Roy, Roberta, Mary, Angie, Erykah & Me,Music the healer & the Sh*t No One Told Me”

Music. The healer. The time machine. The therapist I never paid but always showed up.

Lately, I’ve been leaning all the way in to the healing power of music. Not the trendy stuff that clogs up your algorithm, but the real stuff—the kind that moves through your bones and gently reminds you who you used to be, who you are now, and sometimes, who you’re still becoming.

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It’s been doing what therapy sometimes can’t—holding space for me. Wrapping me in nostalgic vibes, soft echoes of simpler, easier times.

Earlier this month, we lost a few giants. Roy Ayers. Angie Stone. Ms Roberta Flack. Legends. The kind who didn’t just make music—they made medicine.

When I heard the news, I did what we all do when words fail—I hit play.

Baba Roy (yes, he deserved elder status) left us with a catalogue that spans lifetimes. Listening back to one of his final interviews on Questlove Supreme, it struck me—he was a rebel through and through. Visionary, collaborative, fearless. Always five steps ahead, vibrating on a different frequency. A real cosmic conductor.

“Everybody Loves the Sunshine” isn’t just one of my favourite songs—it’s a time portal. I’m instantly back in my childhood. Making daisy chains, cartwheeling through the grass, shoving tissue into my bra top like I was grown, even though I was still racing to extra tutorials after school. Parentified and pretending. Music made it safe to dream.

Then came Mary J. Blige. Her My Life album? That was scripture. Especially when she sampled “Sunshine.” Baba Roy himself said it was his favourite flip, and I get why. Mary poured her whole chest into every word, every note dripping with heartbreak and hope. La di da da daaa... You know the one.

A Tribe Called Quest also gave “Sunshine” its flowers with Bonita Applebum. That was my gateway drug to hip-hop. Real hip-hop. New York hip-hop. The golden age. When lyrics meant something and beats hugged your spine. The Low End Theory? Still untouchable.

It was ’94/’95 and I was deep in identity formation mode. The music? It was shaping me.

Ms Roberta Flack came to me on VHS. My mum recorded a show—might’ve been a concert—and we watched it on repeat like it was gospel. “Killing Me Softly” didn’t hit just yet. That came later. At 8 years old, I was obsessed with her duet with Peabo Bryson—“Tonight I Celebrate My Love for You.” I didn’t know what they were on about, but I knew their voices were doing something to my little soul.

By ’96, The Score dropped, and “Killing Me Softly” was reborn. Soul, hip-hop, reggae all in one glorious swirl. Ms Lauryn’s vocals, Wyclef’s one time, the beat that slapped but still held you close. I’d just come back to London after school in Nigeria, and that song became a reclaiming of self. It was on repeat repeat.

Let’s talk Angie Stone. “Miss You” was the heartbreak anthem I didn’t know I needed until I did. By 20, life had already handed me a couple of bruised peaches in the love department. Her voice? Like honey on wounds. That whole album had gems, but I was too busy side-eyeing her for still talking about D’Angelo. (Yes, I judged her. No, I wasn’t emotionally mature yet.)

Truth is, artists like Roy, Angie, and Roberta gave us legacy. Blueprint. Culture. That type of talent? Rare now. We live in a world where dreams barely get a chance to stretch before being torn apart. You drop something half-baked, there’s no time to put it back in the oven—you’re just done. Burnt. Canceled. Forgotten.

Today’s music scene feels like speed dating with algorithms. Oversaturated. Attention spans? Tragic. It's all about virality, not value. Likes over longevity. Platforms like Spotify and TikTok are double-edged swords—they open the door and then shove you down the stairs. Artist development? A myth. Artist burnout? A rite of passage.

The industry used to let you grow. Now it expects you fully cooked and perfectly plated, with no crumbs.

But music—real music—is still the healer. It hits where words can’t reach. It comforts, revives, reminds. Whether it’s the hook of a classic or the first few seconds of a new jam, you know when it’s good. It lifts you. It holds you.

Me? I can tell if I like a song within seconds. If it doesn’t move me, I move on. Which is why Drill and Drain don’t make the cut. No shade. Just… not for me. I know I’m not the target market. That said, they’re still branches off the Hip-Hop tree, and Hip-Hop? That’s my religion. My way of life.

Ms Badu said it best: “Hip-Hop is the healer.” And I believe her.

Music is a divine gift. A sacre