Donia Wael’s sweet voice became the soundtrack to long nights on Cairene roads and Egyptian balconies long before we knew the face behind it. Anonymized as a cartoon character next to El Waili’s green skull or an animated outline of a slim body with long curly hair in the 2022 hit single “El 3asal,” Wael began her career trusting that her music would reveal everything listeners needed to know about her.

“I wanted people to connect and judge me for my music only,” Wael shares in a video call with OkayAfrica. Her songs, often bridging melancholy with electronic production and traditional Egyptian instruments, built her a loyal fan base, even though her listeners wouldn’t recognize her if they saw her in person.

“I’m over that, honestly,” she says. “I’m trying to connect on a physical level, because I realized that when people see you, they will find themselves in you. I feel like I grew up with the audience.”

In the visuals for her latest EP, Bifkrny Beek, Wael is seen dancing in Cairo, wearing glitter make-up and cute clothes. In many ways, she is exactly how her audience would have imagined her to be: playful and down-to-earth. Mu7tarama, as Egyptians would say: a respectable woman.

How did an extremely shy child become a successful musician with the aspirations to go global?

“It’s an ongoing process,” says Wael, who speaks as if she were talking to a friend, rather than repeating rehearsed phrases. “Growing up, I didn’t really share my feelings in conversations. I’m not gonna tell you what’s bothering me, but I’ll write you a song about it.”

She got into songwriting at 17, after she saw a boy playing the ukulele on a Sinai beach. “It was magical to me,” she remembers. “I went home and had to buy anything that had strings.”

With teaching herself the guitar came the ability to express herself with words. Wael has no songwriting technique. She starts strumming the guitar, and something comes out - it used to be stories she wanted to tell, before she fell in love with the traditional melody structure of a song.

Her mother used to listen to her music from behind the door, because Wael was too shy to share it. As she grew older, she began attending open mics and playing her original music on a keyboard.

“I never thought that I’d get gineh masry, one Egyptian pound, from making music,” she says. “I’m the biggest example that shyness can be overcome. Oof, I used to hide! Now I’m totally fine.”

It was studying acting that finally got Wael out of her shell. “I went into it thinking that it’ll help me write better music,” she shares. “It made me understand emotions and the person in front of me more. I fell in love with it. I want to live different lives and write music from the perspective of different characters.”

With a newly discovered love for acting and an EP already out this year, what else could Wael dream of? A girlband! Growing up listening to alternative Arab bands like Cairokee and Mashrou’ Leila, she had been wishing for her own girl band ever since she was in school, but could never find other girls who played instruments.

“Egyptian girls would only sing,” she says. “I wanted to hunt for girls [who play instruments], because I thought that we shared the same passion. And I wanted to influence more women to play instruments.”

Her hunt took several months during which she asked every musician she knew and “went crazy stalking and searching” on the internet until she found Randa Shoukry, an electric guitarist who knew other women instrumentalists.

“I found out that I actually like collaborating and that I’m a people person,” says Wael about launching her own girlband with “Ezay.” “It feels warmer and safer, because you have people to look at and jam with.”

She hopes to tour with her band and wants people to know each band member for their skill, not for the fact that they’re women.

There’s a red line that connects Wael’s EP, love for acting, and girlband: “I want people to know that they’re not alone and that it’s okay to be vulnerable,” she says. “Once, a fan told me something very important: ‘Your music helped me not to be alone in a certain phase, but I want you to know that you’re also not alone.’”

It takes coming out of one’s shell to really feel and appreciate the connections that art facilitates between humans. That’s why, after several years in the public ear, Wael is ready to step into the public eye.

In January, Sudan’s army-backed government issued a new 1,000 Sudanese pound banknote, sending people into panic and the banking system into chaos. The streets of Port Sudan, the de facto wartime capital, were filled with citizens scrambling to file cash into their bank accounts, which should then be turned into the new currency.

“The process of exchanging old currency for new proved to be highly inefficient and cumbersome,” Dr. Mohamed Osman, who works at the Bank of Sudan, tells OkayAfrica. “A very short timeline was set for the exchange, leading to overcrowded banks, a severe cash shortage, and a general paralysis of commercial activity.”

The first images of this political decision were long lines of people who would sometimes wait outside their bank branches for days with no success exchanging their money. The second group was the same disbelieving citizens who were left without cash when the government realized that the banks could not print enough new notes to replace the old ones.

As a result, grocers, gas stations, and rickshaw drivers no longer accepted the old currency, but citizens did not have the new one to pay for necessary amenities. Banks began relying on digital currency, and in an unexpected turn, a country ravaged by war underwent a rapid transformation towards online banking.

“Following the deterioration of Sudan's economy, the government implemented a plan to bring money back into the banking system,” says Osman. “This was crucial because, since the Omar al-Bashir regime, most of the circulating currency had been held by individuals. Recovering these hoarded funds was seen as a potential way to revitalize the economy.”

This was the official narrative, but replacing 500 and 1,000 Sudanese pound banknotes (worth around $0.25 and $0.50 respectively) with new ones was widely understood to be a political strategy by the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF) amidst their ongoing war with the Rapid Support Forces (RSF).

