It’s a cold afternoon in Bed-Stuy. I’m curled up in the corner of a quiet café, sipping a matcha latte as Taboo hums through my headphones. Niambi’s voice cuts through the chill—vulnerable, sharp, and unapologetically hers. Her solo debut doesn’t tiptoe; it dives headfirst into motherhood, heartbreak, healing, and the messy beauty of starting over. After years with Oshun, Taboo is Niambi stepping into the unknown—no longer asking for permission to feel deeply, to question everything, or to say what needs to be said. It’s not just music; it’s a reckoning, a prayer, and a reminder that freedom starts with telling the truth—especially your own.
“Giving myself permission to feel how I feel” – Niambi
Peter Vandunk: Niambi, you’ve always had such a deeply personal connection to your music. What emotions or experiences from your own life shaped the creation of Taboo*?*
Niambi: So, drawing from emotions and experiences from my own life. I think Taboo is my solo debut, it’s coming at a time when I’ve been navigating a lot. Being a solo artist from having been in a duo for so long and moving to a new space and being a mom. I think those are kind of like the three things that are like, so many new, so many firsts. Taboo has literally been me.
Unpacking that and giving myself permission to feel how I feel about all of those things name the feelings, and share them. So, I think that with me being in a new physical place in the world, a new place in my life, having new responsibilities, doing this music thing by myself. The project reflects a range of emotions—from anxiety to newfound joy—as I navigate solo artistry and motherhood.
PV: How did your time with Oshun shape the artist you are today, and in what ways did you want your solo music to differ from your work as a duo?
Niambi: I feel like in my work with Oshun as a duo, we were very mission-oriented. Which I still am, but I think the mission has changed. We were very intentional about representing our culture, representing Yoruba culture, representing Oshun. Which is an actual energy and force that belongs to a culture group.Yoruba people, Yoruba culture, Yoruba spirituality, all of those things. So I feel like the intention was at the forefront of what we were doing with Oshun.
With that being said I think because we were so mission oriented and because it was about Oshun’s name. We, as Niambi and Thandi, were a part of the mission of Oshun and now as a solo artist, I have kind of more space and freedom to explore myself. So, I’m still mission-oriented, but I want to share more. I’m being vulnerable to show people What it’s like when you work on yourself.
What it’s like when you pour on yourself But I think now I have more permission to have it be from a personal lens. And certain things that I can say now, like bitches aint shit, I don’t think I ever would put that on Oshun album. With Oshun, the mission was cultural and spiritual representation. Now, I’m allowing more space for personal truth—even when it’s raw.
“My existence as I am is not taboo” – Niambi
PV: The title Taboo feels like it hints at breaking free from societal expectations. How have you personally navigated or struggled with taboos in your own life and how did that influence this project?
Niambi: How have I personally navigated taboos in my life? One major struggle has been the pressure to present a certain way as a spiritualist. I think some people see me as a walking taboo simply because I speak freely and give myself permission to do so. That’s been something I’ve had to navigate—an internalized sense of “I can’t do this” or “I can’t say that.”
The Taboo cover shows me naked from behind, hair down, sitting on a swing, looking out at the river. It’s not sexual—I wanted to show how even the female body is seen as taboo. Like nursing my baby in public—people asking me to go to a bathroom. But you don’t eat in the bathroom, right?
Even something as natural as nursing can feel taboo. I wanted to reclaim that—my body, my choices, my voice.
I’m learning not to feel like a taboo myself. My body is not taboo. My existence is not taboo. There’s the physical piece—being okay with showing some skin intentionally. And then the societal piece—taboos around modesty, around being “too much” as a mom, or being outspoken as a priest. I’ve had to navigate all of that.
Creating the music has been my way of navigating taboos. My prayer is that by the end of it, I’ll have clarity. “No New Friends” is inspired by a lot—some things are general, and some aren’t about who people might think.
I’m navigating being a solo artist, which I never planned. I’m glad I’m in this space now, and I appreciate Thandi for having the foresight to say, “We’ve done enough.” That decision wasn’t mine, but I respected it and came to embrace it. It was really hard—feeling like we had our lives together, like best friends. She was supposed to be my child’s godmother. When you’re so intertwined with someone, friendship breakups can hurt deeply.
It took a lot to give myself permission to process that and put it in the music. Not because I’m talking shit, but because I’m healing. If you really listen, I’m also offering grace. I talk about repair. About leaving the bridge intact, so maybe one day we can reconnect.
“No new friends” doesn’t mean I’ve cut people off—it means those are still my people, even if we don’t talk. The music is how I process and find my way through.
PV: When you’re in the studio, what’s your creative process like? Do you ever find yourself reflecting on past experiences or emotions that you didn’t fully understand until you started writing for Taboo?
Niambi: Yes, I do find myself reflecting on past experiences. Sometimes it happens in the moment. So, “Ain’t Shit,” for example, was like two different kinds of diary entries. As far as my creative process, I feel like even that is kind of two-fold. Sometimes I start with lyrics, other times I’m inspired by a beat or a riff. It’s about getting the ideas out, following the inspiration, saying how I feel—whether I have a rhyme or cadence in mind with no music, or I hear music and something matches what I’m feeling. Whatever it is, I just let myself follow the inspiration in the moment.
