tell when it’s “UFO” being sampled. That sound is unmistakable.”Unmistakable and unavoidable. “UFO” went on to become one of the most sampled tracks in music history, underpinning hits and deep cuts alike. At first, Renee struggled with this afterlife. “I didn’t like it, especially when rappers were saying negative things about women — and we weren’t getting paid,” she admits. “I was working regular jobs to feed my kids, while people were sampling our music and making money.” The frustration was immortalised in their 1992 album title, Sample Credits Don’t Pay the Bills.Eventually, sampling laws shifted in the band’s favour, and today Renee sees “UFO with a mix of pride and perspective. “You learn to go with the flow, become a part of the system, and deal with it,” she says. “It doesn’t make it right, but that’s just how it is. At the end of the day, people are still hearing us, moving to us. “UFO” is proof that even something you didn’t plan can outlive you.”The band was suddenly swept into Manhattan’s punk and downtown scenes, playing alongside post-punk peers like Liquid Liquid, Bush Tetras, and Glenn Branca. “It was a shock,” Renee says. “We came from the Bronx, where funk, Latin, and gospel were the soundtrack. Downtown was a whole other world.”For a band that began in a Bronx apartment, ESG’s music travelled astonishingly far. Their stripped-down funk crossed oceans before the band members themselves did, becoming staples in clubs from Manchester to Tokyo. Once they hit the road, the experience was nothing short of transformative.Their European debut came with history: ESG was invited to open Manchester’s infamous Hacienda nightclub on its very first night in 1982. “I still have the little sticker posters from that gig,” Renee recalls. “But honestly, the place wasn’t finished. There was sawdust everywhere. I remember coughing and gagging, thinking, ‘Wow, this isn’t good for my throat.’ So when people ask me what I remember most about the Hacienda, I always say, ‘Sawdust.’”Despite the dust, that evening marked the beginning of ESG’s long relationship with European audiences. They were soon playing to packed rooms in Paris, where a French magazine, Femme Actuelle, hosted them for one of their earliest overseas shows. Even without a common language, fans danced and connected deeply with ESG’s rhythms. “That’s when you realise music is a universal language,” Renee says.Japan, too, became a milestone. “They didn’t speak English, but they understood the music,” Renee remembers. “That touched me — to see people thousands of miles away moving to something we created in the Bronx.”Back home, ESG continued to push boundaries, from small clubs in downtown Manhattan to major cultural institutions. Playing Lincoln Centre — in a program honouring the first women to sign a major label contract — was especially meaningful. “To be recognised in that way, after everything, that was special,” Renee says.Not every memory is grand, but each carries its own weight. Renee recalls braving a snowstorm in 1981 to play at a New York club. “I thought no one would show up — the streets were insane. But when we got to the show, it was packed wall to wall. That’s when you see the power of music.”For ESG, the road has been a cycle of challenges and affirmations. From gritty beginnings to international acclaim, their travels revealed the same truth in every city: wherever people gather, ESG’s music makes them move.Even as ESG’s sound spread across continents and decades, their career became a cautionary tale about ownership in the music industry. “This is your work, and each song is like a child,” Renee stresses. “You want to protect it the same way you’d protect your kids. It’s heartbreaking to see music chopped up, stolen, or misused.”. Everyone kept asking about these artists sampling us, but they didn’t work with me — they stole my music.”It’s why she insists on passing down business lessons to her children, who now perform with her in ESG: daughter Nicole on bass, son Nicholas on percussion, alongside her sister Marie and current drummer Cat Doerch, “Business first, then art,” she says firmly.Despite the struggles, the joy of music still drives Renee. “We’re still creating original songs, not copying or borrowing. And I know future generations will sample them too. That brings me joy. When that joy disappears, that’s when you stop.” ESG has indeed decided to stop — eventually. The band will retire after June 2026, following a farewell tour that begins in San Francisco at the Great American Music Hall. “People ask, ‘Why not 50 years?’ But 49 is enough,” Renee says with a smile. Looking back, she marvels at how far their music has travelled from a Bronx apartment. “I never set out to inspire the world. I just wanted to buy my mom a house. But to see people all over — in Italy, Spain, the Netherlands, Japan — dancing to what I wrote in the projects… that touches my heart.”As ESG prepares to close the loop on nearly five decades of dance, Renee Scroggins leaves us with a reminder that stretches beyond the stage. “In these times, we need to learn to love and respect one another,” she says. “Forget politics for a moment — people can still choose kindness. Music has always been a universal language, and that’s what we’ve tried to bring to you.”For younger artists, her message is also a practical one: protect your work, own your masters, register your songs. “That way, your art will take care of you in the long run,” she adds. But above all, it’s about heart. “Love what you’re doing. Because if you don’t love your art, then it’s not worth it.”It’s a fitting coda to a band that turned the everyday rhythms of the Bronx into something timeless: a reminder that music connects us, teaches us, and carries us forward — as long as we keep dancing.Patta Magazine Volume 6 is available now at Patta chapter stores in Amsterdam, London, Milan and Lagos.

