Reehaa
One of the biggest misconceptions about artists is that when they go quiet, it means they have stopped caring about their fans. For me, it was quite the opposite. The quieter I became, the more music consumed my life emotionally.
I’m Rihanat Ajala, professionally Reehaa, a 21-year-old Nigerian Afro-fusion artist. I’m the lastborn and the only daughter in a family of five. My mum is late, and honestly, music is one of the deepest connections I still have to her. She loved music so much, and sometimes I think a huge part of why I make music is because of that. I want to create songs I know she would have loved. Songs she would have played loudly. Songs she would have been proud of.
That emotional connection is what made music feel natural to me from the beginning. I genuinely love making music. Not just the idea of being an artist, but the actual process of creating songs and expressing emotions through sound. But loving music and surviving the music industry are two different things.
There were periods where everything felt exciting. Meeting creatives, recording constantly, getting opportunities that once felt impossible. One of those moments was meeting Shallipopi. Funny enough, he actually reached out to me after listening to a song I was on. He said he loved my vocals and my verse, then contacted somebody who knew me and invited me over to work on background vocals for some songs he was preparing to release.
Beyond music, he was genuinely kind to me. In this industry, you remember people who treat you well, especially during uncertain moments in your life. I have a lot of respect for him for that. Moments like that made everything feel real.
But even with moments like those, the journey still became emotionally heavy for me. It wasn’t one specific event. It came in waves. In 2023, music started feeling heavier than it used to. In 2024, things became a little better mentally. But 2025 was probably the hardest period for me because I had no personal release and genuinely did not know what my life looked like anymore.
Everything felt uncertain at the same time. Comparison played a huge role in that feeling. Burnout too.
Social media makes it very easy to feel like everybody else is moving forward while you are standing still. You open Instagram, and everybody is announcing something, achieving something, becoming something. Meanwhile, you are sitting there questioning yourself.
At some point, I stopped believing in myself completely. I was still recording music, but I was no longer connected to it emotionally. I was making songs without even believing in what I was doing anymore. There were so many moments I genuinely considered quitting music entirely.
I remember one conversation that affected me deeply. A friend once told me that maybe I was not hungry enough for success. That maybe I did not want it badly enough. Honestly, hearing that during a period when almost everything in my life already felt like it was going wrong made things worse for me. I was already emotionally exhausted. I had no release out. I felt disconnected from myself creatively. Everything felt delayed at once.
Reehaa
It is hard to explain that kind of feeling unless you have experienced it before. It is when your dream still exists, but you no longer know how to carry it properly.
A lot of people misunderstood my silence during that period, especially online. People probably assumed I was unserious or inconsistent, but it was never about a lack of love for music. Life was simply happening to me in real time. I also had this mindset that Instagram had to be perfect and polished before I could show up there. So instead of posting imperfectly, I disappeared quietly for long periods.
But during those silent moments, music never left me still.
And eventually, “Lọ́kànmi” was born from that space emotionally. I wrote the song at home, and surprisingly, it took me over a month to finish because it just was not coming together the way I wanted. I wanted the song to feel honest and complete, but I kept hitting creative walls while writing it. The craziest part is that the second verse only came to me on the actual day I was recording the song.
That song carries a lot emotionally. I think “Lọ́kànmi” became my reassurance to myself. A reminder that even after doubt, burnout, comparison and silence, my dreams were still alive somewhere inside me. Because the truth is, I never stopped loving music. I just got tired. And I think many young creatives secretly understand that feeling more than people realise.
Thankfully, I did not go through that period alone. My family, my friends and my manager kept reminding me who I was during moments where I could not even see it myself. A lot of the reason I am still here today is that people around me refused to let me completely give up on myself.
Slowly, I started reconnecting with music again in a healthier way, not from trying to compete with everybody online but from genuine love for creating. I am no longer chasing perfection endlessly; just creating honestly and allowing myself to grow publicly instead of hiding while trying to become perfect first.
I am still growing. Still learning myself. Still becoming. More than anything, I just want people to understand me better after reading this. I want people to understand that behind all the silence was simply a girl trying to hold onto herself while still holding onto her dream. A girl who genuinely loves music. Hopefully, as people continue listening to my music, they will hear that honesty for themselves.
“Lọ́kànmi” is out tomorrow on all streaming platforms. Stick with me.
