Author: Alya Mooro

Nadine El Roubi is a Sudanese artist who is currently based in the US. With a third-culture identity that encompasses time spent in Sudan, Egypt, the US, and the UK, among other countries, her resulting sound beautifully blends neo-soul, RnB, and hip-hop to explore the complex intersectional identity of being a third-cultured Afro-Arab woman. 

The 27-year-old independent artist has a fierce work ethic. She often drops freestyles on social media in which she raps about causes close to her heart – from shame culture to the ongoing conflict in Sudan while, late last year, she released her debut EP “Triplicity”, a 5-song offering which embodies each element of the zodiac. She’s been steadily amassing a loyal fanbase; a fanbase that includes the likes of SZA, no less, who reposted one of El Roubi’s freestyles on Instagram with the caption: “Why did she eat this so crazy?” 

Here, El Roubi talks to author and writer Alya Mooro about the importance of empowering lyrics, carving your own lane, what it means to be African, and much more…

You grew up between the US, Sudan and Egypt. What was your relationship with your heritage like growing up?

When I was in America, I knew that my family wasn't American, per se; we had our own identity and traditions. My mom was very intent on me going to Arabic school and Islamic school with the other Sudanese and Egyptian people in the neighbourhood [so] I was very lucky to grow up around people who did have the same culture, [but] I always felt like an “other”. I didn't fully understand what that meant; it just felt like I had different rules than everybody else I knew at school. As a woman especially, [when] you grow older [you’re] suddenly imposed with all these new rules of how you dress, how you carry yourself, who you're speaking to and how you interact with who you're speaking to… Those impositions and restrictions kind of pushed me away from the culture. I associated being Arab with being a square, basically. Like, you couldn't do anything – you couldn't sleep over, you couldn't have fun, you couldn't have a boyfriend… That was my understanding of it in my absence but now, in this stage of growing up – because I feel like you're growing up at different stages in your life – it's more an unlearning of everything that I was taught and relearning the good side of things. 

You recently moved back to the US after spending time in Sudan and Egypt. What differences are you finding in the music scenes?

I've wanted to move back forever. It just felt like it made more sense with [me] doing music in English, but then I got here and I was like, ‘Oh my God, they really don't know much about us at all!’ I was surrounded by people who are so in their own American world. I didn't really deep that it would be that bad, so it's now a desperate search for people who are like me in the States. [Luckily] I don't have to look that hard because that kind of Third Culture diaspora identity is growing, so it's there, [but] where I am in Boston it's like the complete opposite of that. You just see how closed off everyone is. I don't feel any racism – I think I have light skin privilege in that sense – but it's definitely a feeling of, ‘I can't really relate to anyone here…’ In terms of rap, it's really not the same culture at all. The first girls that I met here who did hip hop, it was a completely different subject matter, completely different way of presenting yourself. That was definitely a thing, like, ‘Okay, I've moved here to fit in better because we're making music in English, but I still don't really fit in at all because of what my music is…’ 

Arab women artists are really in the limelight at the moment. What is the landscape like in terms of being a female musician from an Arab country? 

I think it's reaffirming that we're carving our own lane – Elyanna playing Coachella, Zein doing so, so well for herself – it's so inspiring to see. People are starting to catch on that what women are doing is not only – I don't want to say better, because it's not a competition, per se – but it's just like, really in their own lane, and honouring their culture in a different way. A lot of our male counterparts [have] fallen into this Western trap of rapping about guns and drugs, and that's fine, but it's also like, ‘Habibi, you grew up in Cairo, what guns have you seen in your life?’ I love that the women are not even trying to partake in any of that and they're just doing their own thing. 

How did you first get into music? Was it always something that you wanted to do?

I always wanted to do something with the arts [but] I wasn't really sure what that looked like. I wanted to be an actor, I wanted to be a novelist, I wanted to do theatre, sing, be a designer... Any form of making stuff. It was encouraged very much as a hobby, but never as a career path [until] I got to the age where I was like, ‘You know what? I can decide what I want to do with my life.’ I wanted to get out of Sudan [and] a Masters was pretty much the only choice. I was like, ‘Okay, I've always wanted to be a writer and my mom approves of the writing, so I'll do a creative writing masters [in the UK],’ [but] the Masters was not what I was expecting at all; it was very whitewashed [and] Eurocentric. Because I wasn't fulfilled creatively from that, I began to fulfil myself creatively by surrounding myself with artists – especially Sudanese artists; rappers and people who were already making a splash in Sudan. I was just so inspired by the idea of making music. You know when you're like, ‘Oh, s**t, people actually do this? I can do this!?’ 

I started getting beats off YouTube, writing songs [and] showing them to people who were super supportive and guided me in the right direction. When I recorded my first song, “Throne”, the person I recorded with was like, ‘You need to do this for the rest of your life.’ It instilled such a sense of delusional belief in me that I was like, ‘Yeah, why not? Maybe I can!’ I would not be where I am today if I just had myself; I would not have been able to have that amount of self-belief – it had to come from the validation and support of other people. 