“Another objective of the currency change was to recover stolen balances and funds in Khartoum and Al Jazirah states and return them to the banks,” says Osman. After the RSF had looted banks, the SAF wanted to regain control of Sudanese cash flows, implementing a currency that could not be used in RSF-controlled states.

Even before this war divided Sudan into a two-currency country, it caused the world’s worst humanitarian crisis, widespread famine, and soaring inflation. From 500 Sudanese pounds to the US dollar in April 2023, it just reached 3000, showing no sign of stabilizing despite the new bank notes.

“The people of Sudan started a revolution against Omar al-Bashir because the bread price was raised from 4 [loaves of] bread for one pound to 2 [loaves of] bread for one pound,” Almuthanna Abdulmoneim Alryeih Abdulgabbar, an electrical engineer from Port Sudan, tells OkayAfrica. “Now they buy one [loaf of] bread for 150 pounds.”

Presently, most Sudanese in areas controlled by the SAF rely on bank apps for their money transactions. The Bank of Khartoum’s “Bankak” is most widely used, but other banks have created their own apps, such as Faisal Islamic Bank’s “Fawry” and Omdurman National Bank’s “Ocash.”

“[These apps] were initially not accessible to everyone and performed poorly,” says Osman. Once again, people were crowding around their bank branches, waiting for hours to simply activate the apps.

Engineer Muhannad Hassan, who developed Ocash, explains to OkayAfrica that these issues stem from the banking systems, not the applications’ design.

“Obstacles for the user in using the application generally arise when the application system is updated,” he says. “This is when the user faces difficulty completing transactions and transfers through the application, as the update originally comes from the bank's databases.”

Accordingly, whenever the system is updating or down, people cannot pay for necessities. In a war-torn country, this reliance on digital banking puts citizens, who are already suffering in the economic crisis, in an even more fragile position.

“Amidst this changing currency landscape, a new type of trade has emerged: the exchange of cash currency for balances transferred via applications, with financial benefits,” says Abdulgabbar. “For example, if you want to receive 100,000 Sudanese pounds, the profit from the transaction could be up to 10,000 Sudanese pounds, where you transfer from any application and receive the amount in banknotes.”

This process, which Abdulgabbar calls “nothing but plain usury,” is forbidden in Islam, Sudan’s primary religion.

He agrees that moving banking to the digital sphere is good in general, but says that it was implemented at the wrong time in Sudan, and for the wrong reasons. Like many others, he believes that the currency change’s purpose was to benefit the army, not the people who have nonetheless adjusted to this new system.

Osman strikes a more positive note. “Despite the initial challenges, there has been a clear improvement in the transaction system since the initial period, with the process of opening bank accounts becoming easier for the general public,” he says.

Karam Youssef: “There are two things in my life that I’m proud of: my husband, Ahmed, and Al Kotob Khan. Al Kotob Khan has been a dream for me since the late 1990s. I have been faithful and sincere to keep it going and in good shape. It’s my contribution to my country.

I was brought up with books and culture, and became a collector of old books. I always dreamed of having a bookshop like L’Orientaliste in downtown Cairo, where I was a regular client. I could picture myself having a place like that in my 50s or 60s.

In 2006, at the age of 40, I started Al Kotob Khan as a cultural hub to serve everyone. We offer book discussions, creative writing workshops, poetry nights, and music nights. Al Kotob Khan has always been a center for enlightenment, promoting information and culture, and encouraging young people to read and write.

Of course, it’s not the same as it was when I started 20 years ago, due to the economic situation and all kinds of difficulties I face working in culture in a country with a high rate of illiteracy. People often lack the financial means to buy books.

Twenty years ago, there was no other place like Al Kotob Khan where you could go in the morning, have coffee, and enjoy reading a book or a newspaper. There were only restaurants and cafes that opened in the afternoon after the midday prayer.

As a publishing house, we organized creative writing workshops and published the new voices of the participants. We then began to receive requests and manuscripts from established authors who wanted to publish with us.

After 2011, I took it very seriously to translate progressive and avant-garde writing. I’m trying to publish books and introduce authors who create high-quality literature in very difficult times when commercial interests drive everything.

We’re a small publishing house, so we have to do everything ourselves. For the past five years, my husband has been my partner at Al Kotob Khan, contributing to the editing, cover design, the website, and backstage work.

We publish around 20 books a year. Unfortunately, I say no to many manuscripts, because it’s very difficult to find interesting, good-quality manuscripts that tell a story I haven’t read before or show a different perspective.

It’s an insane moment and a very depressing time in the world, which of course reflects on my work. Sometimes I ask myself, ‘What can a book do while there’s a genocide on our borders? What book of poetry should I publish while they’re attacking a Christian teacher because she was doing her job, preventing students from cheating in exams?’

But I tell myself that I have to continue. One book cannot change the world; however, the accumulation of books and reading, alongside good education and quality journalism, can influence the way parents raise their children. If those books are not well-read at the moment, there will be some people who will read them in 10 years or 20 years.

