“You can’t rain on my happiness.” — Queen Naija, Rain
When she avowed those words, she sang not out of performance but out of promise. No gilded veneer or gratuitous flourish, just a calm that was, in itself, her becoming.
In Conversation with Queen Naija
I had the opportunity to interview Queen Naija, and consider me impressed. I’ll admit, I walk into celebrity panels with reservations (a cynic with a press badge and binoculars; mostly joking). But the second she logged on, she spoke plainly without jargon or pageantry; grounded, maternal, sure of her center. I learned that growth isn’t glamorous; it’s the tedium of showing up when the world would rather watch you flounder.
The conversation moved easily from music to motherhood as she returned to her children often and made it plain that they’re her north star. To the uninitiated eye, it’s easy to forget that beneath the gleam of acclaim and the ephemerality of fame, she forged herself in full view – missteps and all – growing under the same light that once threatened to undo her. Most decision and public moments were filtered through that compass. She chooses to “set the example first,” and not to chase the immaculate life, but the consistent and dependable one, fit for a mother intent on raising her children right. For her, presence itself became a lesson: that reliability is its own form of love, and steadiness its own kind of strength. What impressed me most wasn’t a flourish, but a practice. She can be incandescent on stage and still keep the backstage human: eat, rest, call home, repeat. When emotions run high, she doesn’t pour every unfiltered feeling into the mic; she edits for consequence. It speaks to discipline, not subterfuge. That’s why I’m a fan too. The fans get her truth; her children get her compass. And I got a crash course in composure, which is something my coffee-fueled deadlines could learn from.
She’s clear about the order of operations, too. Her audience matters; fidelity to the people who lifted her is imperative, but never at the expense of personhood. That balance is its own art form: she speaks candidly yet never gratuitously, keeping her songs honest without turning the stage into a diary. If authenticity has an apogee, it rests here!
Although I managed to ask only one question, lost somewhere amid a swarm of channels and journalists, I left with more answers than I expected. What lingered after the call wasn’t her fame or her polish but her poise. The crown looks heavy because it is. But in her hands, it felt earned. In an industry built on noise, composure is rare enough to respect. And for the sake of being redundant, I’ll concede that we never truly know celebrities. But she’s one I can respect.