“Taboo is embodying who the fuck you want to be.” – Niambi
PV: What does the title Taboo represent for you, both on a personal level and within the context of the music industry? Are there any social taboos you’re addressing or breaking through with your art?
Niambi: I am Taboo. To be outspoken, to be myself—Taboo is embodying whoever the fuck you want to be. Speaking, thinking, drinking, dressing, and honoring what’s meant for you.
Taboo is also a nod to spiritual practice. As a priest and practitioner of Yoruba spirituality, we sometimes receive taboos—like not wearing or eating certain things, or avoiding certain places or times. These taboos are meant to protect us, like a spiritual allergy—something not good for you right now, even if it’s fine for the person next to you.
It’s about honoring what’s yours, who you are, and what you know to be right for you—while also respecting that it might be different for someone else. I’m showing up as myself. I’m sorry if that’s taboo for you, but I’m also not sorry. I hope you accept me and see me as I am.
PV: As you’re crafting sounds and lyrics for Taboo, do you ever find yourself revisiting certain memories or people in your life? What role did reflection play in the album’s creation?
Niambi: Reflection was the whole album. It’s all a reflection of what I’ve been going through—and what I’m still going through. I think that’s something I do in general when I create. I didn’t realize it at first, but I like creating for a future version of me. Sometimes it doesn’t hit in the moment, and then I go back later and realize, “Damn, I was talking to myself—I needed that.”
When we started Oshun, we were very much in our neo-soul, hip-hop bag. But before I moved to New York, I was in a rock band in high school. I was always the weird, quirky Black girl. Now, people get it—being weird is in. Reflecting on that and giving myself permission to integrate that part of myself has been freeing.
I’ve always grown up Pan-African, practicing African traditional spirituality. So for me to be deeply African and still love Paramore? That didn’t always make sense to other people. Revisiting that part of my life has been fun. I brought my guitars from high school up to New York while working on “No New Friends” and other songs we’ll be sharing soon. I’m bringing that part of myself back in—the neo-soul, the hip-hop, the rap—and now the guitars, too.
“I want to be pleasantly surprised with how miraculously and beautifully my life unfolds.” – Niambi
PV: When you listen back to Taboo now, what surprises you? Are there any songs or lyrics that resonate more deeply than you expected?
Niambi: What surprises me with “No Budget” is just the confidence I had—and the fact that I really did that shit! I wrote “No Budget” when I had no budget. There was no video coming. Nothing. I just said, “Let’s record this and put it out and see what happens.” It’s one of the top tracks where I’m talking my shit. I’m like, watch what I do—I don’t have a dollar for this project, but watch what I do.
By that point, I had already given birth, but it was still a scary time. In immediate postpartum, you’re just not yourself. Honestly, postpartum is a whole other layer. You’re never the same person again. You might get back to feeling like yourself in some ways, but who you were is gone.
That’s something I’ve been contending with throughout this whole process. When we talk about being a mom, there’s this undertone of postpartum—like, damn, I don’t know if I’m ever going to get back to what I love. I want to accept that I’m not the same, and I also want to still have the things I love in my life.
I had already given birth by that point, but it was still a very scary time. In immediate postpartum, I didn’t feel like myself. Postpartum is another layer—you’re not the same person, and you never will be. You might regain parts of yourself, but who you were is gone.
PV: So you spoke about your producer also being your husband?
Niambi: My partner. Father of my child.
PV: How did you approach collaboration on Taboo? Were there any key collaborators or producers that helped shape the final EP?
Niambi: I gotta give my man his flowers—Proda. We’ve been together for 10 years now, since we were kids. We met in college at NYU, both studying recorded music. I’m an artist, and he’s more on the production and engineering side. I’m so grateful because he wouldn’t let me give up on myself.
He really pushed me, and he created with me in mind. “Soccer Mom,” for example, was one of the first tracks we made.
He’s the main producer. For “Ain’t Shit,” I wrote it on keys, brought it to him, and he elevated it.
PV: Looking ahead, how do you envision your career as a solo artist? Are there any challenges or opportunities you’re excited to explore?
Niambi: I envision it being fun. I want to get back on the road, tour, collaborate, and keep creating fire-ass music that makes people move, love themselves, and remember how dope they are.
In Oshun, we did everything DIY. It was a lot of backpacking, driving, running for trains and planes. It was great—we had a lot of fun. We toured the world: Europe, Brazil, Kenya, the U.S. I’m super grateful, and I pray this next phase is an elevation of that. I don’t want to recreate what I did—I want to do more, be in bigger rooms. I’m not trying to drive myself across the world anymore.
As Taboo fades out and the last sip of matcha goes cold, I’m left with a quiet that lingers—heavy, honest, and necessary. Niambi doesn’t tie things up in a bow. She lets the questions hang, lets the pain breathe, and still finds room for joy.
This isn’t just a debut. It’s a shedding, a claiming, a return. A reminder that growth is never clean, healing is never linear, and power lives in vulnerability. With Taboo, Niambi doesn’t just introduce herself—she invites us to witness her becoming. And from the sound of it, she’s just getting started.
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