In this challenging economy, there’s always a shortage of money, and we rely on people buying our books. There is no way to overcome this. You have to deal with it on a case-by-case basis. You delay the publication of one book for another that could bring in some money. For example, we will publish Ta-Nehisi Coates’ The Message and Peter Beinart’s Being Jewish After the Destruction of Gaza: A Reckoning.

I believe in good books. I’m now focusing on a project of translating books about Egypt’s modern and contemporary history. We don’t have access to this information and our past. It’s a cliché that victors write history, but there’s history we should learn about in this critical moment, when we, as Egyptians, are feeling down for different reasons.

It’s the little things that give me encouragement and happiness: a regular client coming to get our newly published books or a young guy telling me, ‘When I was little, you recommended this book to me.’ I’m happy and I’m proud and I will continue.”

July 5th marks Algerian Independence Day. In 1962, it became the first African country to liberate itself from 132 years of French occupation and colonization, having waged an eight-year-long guerrilla war.

But Algeria wasn’t done fighting imperialism. It poured its energy and resources into helping other colonized countries, positioning itself as the spearhead of Pan-African and internationalist action at the time.

It is widely known that Afro Caribbean psychiatrist Frantz Fanon dedicated himself to the Algerian cause, using his experience with the National Liberation Front to formulate a theory of liberation in his books, The Wretched of the Earth and Toward the African Liberation.

It is less known that in the newly liberated streets of Algiers, you would have bumped into Black Panthers, fighters of the African National Congress, and militants from Cape Verde, Angola, Mozambique, the Canary Islands, or Namibia.

“During the War of Independence, Algeria had large support from African countries like Morocco, Tunisia, Egypt, Mali, Ghana, and Congo,” filmmaker Hassane Mezine tells OkayAfrica. “It was part of the essence of the Algerian revolution to support national liberation movements from other countries. The Algerian national project of liberation was not just an Algerian project. It was an African project.”

Once the French had been driven out, around 80 international organizations were invited to mingle in the North African capital of the revolutionary, anti-colonial, and anti-fascist struggle, generously hosted by Ahmed Ben Bella’s nascent regime, which felt a responsibility to popularize its belief that non-violent resistance would never defeat imperialism.

Revolutionaries and exiled militants received training in guerrilla-style warfare, financial support, and political education. Nelson Mandela famously declared, “The Algerian army made me a man,” and Guinea’s Amilcar Cabral called Algiers the “Mecca of Revolution.”

“This was a time when Algerians met people from other places who had the same struggle with a history linked to colonialism and a need for liberation,” says Mezine. “I think that young people in Algeria are very aware of this up to today.”

When London-based Algerian cultural organizer Dénia Dimsdale wrote her master’s thesis about the 1969 Pan-African Cultural Festival in Algiers, she found that most diasporic Algerians of her generation were unaware of the great role their country played in the post-independence era.

“The festival was a beautiful moment in history where Algerians still had a fractured sense of identity - are we French or are we Arab?” says Dimsdale. “Pan-Africanism just came from the sky, gifting Algerians their African identity. But then the government at the time saw it as the perfect opportunity to hijack it and use it for its own gain.”

One of the comments on Dimsdale’s thesis was that she had arrived at an unfair conclusion, saying that the government had hijacked Pan-Africanism. “This information is so difficult to access. I found nothing [about it] online in French, English, or Arabic,” she says.

Said Djinnit, a former Algerian diplomat, witnessed post-independence Algiers, where he began his career working with foreign liberation movements. “You can choose to look at the Sahara as dividing or uniting Africa,” he says. “I’m a Pan-Africanist, I think it unites us.”

Djinnit dedicated his life to Pan-African unity, serving in the African department of the Algerian government and becoming a key architect of the ‘African solutions to African problems’ approach. “The position in Addis Ababa, Africa’s capital, is as important for Algeria as New York,” he says, refusing the divide of North and Sub-Saharan Africa and calling it “pure fabrication. Africa is geographical space, a continent. Not history, not mythology, but reality.”

Algeria was one of the founding members of the Organization of African Unity (OAU) in 1963, establishing a Liberation Committee and an African Battalion tasked with coming to the aid of revolutionary and liberation movements in need of weapons, money, or militants.

“Through people like my father and his colleagues, Algeria has kept a key role in continental peace and security architecture in the 21st century,” says Dalil Djinnit, Said’s Algerian Ethiopian son. “Based on their experience and budget, Algeria is perhaps the only country in Africa to have this capacity.”

Unsurprisingly, the post-independence era, which many may consider a revolutionary utopia, was marked by harsh realities. The rapidly changing world order left no time for a continent as vast as Africa to figure out unity while nations were still embroiled in their liberation struggles. The Pan-African spirit dwindled. Algeria was plunged into civil war in the 1990s, which led it to look inward.

“[The younger generation’s] idea of Algeria stops with the Civil War because no one wants to talk about that or anything that happened after,” says Dimsdale. A growing economic and cultural influence from the Gulf brought what Mezine calls “a counterrevolutionary influence” to the country, stirring it away from Pan-African education and towards a stronger Arab and Islamic identity.