Interview by Victoria Goldiee | Photography by Andrea Amponsah | Hair by Victoria Zynwala | Make-up by Sammy Does | Styling & Creative Direction by Felicia Perez | Production by Candy Reding & Linda LyIn conversation, singer, producer, and visionary keiyaA opens up about her beginnings on Chicago’s South Side, the beauty of imperfection, and the quiet power of creating a life rooted in authenticity, community, and self-trust. Her new album, hooke’s law, expands on that journey—a project that feels like both a continuation and an evolution of her earlier work.kieyaA is wearing the Patta Houndstooth Football Jersey available Friday, April 10thWhen keiyaA speaks about her beginnings, her words hum with memory, rhythm and reverence in equal measure. She was raised on Chicago’s South Side, in a world where everything vibrated with sound: the gospel harmonies of Sunday mornings, the metallic rhythm of the train tracks, the way laughter spilled from one porch to another. Her mother filled their home with soul and gospel — artists like Anita Baker, Donny Hathaway, and Kirk Franklin — while her cousins were the ones who slipped her Erykah Badu and Lauryn Hill CDs when she was too young to fully understand the lyrics. “It felt like everyone around me was part of some larger soundscape,” she says, her voice soft but sure. “I didn’t think of music as something I’d do. It was just something that existed inside of me.” She discovered her voice the way most people discover faith, gradually and then all at once. As a child, she would hum melodies while washing dishes or write poems she never showed anyone. In high school, her choir director pulled her aside after rehearsal one day and told her she had a story in her voice. “That stuck with me,” she recalls. “It made me ask myself, what do I actually have to say?” That question became a compass. Music was no longer just performance; it became reflection. “It’s funny because when I started writing songs, I wasn’t thinking about a career. I was trying to make sense of myself. I think I still am.”Her early surroundings shaped that sense of identity. Growing up in a city known for invention and resilience, she learned to embrace duality—softness and strength, faith and frustration, creation and survival. “Chicago taught me that you don’t wait for permission to build something,” she says. “You create your own lane, your own home, your own sense of belonging.” Those lessons — self-determination, resourcefulness, community — show up in her work, woven between lines about love, healing, and rebirth. “I carry the city with me, even in the silences,” she says. “It’s in how I love people, how I show up for myself, how I dream.”She speaks about her family with warmth, describing her mother as “a woman who never stopped moving,” someone who worked long hours but still found time to play music on Saturday mornings and teach her daughter the importance of grace. Her grandmother, she says, was the first person to show her what devotion looks like. “She’d pray over me before I went to school, even when I was too tired or too annoyed to stand still,” keiyaA remembers. “That kind of love seeps into you. It makes you want to honor it.”keiyaA is wearing the Patta Chenille Logo Hooded Sweater and Patta Chenille Logo Jogging Pants Her music reflects that same emotional depth. keiyaA’s 2020 debut Forever, Ya Girl introduced listeners to a sound that felt both intimate and expansive, blending soul, R&B, and experimental production. Tracks like “Way Out,” “Hvnli,” and “Rectifiya” showcase her gift for turning vulnerability into strength, for crafting songs that feel like prayers. “Those songs came from a place of trying to reclaim my softness,” she says. “I wanted to make something honest, something that sounded like breathing again.” With hooke’s law, her newly released album, she moves even deeper inward, creating something freer, more meditative. Tracks like “i h8 u,” “make good,” “get close 2 me,” and “motions” pull from both spiritual inquiry and lived experience, fusing vulnerability with rhythmic daring. “This project was me talking to myself, holding myself accountable, forgiving myself,” she says. “Each song was a little mirror. Some days it was painful, some days it was liberating, but every part of it felt necessary.”What drives her beyond the art, she explains, is connection. “I’m passionate about people, about what makes us human. I love learning how others see the world. I think that’s why I make music: to build bridges between feelings.” Her definition of purpose has evolved with time. “Purpose, for me, isn’t about success or legacy. It’s about alignment. If my heart and my work are in the same place, I’m at peace.” She pauses before adding, “I think purpose also means service. I want my work to serve something larger than ego, something that contributes to healing, even in small ways.” That sense of service shows in the intention she brings to her performances, where she treats the stage not as a platform, but as a shared space. “When I’m performing, I want people to feel safe enough to feel everything—joy, grief, confusion, all of it. That’s the real exchange.”The journey toward finding that peace hasn’t been linear. There were years of doubt, of trying to fit into industry molds, of measuring her worth against others. “For a long time, I thought authenticity meant never questioning yourself,” she says. “Now I know