Published
5 months agoon
By
MAIN
Growing up in church taught me the power of feeling in music before I even understood structure. The harmonies, the choirs, the passion behind worship gave me this instinct to connect emotionally first, technically second. That’s why even when I sing about love or heartbreak, it still feels spiritual in some way.
Rap taught me discipline with words. Back then, I used to obsess over rhyme schemes and flows. That period trained me to treat songwriting like storytelling. Even when I’m singing now, there’s rhythm and precision in how I place words and melodies.
Lojay is the most honest version of me. It’s not a character; it’s the voice of my emotions. As Lojay, I allow myself to feel everything fully: joy, pain, love, temptation, and confusion. It’s my emotional fingerprint.
It’s natural for me because my foundation is Afrobeat. The percussion, the groove, the slang. But I’m also a global listener. I might make a melody inspired by European folk music, but the bounce will still come from Lagos. That balance is what makes my sound universal but still ours.
It just happens. I think real confidence is being able to be vulnerable. So when I record, I don’t hide how I feel. Some days I sound broken, some days I sound untouchable, and that’s human.
When it feels like me. Not perfect, but true. I could have fifty versions of one song, but the moment I play it and it moves me without overthinking, that’s when I know it’s done.
I appreciate the love, genuinely. But I’ve learned balance. You can’t feed every type of energy. I keep my private life separate from my artistry because once you lose that boundary; the music starts to feel performative instead of real.
XOXO is more grown. It’s me reflecting on love and heartbreak with more maturity, not just passion, but patterns, lessons, and scars. LV N ATTN was desire, Gangster Romantic was heartbreak, and XOXO was accepted.
All three, but mostly evolution. It’s about loving, losing, healing, and still choosing to love again —just differently.
I want them to feel seen. Like, they just went through a journey with me. The highs, the lows, the in-betweens. If someone finishes it and says, “Yeah, I’ve been there,” then I did my job.
There was a point where I loved someone deeply but lost myself in the process. That taught me love should add to you, not erase you. Since then, I’ve written from a place of balance — loving, but with awareness.
Family, faith, and silence. Sometimes I just disappear for a bit, no music, no social media, just time to breathe and reconnect with God and my people. That’s how I remember who I am outside the noise.