In a survey conducted by OkayAfrica last year, asking North Africans to share the stories they grew up hearing about each other, there was a general impression that Algerians are not interested in inviting non-Algerians to their country. Considering their Pan-African efforts, this might seem counterintuitive.

“I think this can be linked to the traumatic experience of being French,” says Dalil Djinnit. “Algeria is trying to protect itself,” agrees Dimsdale, but also notes that Pan-Africanism has lost its fire across the continent.

“At the OAU’s opening summit in 1963, Ben Bella said, ‘Let us all agree to die a little … so that the people still under colonial rule may be free,” says Djinnit. “Are you hearing any such statements from any other African leader today? Now, people are in survival mode; they are not dreaming anymore.”

As Algeria commemorates its triumph over colonial oppression, all Africans and formerly colonized peoples should remember July 5th as a historic milestone and turning point for the project of African self-determination and unity.

Mezine believes that we are once again at a turning point where the fundamentals of the Algerian revolution are seeing a revival. Djinnit actively advocates for this revival.

Algeria plays a big role in the African Union, continuing to be a champion for Western Sahara’s independence from Morocco, issuing debt forgiveness to other African countries, and providing billions of dollars to Sahelian countries.

“The [Algerian] government is aware that there is a real need to have people getting back to their relationship with the southern neighboring countries first and then to the rest of the continent,” says Mezine. “Governments know that the African people are the red line of liberation.”

“When I was a young diplomat and attending the OAU meetings, there was a sense that we were together, building our common destiny,” says Djinnit. “I attended the last African Union summit, and honestly, it looked like a panel discussion. We need an African moral rearmament.”

"I always love that moment when you identify a musical genre or a certain sound from a certain place that you didn't know anything about," Jannis Stürtz, founder of the Berlin-based indie label Habibi Funk Records, tells OkayAfrica.

"Ya Ummi" by The White Bird Band marked Stürtz' starting point with Libyan reggae. It was one of the songs Stürtz came across at the abandoned TK7 factory in Sousse, Tunisia, many years ago. Owned by Tunisian guitarist and businessman Hechmi Miliani, the factory had closed after the collapse of the cassette tape industry in the early 2000s, but still housed tens of thousands of unsold tapes that Stürtz was fortunate to sift through.

"[Miliani] told me he hadn't been inside of it for ten years," he remembers. "There were skeletons of dead cats in the entrance halls." Out of the thousands of options, Stürtz chose everything Libyan he could find, paving the way for six Libyan releases in the following years.

The label today, July 4, released Habibi Funk 031: A Selection Of Music from Libyan Tapes, a collection of 15 songs dedicated to the cassette tape scene in Libya from the late 1980s to the early 2000s, featuring a range of genres from disco to reggae to pop. On a sunny Friday afternoon, Fatima Sabouni and Stürtz jump on a call with me from different ends of their Berlin office, telling me about Libya's love for reggae and the long-winded road the label took to bring this compilation to life.

Sabouni's official title at Habibi Funk Records is Product Manager, but amongst many other things, she co-wrote and edited a thoughtful and informative booklet of interviews with the artists that make up the Libya Compilation.

"'Ya Ummi' was the first track we licensed in 2019," says Stürtz. "In 90 percent of the cases, we license from the artist as opposed to old record labels. In this case, we had to make 15 deals, 15 people that needed to get paid, 15 people that we had to find before we actually could do any deal, 15 people who needed to get interviewed and their material digitized." It took six years.

None of the Habibi Funk team members could be on the ground in Libya. Their interlocutor, the man who made this compilation possible, was Yousef Alhoush, son of Najib Alhoush, the band leader of The Free Music. "[Alhoush] maintains this incredible network and found 90 percent of the musicians within 24 hours," says Stürtz.

Bringing this compilation together was a labor of love and patience that required overcoming unique logistical challenges. "The classic scenario would be that Yousef [Alhoush] finds someone who brings the master tape to Tunisia or Cairo, from where we find someone who can bring it to Germany. We get it digitized, and then it travels back the same route or one of the other routes," says Stürtz.

Sometimes Alhoush would go to the airport, hoping that he'd know someone in line for a flight, or that someone in the line would know his father and agree to deliver a master tape. Stürtz would await them at the airport with nothing but a picture. Payments were sent in a similar way.

"If I pay an artist via Western Union, they lose 50 percent of the advance," says Stürtz. "So then you've got to go to another money provider. Sometimes, I would visit a random logistics office in Cairo that has a partner company in Libya and give a random person a stack of money. I don't get a receipt or anything, and I just trust that this person then calls their colleague in Libya, and that colleague in Libya calls the musician we're working with to pay out the money."

Because North African cultures are highly interconnected and built around trust and keeping a good name, these informal ways were successful.

"Reggae became popular in Libya the year after Bob Marley passed away," says Sabouni. "Initially, artists would do covers, but there was a moment where Ibrahim Hesnawi, the father of Libyan reggae, was in the studio and someone told him, 'Why don't you just put a little twist on it and just make it a bit more Libyan.'"

