When Enitan Adepitan quit her bank job in 2019, she had no deal, manager, or plan. “I just had a lot of faith in God,” says the Nigerian-British rapper, who goes by “Enny” professionally. “I looked at the office one day and thought I cannot do this for the rest of my life,” she says. “I knew I wanted to do music but I was kind of just playing it safe.” After frustrations with her work environment continued to build, the 26-year-old paused and said to herself, “this can’t run forever.”
Thankfully, it didn’t.
A little over a year later, and nothing is the same. Soon after letting go of her 9-to-5, Enny’s music career began falling into place at record speed. She crossed paths with her now manager and producer, linked up with Route 73, a hub for artists developing their sounds, and in 2020, released her first single, “He’s Not Into You.” Since last year, Enny’s world has been a rollercoaster for reasons much different than the rest of the world, including most of her industry peers. “I dropped my first song around this time last year so I can’t say it’s been negative,” she says, letting out a guilt-ridden chuckle. “The opportunity to have a career now through the pandemic has been a blessing.”
Enny is becoming a star and her days are beginning to reflect that. After some last-minute rescheduling, we’re able to connect during a night-time car ride from what has obviously been a packed day. “Sorry I’m in a car so there isn’t much to see,” she politely tells me, before eventually turning on her camera. In moments such as these, I’m thankful to have unlocked a new level of pandemic, one in which the awkwardness of Zoom calls has worn off. For the next hour as Enny rides through London, we expertly dance between a repeated “Can you hear me?” and “I think I might have lost you,” without missing a step.
Born into a London-based Nigerian family in Thamesmead, Enny knew she wanted to rap since primary school. Contrary to the stereotypical immigrant story, her parents noticed their youngest daughter’s interests and pushed for music and drama classes. “My mum always knew and my dad, he was the person that really got me into music,” she says of her parents’ approach to a creative career. “I am the last born too so it’s like let’s let this one do whatever she wants to do and see what happens,” she adds jokingly.
The soulful lyricist’s position in the Adepitan family contributed to moulding a musical palette that is recognizably beyond her years. “I think I was lucky in that respect, that I was able to listen to what everyone else was listening to and I’m just a little kid in the corner absorbing it all,” Enny reflects. As a child, her father schooled an unmoved Enny on the makings of jazz and soul records but it wasn’t until his passing that she discovered the beauty of these classics for herself. “Unfortunately, after he passed I started growing up more and I was like yo jazz is amazing!” Enny shares. “A little seed had been sown and it had to grow.”
On the more contemporary front, Enny’s older siblings, her brother in particular, put the young rapper on to a lot of ‘90s and early 2000s hip hop. In a freestyle that is now pinned to Enny’s Twitter page (along with the caption “tired of the chat about female UK rappers”), the South East Londoner’s cheeky bravado is on full display as she rhymes over Jay-Z's “A Million & One Questions” instrumental. “This ain’t snakes and ladders this a chess game / But snakes they / Wanna use your ladders just to get paid,” she declares on an empty tube platform. When her brother played her the Jay Z track, she remembers thinking, “oh my God this is sick I need to rap on this.”
Enny charts her own musical course as beginning with the Spice Girls, followed by a pit stop at grime, before pressing on to Lauryn Hill and Missy Elliot. And then finally, discovering J. Cole. “It gets into J. Cole at like 14 and then from there, literally just J. Cole,” she laughs. We test each other’s credentials in the way that only “real Cole fans” do. “Nah, nah, nah I’m a day 1,” Enny interjects when I ask whether she hopped on board before Born Sinner — Cole’s sophomore album and the genesis of th,e now elusive MC’s most radio-friendly era. For Enny, whose favourite Cole verse (third verse on “Enchanted”) sees the rapper having a candid conversation with his creator, honesty is what an artist is ultimately remembered for. “When I talk to a lot of rappers now, especially UK ones, that are proper into their craft like Little Simz or DC, everyone says that J. Cole was their person,” she marvels.
A quick Twitter search of “Enny” will unfurl dozens of tweets excluding the rising star from today’s era of microwaveable music, likening new releases to ‘90s talent and most frequently, designating her as some variation of “a new Lauryn Hill.” The comparison isn’t completely unfounded, with Enny’s team describing her sound as striking a balance between insightful lyricism and effortless groove. Her COLORS encore performance captures an ability to paint vivid scenes with sharp, self-aware bars skillfully punctuated by hypnotic melodies, in a way that feels only doable by a student of Ms. Hill. Enny admits to seeing the chatter but is most concerned with emulating The Fugees icon’s ability to resonate years later. “A lot of the music is microwaveable music,” she says of today’s scene. “But I feel like if you got a bit more to offer, people are just genuinely gonna try and connect. That’s the lane I hope to drive in.”
From decade-old conversations on gangsta rap vs. conscious rap, to more recent debates on trap vs. backpack, hip-hop has operated on binaries since its commercialization. For women rappers in particular, a lethal cocktail of societal pressure and marketing dollars, means bypassing a Madonna-whore dichotomy. The result is often a restrictive environment in which women who rap must fall either into the category of chaste and talented or sexualized but lacking in artistry. Rappers such as Lauryn Hill are touted as bastions of artistic morality, and so I ask if Enny worries about being boxed into a preconceived image for the duration of her career. “I’m still navigating it but I feel like being true to yourself is the only thing you can do,” she says. “If I happen to evolve as a person and I happen to pull my boobs out in my music video then that’s what came,” she jokes. “But I don’t want it to be forced.”