Your lyrics are always so empowering and feminist. Has that always been something that you've put into your work or is this something that you've been speaking more about as you've been unlearning? 

“Throne”, the very first song that came out was [about] feeling too small for my throne, [so] I've always felt a sense of empowerment – and music has helped me grow into that. The competence that you find in yourself through your art, where you're writing and learning so much about yourself and what you have to offer, and you're like, ‘Damn! I wish I had someone like me growing up to read and listen to!’ 

I've always felt like something was a bit off, even [when I was a] teenager, I would say things to my mom, like, ‘If I was a boy, you would let me do this.’ [I] still [didn’t] really understand the term feminism or sexism or all the academic theories that come with those concepts, I just knew that women are treated differently than men - especially in our culture – and that p*****d me off. As I grew older, I was able to put a label to it, and then sort through things like internalised misogyny and like, ‘What rules have I been accepting for myself and for other women that I now have to unlearn?’ Now, I've kind of detached myself from the political, social theories and I'm more like, ‘What feels good as a woman?’ And like, ‘What may feel not good for me but feels good for other women, and how can I respect that and let them live in that autonomy?’ 

In a recent interview, you shared that your music has taken more of a positive turn since beginning to really understand the power of words. Tell us a bit about that. 

I have a really good friend [who is] very spiritual and she [told] me, ‘Words are magic, that's why it's called spelling.’ I was like, ‘Whoa!’ When you think about it, when you're singing along to something, you're reinforcing [it]... Of course, I like to listen to sad music when I'm feeling sad, it makes me feel better, but I also want to be able to make things that make people feel powerful. I'm not always feeling my most confident, sexy, go-getter self, so I make a song when I'm feeling like that, also for times when I don't feel that way. Words hold a lot of power. I've been known to be stuck in a loop of negative self-talk, so I'm trying to go the opposite way now. 

You recently released your debut EP and you've been on tour for most of the year. What have you learnt through the process of putting it together and touring?

The EP was actually the most fun that I've ever had making music; it was just so liberating and fun and exactly what music is supposed to be when you're making it; feeling excited by everything, by the mistakes and what they turn into… [But] that little Europe tour that I did was probably the worst experience of my life. It was just very humbling like, ‘Oh, s**t, all of this is a lot more work than I thought it would be.’ The [London] show was the first I did from that mini tour, and it went so badly. It was 1,600 people ready to do drugs to Arab beats and I came on singing about gratitude and like, taking a bath. It was the first time I've seen people in the audience look at me like ‘Who the f**k is this?’ Every other show [I’ve done] was a headline show, or where I know people, or people know me... I should have taken that as a lesson, but it just threw me off the whole thing, I was f****d emotionally for that whole month. [But it taught me] how to fix my setlist. Now, I've learned how to tailor things to different audiences. You need to have an extremely strong mindset and be extremely prepared. I've learned so much and I think since then, my shows have been all the better because of it.

The theme of the month on AMAKA is autonomy, independence and freedom. What do those words mean to you and how do you see them play out in your life and work? 

I wrote this song, and I have a line in it where I go, ‘Nobody told me that freedom can get lonely sometimes.’ That's something that I've experienced heavily this last year. When I turned 27, I wrote a list of 11 things that I wanted and one of them was travel, which I think comes with having the freedom to go anywhere, anytime – which I do have. But it's like, not really being able to bring anyone with me, and it's also this thing of like, everywhere I go is very temporary. I don't have that sense of stability and groundedness in my life yet, which means I have to have it within myself, [so] I'm now focusing on having that. When I think of freedom, I think of the flip side of it, and how I can take control of my freedom – which feels contradictory to the concept – but, if you're too free, then you just float and get lost in the air, like a helium balloon or something. 

What does it mean to you to be an African woman?

Being an African woman is really just about acknowledging your royal heritage. When I hear ‘African woman’, I hear strength and beauty and power; I think of someone standing very tall with beautiful hair. Being an African woman is just power, genuinely, and very rich ancestral history.

Is there a woman from North Africa that you find inspiring right now?

[The Egyptian rapper] Felukah is someone I've been mega admiring. We've gotten closer over the last year, having met each other, and she's been a big support system. Watching her journey and how she places no limitations for herself and is always trying to elevate and do more and better has been very inspiring to watch. 

Follow Nadine El Roubi on Instagram here.

This is the final instalment of the monthly Hakooli series, in which author and writer Alya Mooro speaks with groundbreaking North African women from across the disciplines and the diaspora, in an effort to spotlight and uncover all the brilliance the continent contains. 

Check out Alya’s picks of 3 more North African women in music in this month’s AMAKA newsletter.