The beat of Libyan shaabi rhythms is quite similar to reggae. Mixed, it became its own syncretic genre. Even today, there are Facebook groups with 60,000 members of different generations, solely dedicated to Libyan reggae. "I think there are a lot of reasons for that, besides the fact that reggae wasn't too far away from the average listener's ear sonically and filled a gap in the industry," says Sabouni.

During one of the interviews for the booklet, Libyan artist Ayed Belkhair, whose song "La Tgheeb Anni Wala Youm" closes out the compilation, explained to Sabouni why darker-skinned Libyans felt drawn to the genre.

"He said: 'When you're darker-skinned in Libya, it means that you have more African heritage in your family. And there was something about the African pride that came with listening to reggae that really resonated with people in Libya, specifically those with more African heritage. It gave us a seat at the table," she recalls.

Most of the compilation's musicians were unable to pursue full-time careers as musicians due to economic and political reasons, but they continue to write and play music to this day. "There was a lot of nostalgia from everyone I spoke to for a time that seemed to be very expansive creatively," says Sabouni. "When I asked if they still make music, they'd say 'yes, music never leaves you.'"

Habibi Funk Records' archive is a treasure trove of music many would not otherwise listen to. The label tends to gravitate towards musicians' earlier or overlooked releases, rather than their most successful albums.

"The longer you are part of the music scene and have success, the more you try to create something that will nurture the success," says Stürtz. "You try to adhere to certain sounds that are popular, follow certain songwriting and composition structures, and sometimes that means whatever you're putting out isn't as timeless anymore."

While all tracks on the compilation are timeless, Shahd's "Erhal Keef Alshams Tgheeb" is Sabouni's favorite. "It's such a great song and gets stuck in your head," she says with a smile. "It's really special that we were able to license a song by a woman."

After a chance encounter with Hesnawi, Shahd was encouraged to delve deeper into reggae and, under his mentorship, released her successful debut album Weinak in 2003. Five albums later, when Shahd's music was nationally recognized and played in shops and taxis, she remained anonymous. Sometimes, her friends recommended her own music to her.

Despite the many, albeit different, challenges these musicians faced, they created outstanding art that is worth re-release, as thoughtful and dedicated as Habibi Funk 031: A Selection Of Music from Libyan Tapes. In 15 tracks, it invites listeners into expansive worlds infused with reggae, funk, pop, disco, and, of course, beautiful Libyan Arabic.

I remember sitting at my kitchen table one night in spring when someone sent me Melanchronica, a collaborative album by Sudanese American rapper Bas and London-based duo The Hics. I took a listen and immediately knew that this was a special project. By the time I had reached "Sometimes," the 7-minute-long outro, I had dissolved into feelings of nostalgia and joy, playing the song on a loop.

Bas and The Hics, a duo comprising Roxane Barker and Sam Paul Evans, have cultivated their shared creativity over the past decade. They collaborated on tracks for Bas' sophomore album, Milky Way, as well as The Messenger podcast after Bas heard The Hics' "Cold Air" on GTA 5 Radio and DM'd them while passing through London on tour with J. Cole.

"I always try to seek out people who bring me out of my comfort zone and inspire me to achieve a different level in my artistry," says Bas. "Whenever I work with [The Hics], there's just a lot of emotional depth to the music. Their writing is very poetic, and they're intentional with their wording."

Melanchronica began in 2017 with "Four Walls," a song about heartbreak and longing for lost love. It was too chronically melancholic for Milky Way's summery vibe, so Bas held it back. But the world and soundscapes they had created begged to be explored further.

"The song was like one of those vulnerable moments and thoughts that you might not share with others or might not even like to admit to yourself until you get that sonic landscape that evokes that emotion out of you," says Bas. "At least in our culture, music is a bit devoid of emotion right now."

They continued working on what would eventually become Melanchronica, a cinematic, textured invitation to feel it all. At the intersection of Bas' New York-cool rap style and The Hics' genre-bending sound, which blends elements of soul, electronic, jazz, and alternative R&B, effortless chemistry has birthed to one of the rare projects that you can listen to from start to finish without skipping a single track, and then repeat.

"To have that much time making music in this day and age is [a privilege]," says Bas, echoing musicians like Morocco's Stormy and Small X. "We're stuck in a music consumption rat race and trying to stay relevant. But we had the time to really cook this." Melanchronica comes right on the heels of Egyptian rapper Marwan Moussa's prediction that rap music was changing. "I think we'll hear music that feels like more time has been spent making it," he told OkayAfrica in May.

Track five, named after the standout Black Mirror episode "San Junipero," is one of the album's more energetic songs. Evans' grungy bassline immediately drew Bas in. "It's emotional, but aggressive and has a bounce," he says. "Black Mirror is one of the most culturally relevant media, filled with so many warnings of the human condition and society that we're heading into."

