It’s only February and, personally, it was not on my 2026 bingo card that Nicki Minaj would publicly declare herself President Trump’s number one fan—though perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised given the country’s perpetually “unbelievable” nature. Minaj has received widespread fan backlash since aligning with Trump’s policies, even facing televised disapproval during this year’s Grammys. However, the collective disappointment does not stem solely from her support of Trump (spoiler: [too] many people are still in support of him): Accusations of hypocrisy emerge from social expectations surrounding Minaj’s identity and past work that appear to be in direct opposition to Trump’s agenda.
Music fans often expect Black female artists—especially those whose work critiques power, gender norms, and systemic exclusion—to align with progressive politics. When they don’t, it feels like a betrayal rather than a simple disagreement, and in my opinion, rightly so. Minaj’s current stance marks a significant shift from her earlier views, such as her criticism of the Trump administration’s immigration policies in 2020 (a personal issue given her background as a Trinidadian immigrant). Since then, Minaj has adopted Trump’s rhetoric, including mocking political opponents. In a recent tweet, she referred to Democrats as “DEMONcrats,” accusing the party of brainwashing and satanic activity. As someone who believes that elite corruption transcends party lines, I am not here to accuse Minaj of slander nor to dispute the existence of inhumane acts tied to any powerful system. However, her music and public image have long centered women’s sexual autonomy and self-expression—values fundamentally at odds with Trump-era conservatism. Trump’s rhetoric, behaviors and intentions have been widely understood as hostile toward women, immigrants, and Black communities—groups Minaj has historically uplifted in her work. Notably, fans have recently questioned her mental well-being, as her online presence has become increasingly conflict-driven and hostile toward other artists, suggesting this shift may extend beyond politics and into something deeper.
Minaj’s discography offers a clear context for why critics label her stance hypocritical. “Anaconda” (2014) openly celebrates female sexual power and control. While some argue that hypersexual displays do little to advance women’s liberation, Minaj consistently framed the song and its video as women owning their bodies rather than performing for male approval. Given her positionality, the song can be interpreted as reclaiming sexuality and asserting agency over sexual choices. This understanding is reinforced by Minaj’s repeated criticism of how women are shamed for sexuality while men are not. Trump’s “Access Hollywood” tape—“grab them by the p***y”—and history of sexual misconduct directly contradict the bodily autonomy and consent themes Minaj profited from and defended.
Similarly, “Chun-Li” (2018) frames Minaj as an outsider who succeeded despite industry gatekeeping. The song emphasizes marginalization, reclaiming power from hostile systems, and people like her being left out of social narratives of success. This contrasts sharply with her current support of Trump, whose politics center on elite nationalism and exclusion through immigration bans, “America First” rhetoric, and a long history of unethical business practices. Whether intentionally or not, Minaj once constructed a narrative of resisting white, patriarchal power structures—but is now aligning herself with policies that enforce exclusion, or worse. Regardless of where one stands on her choices today, the contradiction is impossible to ignore. Her art speaks of resistance. Her politics say otherwise.