Enny is bullish on her set of women rappers and can often be seen on social media bigging up releases from peers such as fellow Nigerian-British MC Shaybo. “I’m appreciating everyone right now,” she emphasizes. Among current favourites, Enny also counts Ms Banks and Lex Amor, who she defines as an “artist to a T.” Stateside, it’s Doja Cat that has her attention. As a former film student, Enny’s fascination with Doja Cat goes beyond lyricism. “When you’re writing music I feel like the story you’re trying to tell within your music is reflected not only in the song but in the video,” Enny expresses. “I feel like the video is just as important as the lyrics.”
One thing is certain, Enny puts significant time and effort into crafting visuals. “A lot of the ideas for my music videos have come from me,” she says. Her process involves writing a brief and then sharing ideas with a team that includes trusted director Otis Dominique. Most recently, the self-proclaimed film buff dropped the video for “Same Old,” the first single from her July-slated EP. Dressed in all black and an oxblood trench coat, Enny manoeuvres through the streets of London with impeccable rapper hands and the ease of a veteran. The video, similar to the song, feels like a stream of consciousness — simultaneously about everything and about nothing. The camera follows Enny as she walks past a dàńṣíkí-clad white man hawking jollof rice, banters with a guy trying to get her number and ends up at a kickback. “I feel like there’s so many things going on in the lyrics of the song,” she explains.
While “Same Old” simply reflects a day in the life, it’s running undercurrent is the increasing gentrification changing the faces of Black neighbourhoods. The video may have been shot in London but its message would remain had it been the boroughs of New York, Toronto or any major western hub on display. “The area I live in has evolved quite drastically. There used to be a lot of community stuff like dance classes, youth groups and a lot of those things disappeared,” she tells me. “I look at the places now and they’re just non-existent. Just houses and flats.”Whether it’s in her lyrics, business decisions or area code, community is Enny’s north star. While watching her neighbourhood shapeshift, an offhand decision to archive a specific energy witnessed as a teenager turned into “Peng Black Girls” — the song that got her signed. “There was a feeling I had in secondary school just like the amount of Black girls I knew and it was a special feeling and I don’t think it was ever celebrated,” Enny recalls of being surrounded by a strong community of Black people. “Trying to remember how I felt at 16 or 14 and just being with my friends in the ends, being some young Black girls in South-East London.”
Featured artist Amia Brave joins for the video, a warm showing of Black-British womanhood — its normalcy, range, diasporic lineage and comradery. Soon after the visuals were released, “Peng Black Girls” quickly (and rightfully) took on a life of its own, becoming a mantra for the everyday Black woman. “I feel like the song [is] important now because it was just like me coming into myself at 22/23. Me being happy being the Black girl that I am but it’s sad that it took so long,” says Enny, floored by how many people across the world relate to her words. “We all need that moment to just be happy being who we are and not allow society to make you feel any different.”
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In December, Enny made her introduction to COLORS Studio with an equally impressive remix featuring FAMM label mate Jorja Smith. What ensued was the almost-famous artist’s first taste of the towering peaks and deep troughs of a super-viral moment. Enny’s widely shared COLORS debut garnered 10M+ views and continues to be a top sound on TikTok. However, for dark-skinned Black women especially, “Peng Black Girls'' had transformed into a personal affirmation and so it was hard to ignore what looked like the erasure of a dark-skinned artist. The backlash was swift and amplified by short clips circulating online that left Enny out of the performance of her own song. In the midst of an exciting moment, it was initially difficult for the young musician to deal with such disapproval, particularly because she maintains that Jorja Smith’s addition had nothing to do with replacing anyone. “I feel like it can never be tainted because everything came from such a pure place,” she says. It’s hard to discern whether criticism against the remix should fall on decision-makers for jumping at a seemingly smart business move or with a colourist society that predictably fawned over the light-skinned singer on the hook. Even though attempts to grapple with the multi-layered issue in 140 characters descended into cheap shots, Enny understands the need to highlight topics that may ruffle feathers. “It is important that these conversations are had but I just don’t think the song was the right reason to have the conversation,” she stresses.
Over an unreleased track that sounds like 10:00 p.m. sunsets, Enny spits, “Identity crisis for me and my crew / We’re Black and we’re British and African too / But so far removed.” Enny’s Nigerian heritage is her bedrock and its foundation is made solid by the fact that she had to discover it for herself, in spite of her parents’ teachings. “For a lot of British people because our parents were immigrants, we have a very strong connection to the culture,” she explains. “Our parents were raising us Nigerian and it’s not until you get older that you start to realize.” Enny describes her first trip visiting family in the middle-class neighbourhood of Lagos’ Surulere as eye-opening, “I was like wow so I’m really suffering in London,” she teases. The busy rapper is also finding that quarantine has brought about a nagging desire to return to a staple Nigerian diet, comforting her with memories of a less unpredictable period. “For a long time I didn’t eat a lot of heavy Nigerian food but I have to say, this last year I’ve enjoyed,” she reveals. “You kind of start to understand it, the frugalness of just having a pot of stew in the house and not having to think of what you’re going to eat.”
Despite going to a school where 90 percent of the Black girls were Nigerian, Enny still remembers a time there weren’t enough young proud British-Nigerians for it to be considered cool. “As a child, you’ll be hearing things like Nigerians are too loud or Nigerians do this and you kind of internalize it,” she shares. Around secondary school, a teenage Enny swapped her Yoruba first name Enitan, with her English middle name. A few years later, she began to regret conforming to Western standards. “That’s your name! Do you understand when someone calls you that they’re calling what that name means?”
Enitan, which translates to “person with a story,” asks rhetorically. “Calling myself Enny now is me kind of coming back to it,” she says. “The only story I can tell is the truth and the only truth I can give is my own.”