My favorite songs as of now are "Erewhon" and "Sometimes." "Those are solid choices, I think I'd agree with you there," Bas says. Both tracks were written at Harbor Studio in Malibu, which was lost to the LA wildfires this year.

"Erewhon is the most LA of LA grocery stores," Bas says with a grin. "$20 smoothies and you might get an avocado sandwich and have to take out a loan. But it's good, though, I'm not gonna lie."

The track confronts artistic progress and, as a result, the improvement of one's material comfort levels — from London's Aldi to LA's Erewhon — which is one of the album's central themes. After attaining a higher lifestyle, one often realizes that it does not guarantee greater happiness or fulfillment. "Every time you reach those moments, you're not content. You're trying to find the next glass ceiling to shatter," says Bas.

Dualities, self-reflection, and longing resound through Melanchronica and are felt as the timeless and existential conditions they are. For Bas, longing specifically took on a more complicated dimension with the outbreak of war in Khartoum, Sudan, in 2023.

He used to spend every December at his family home in Bahri, which had become a base for the Rapid Support Forces until the Sudanese Armed Forces recently recaptured the city.

"When things get as dire as they have, you understand the value of having those roots, traditions, and that piece of history," says Bas. "To be in a hometown where all the families in the neighborhood go back centuries, having a cemetery I can visit with generations of my family buried there. To have all that ripped from you is depressing. Nothing's been the same."

In his writing, Bas personifies longing and desire to make the sentiment more relatable. "You might not have lost a country, but the emotion at the core is the same," he says. "It's just like, damn I miss you, I want you back."

Even though Bas agrees with me on my favorites, his is "Roxane's Interlude." "I like when Roxanne takes front and center and we get to, kind of, pepper around that," he says. "I like those songs that remind me of those classic R&B summer records I grew up on. This dominant female lead, and then a cool rap verse to throw in there."

Melanchronica is his first collaborative album; it takes patience, trust, and compromise to put a project like this together. "Professionally and creatively, I grew a lot," he says. "I am maturing as an artist and as a man. I've gained the confidence to shed a little more of the bravado that's expected of us in our genre, really tap into the depth of my artistry, and see where I can go."

If he could, he would like to go home. To Sudan. Practice his Arabic, restore the family house, and nurture a connection that was weakened when his mother passed away.

It might be this shared longing for our parents' home that touched me so deeply when listening to Melanchronica. But whatever it is you are longing for, reflecting on, and feeling melancholic about, this album will hold and nurture you in the process.

"Sudanese families are not aware that Egyptians practice FGM. Amongst them, type three [the most extreme] is usually known as Pharaonic. So when we ask them whether Egyptians practice FGM or not, they realize that Egyptians must practice FGM because it's Pharaonic," Dr. Yussra Mohammed tells OkayAfrica. "During a [recent] conference, Egyptian organizations and activists were surprised that Sudanese referred to type three FGM as Pharaonic because, in Egypt, they refer to it as Sudanese. So they're throwing the blame on each other."

Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) is illegal in Egypt and Sudan, and yet 87.2 percent of Egyptian women and 86.6 percent of Sudanese women aged 15-49 have undergone it. In both societies, people believe that genital cutting is a tradition to preserve a girl's honor and, by extension, her family's.

In the first study of its kind, Equality Now and Tadwein for Gender Studies look at how perspectives around FGM might be changing in Egypt's Sudanese migrant communities. While it lays open several opportunities that could lead to its abandonment, it also reveals how little most people know about the practice and how much the nicknaming of the different types affects how people perceive them: as ancient, foreign, or religiously mandated.

Since the outbreak of war in April 2023, an estimated 1.2 to 1.5 million Sudanese have fled to Egypt. Equality Now, an international human rights organization that aims to protect and advance the rights of all women and girls around the world, and Tadwein for Gender Studies, an Egyptian organization with a mission to promote gender equality and address gender-based violence through research, advocacy, and community interventions, had been working to end FGM in Sudan and Egypt separately.

"When we saw the influx of people into Egypt, we thought that there was an opportunity to try and see what this migration means for the continuation or the abandonment of FGM," says Paleki Ayang, MENA Gender Advisor at Equality Now.

Economic instability, insecure housing, and obtaining legal status are among the many issues Sudanese are dealing with in Egypt. Although FGM is a deeply embedded cultural practice that is often falsely framed as a religious necessity, it is not a top priority for a refugee. So, could displacement be the reason Sudanese communities let go of FGM?

To find out, Tadwein interviewed 30 grandmothers, mothers, fathers, and young adults in Cairo and Giza. Half of them had been living in Egypt since before the war; the other half were refugees. They shared their varying knowledge of the three types of FGM, colloquially known as Sunna (type one), Sandwich (type two), and Pharaonic (type three).

"We need to debunk the myth that type one is harmless or religiously required," says Ayang. "People need to understand that the harms of FGM are physical, psychological, social, and economic."

The practice's main drivers are grandmothers; young men and fathers are the least informed. All interviewees claimed not to practice FGM, but Dr. Mohammed cautions that this might be because it is illegal in Egypt, and people will not go on record admitting that they broke the law. Most participants, however, were not aware of the law's exact ramifications; they merely assumed that it exists.