it means showing up even when you do.” She learned to protect her creative space through solitude, setting boundaries, and tuning out the noise. “There’s so much pressure to always be visible, to keep producing. But creativity doesn’t live in urgency. It lives in honesty.”keiyaA wearing the Patta Striped Football T-Shirt available Friday, March 13thThere were also moments when she nearly stopped altogether. “There was a time I didn’t write for months,” she admits. “I was burnt out, trying to chase a version of success that didn’t feel right. I had to relearn why I started making music in the first place—for expression, for healing, not for validation.” Those quiet months became a turning point. “I learned that silence isn’t the absence of creativity. It’s part of the process. The stillness teaches you what really matters.”Outside the studio, she reclaims her balance in quiet ways. She cooks for her friends, paints, reads poetry, and walks for hours without her phone. “I’ve learned to let art be part of my life, not my whole identity,” she says. “My joy can’t depend on output.” Her relationship with mental health has become one of gentle discipline—slowing down, asking for help, resting. “Stillness is where my ideas come from. I try to treat it as sacred.” She laughs lightly when she talks about learning to rest. “Rest used to make me feel guilty,” she says. “I grew up watching people hustle nonstop, and I thought slowing down meant you didn’t care enough. Now I know rest is resistance. It’s how you preserve your spirit.”Her confidence, too, was hard-earned. “I used to apologize for existing,” she admits softly. “I’d shrink myself to make others comfortable. But then I realized my voice is my offering. It’s not about ego—it’s about truth.” She remembers a mentor telling her, You already have everything you need. You just have to stop doubting your magic. “That changed everything for me,” she says. “Now, when I create, I try to come from that place of trust.”She describes confidence now as a kind of faith. “It’s not about always knowing you’re right. It’s about trusting that even your uncertainty is worth listening to.” That philosophy extends beyond music. “I try to live like that in general—with compassion, with curiosity. I think that’s where real power lives.” When asked what creativity means to her, she leans forward as if searching for the right words. “Creativity is just curiosity in motion,” she says. “It’s how I stay alive. I’m inspired by little things—overheard conversations, photographs, the way sunlight hits a wall. I think art is really just paying attention.” Her creative process is intuitive, more emotional than structured. “Sometimes it starts with a word, sometimes with a hum. I’ll loop a sound and just let it speak to me until it becomes something bigger. I never force it. If it’s real, it’ll come.”As her visibility has grown, she’s learned to navigate attention carefully. “It’s beautiful that people connect with what I make,” she says. “But I’ve had to learn that I can be grateful for visibility without giving myself away. I share parts of me, not all of me.” She guards her privacy fiercely. “My personal life is mine. My art can be transparent, but my healing doesn’t have to be public.” Her approach to fame is grounded in integrity. “The world loves to define you before you define yourself,” she says. “But I’ve learned that power lies in authorship. I tell my own story. That’s how I stay free.”keiyaA wearing the Patta Striped Football T-Shirt available Friday, March 13thWhen asked about success, she laughs softly. “Success used to mean recognition; now it means rest. It means being able to choose how I spend my time.” She still dreams of longevity, but she’s more concerned with being present. “I want to look back and know I lived honestly, that I didn’t rush through it chasing something that didn’t matter.” Legacy, for her, is about emotion, not achievement. “If my music makes someone feel understood, that’s enough. I don’t care about being timeless, I care about being true.” She looks thoughtful when she talks about the future. “I’m learning to let go of timelines. There’s no ‘there’ to reach—only more life, more learning.”There’s a quiet wisdom in her words when she reflects on her younger self. “I’d tell her to breathe. To stop comparing. To stop apologizing. Everything she’s praying for is already inside her—she just has to let it unfold.” On hard days, she thinks about that girl singing to herself in her childhood bedroom, dreaming of this life. “She keeps me going. I owe it to her to keep showing up.” Before we part, I ask her what she hopes people truly understand about her. She pauses, then smiles. “That I’m still becoming. That I’m still learning to love out loud, to live with softness, to forgive myself. The music is just the evidence of that process.” In the end, keiyaA’s story isn’t about perfection or fame. It’s about honesty, about how art becomes a map back to oneself. “I used to think I had to have all the answers,” she says quietly. “Now I just want to ask better questions. That’s what this whole thing is about—staying curious, staying open, staying human.”keiyaA is wearing the Patta Chenille Logo Hooded Sweater and Patta Chenille Logo Jogging Pants  Patta Magazine Volume 6 is available now at Patta chapter stores in Amsterdam, London, Milan and Lagos. keiyaA’s album hooke’s law is out now via XL Recordings.