Both Ayang and Dr. Mohammed were surprised to find that neither Sudanese nor Egyptians know which type of FGM is prevalent in the other community. This is a testament to the tension between the communities.

In Sudan, FGM is usually done by a midwife, nurse, or grandmother, whereas in Egypt, it is carried out by doctors. In the study, many Sudanese said that they are not comfortable asking Egyptians for help or information due to the racism they experience. Not understanding how the system works and potentially jeopardizing their legal status could be a major deterrent to continuing FGM in Egypt.

In terms of ending FGM, Dr. Mohammed considers this lack of communication a good thing. "If the Sudanese find out that healthcare providers in Egypt conduct FGM, it will be on the rise," she says. Paired with the misconception that type 1 is not harmful, people will assume it is safe if a doctor performs it."

She continues, "When interaction happens and the families talk about FGM, God knows what could happen," she says. "So if we will intervene, we need to do it now."

Published at this crucial moment, the study is meant to be a stepping stone that paves the way for more in-depth research and campaigns, aiming to reframe FGM from being a legal or medical issue to a plain and simple human rights violation. It offers several recommendations, such as involving courts to enforce the law and elders to shift communal attitudes.

"There are now many female-headed Sudanese households in Egypt," says Ayang. "It's important to empower mothers with knowledge, confidence, and tools to resist whatever pressure they might face from their families and communities."

While Ayang admits that "There is no clear cut answer to whether FGM will be abandoned or continued," Dr. Mohammed believes that the factors that will help people abandon FGM are greater than those that provide room for its continuation.

Before she became the owner of a Michelin-recommended restaurant in Toronto, Maha Barsoom used to cook and garden as a hobby in Cairo. Raised by a grandmother and parents who were phenomenal cooks, she learned to appreciate the art of food from a young age. Instead of enjoying recess, she would go to the school library, peruse cookbooks for recipes, and reinvent them at home.

"The first thing I [ever] made was chocolate cake with toffee caramel," she remembers in an interview with OkayAfrica. "My aunt visited us from Alexandria, so I prepared it for her. After that, my mom let me go into the kitchen, because it was amazing. I taught myself and observed my family."

In Egypt, opening a restaurant never occurred to her. When she moved to Canada at 35, working as a translator and interpreter while raising two children kept her fully occupied. Once her children, Monica and Mark, graduated from university, she seized her chance.

"I thought if Monica and Mark would assist me, and we could all share this idea, it would be great. They'd both graduated and neither had jobs, so I thought we might as well do this," Barsoom says. "Both of them said no. They will have no life, and it will be extremely difficult. So I left it alone."

Mark was sceptical that non-Egyptians would be willing to try food they did not know, but Barsoom was confident in her craft. "I knew that I had something to offer to society and that I would succeed," she says. As a translator, Barsoom used to attend events that served 'Middle Eastern Food.' "My Egyptian part was really hurt," she laughs. "I needed to teach people about Egyptian cuisine and that there is a big difference between 'Middle Eastern' and Egyptian."

She started posting her cooking online and garnered so much interest that she began operating a catering service from inside her home. Her food's reputation spread, and her children learned from her, until they eventually changed their minds about the restaurant idea.

"[Ten years ago] I was in Egypt, because my mother was sick," remembers Barsoom. "Monica called me, saying, 'I have a surprise for you. We prepared the menu.' It was all the dishes I fed them growing up. My mother was in a stable condition again, so I went back to Canada, and we started looking for a place right away."

The menu includes everything needed for a complete Egyptian brunch, and more. Mixing nostalgic dishes from their childhoods with fan favorites, Maha's Brunch has fūl (fava beans), falafel, homemade feta cheese with tomatoes, basterma sausage, shakshouka, liver sandwiches, and Barsoom's favorite meal growing up: belila (creamy Egyptian wheat porridge ).

"There's a shawarma sandwich I used to eat after university or when the professor didn't show up," says Barsoom. "We'd go to this place called Abu Haidar in Heliopolis, which made the best shawarma ever, in buns, not in pitas or rolls. I was inspired and created Maha's Mindblowing Chicken Sandwich." Monica named it.

Whenever her grandfather picked her up from the nursery, he and Monica would pass by a fish shop and eat baby shrimp sandwiches. Monica asked her mother to replicate them, and Barsoom added them to the menu. Inspired by a place in Alexandria, the dessert is a plate of halawa, molasses, clotted cream, nuts, fresh berries, and various homemade or imported jams from Egypt.

In addition to fulfilling her lifelong dream, Barsoom's perseverance eventually paid off in 2022, when a lady came to the restaurant and gifted Barsoom an envelope. In it, she found that Maha's Brunch was recommended in the Michelin Guide for Toronto. She has been featured in the guide every year since.

"Somebody who comes without our knowledge eats the same dish a couple of times," explains Barsoom. "They don't only look at the taste. They look at the service, the cleanliness of the place, and how the dishes are presented and decorated."

Why a mention in the guide and not a star? Maha's Brunch does not serve alcohol or have a white tablecloth service. These requirements are a testament to the enduring hegemony of Western cultural norms. "I don't want to serve alcohol, and I like guests to be at ease when they eat at my place," says Barsoom. "I like them to feel that they are at my dining table in my house."

Now that Barsoom has established her food as one of Toronto's most excellent spots, she is ready to hand the restaurant over to her children. "They are innovative and keen on having everything perfect," she says. "I think they will take the restaurant to a higher level."

In the Arabic-speaking world, Marwan Moussa needs no introduction. The Egyptian German rapper and producer has dominated the rap scene for years, rising to fame for his hard-hitting bars and effortless flow. A man who enjoys bragadociousness and does it well, Moussa is the third most-streamed Arab rapper of all time and has received three All Africa Music Awards.

After losing his mother to illness in October 2023, Moussa did not listen to music for six months. Then, he returned with "3AMEL EH" (What do I do) in July 2024, on which he opens up to his therapist about his depression, inviting listeners into a journey of climbing out of the darkness.

This week, Moussa revealed الرجل الذي فقد قلبه (The Man Who Lost His Heart), a conceptual framework for the introspective tracks he has been releasing. Throughout the album, the female voice we hear on "3AMEL EH" tells him that everyone deals with the same feelings in different ways. She introduces him to the five stages of grief - denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance - which he adopts as an artistic lens for the 23 tracks across five discs.

"I wanted to make a sad album, but I cannot say accurately what I was going through," Moussa tells OkayAfrica. "I was creating as I went and tried to fit songs into categories. Maybe creating these songs was therapeutic, but I cannot say accurately which stage I went through with which song."

Each disc has stylistic elements that bring Moussa's emotions to life. Denial sounds like string instruments and trap shaabi, a mix of dark trap beats over traditional Egyptian rhythms. Anger rises with Arabic scales and instruments like the Oud. "I felt like [anger] is a very Arab emotion and state," says Moussa. "It's how we express grief the most, especially as men."

His favorite track on the album, "TAQATO3," is on the anger disc. Starting rap-heavy, the track samples the iconic song "Shagar El Lamoon" by Egyptian singer Mohamed Mounir, before ebbing into a vibe that Moussa describes as "melancholic, somehow sad but euphoric."

Moussa wrote and recorded "TAQATO3" between Thailand and Los Angeles; the album came together in studios all over the world. "We just recorded in the places that we happened to be at, and we let it add color and flavors to the album, which I think added diversity to the songs," he says.

Bargaining heavily features the piano, the instrument Moussa associates with questioning. While the other discs have at least one feature, bargaining is the only emotional state he navigates completely alone. With track three of that disc, "Fahman Donya," he recently became the first Arabic-language rapper to perform on the global rap platform From The Block.

Depression is characterized by ambient, mournful textures. Moussa sings and bears his soul over simplistic, repetitive melodies that feature string instruments and the piano, carrying a distinguishable Egyptian rhythm that embeds the universal experience of loss in a specific cultural context.

Throughout the album, a male voice tells Moussa "hawil tiftikir" (try to remember), reminiscent of Kendrick Lamar’s use of voicenotes. However, Moussa did not have any musical influences for this project. "In the beginning, I thought that was a bad thing. Everything just came from the mind," he says. "But I hope that it will become more timeless because there are no musical reference points."

Acceptance closes the album with Moussa emerging on the other side. This disc is more playful, incorporating jazz piano, Afrobeats, and the assertion that he must keep trying. "[The album] is not about being sad or breaking up with someone. It's about losing someone who dies, specifically, "says Moussa. "I would love it if it helps someone navigate through a period of sadness. Like a map."

Now that he has revealed this deeply vulnerable and raw side of himself, will Moussa continue along this path? "I miss doing an ego song," he says and laughs. "I want to do music that makes me feel confident. That's what I love about classic rap: you say stuff, you feel cool, and it feels good. But that's not how I felt the past year, so I couldn't rap like that."

There's a common concern that Egyptian rap lost its authenticity when it became mainstream, and some voices mutter that the genre is dying out. Moussa agrees that rappers have not been at their best in recent years, but he has noticed a brooding resurgence.

"I think people will become more competitive in the next few months. The action is going to come back," he says. "I think we'll see some battles and hear music that feels like more time has been spent making it. I can feel it and am excited to be a part of it." The Man Who Lost His Heart, with its poignant lyricism and expertly crafted sonic layers, can spearhead a revival of vanguard Egyptian rap, should it actually be on its way.

Sudan's bid to sue the United Arab Emirates (UAE), alleging that the UAE is providing the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces (RSF) with weapons that are being used to commit genocide in Darfur, has been dismissed by the International Court of Justice (ICJ).

On Monday, May 5, the United Nations' top court in The Hague announced that it "manifestly lacked" the authority to continue the proceedings. Sudan had requested emergency measures to prevent genocidal acts against the Masalit tribe, which has been subject to ethnic-based attacks by the RSF and its allied Arab militias.

Since April 2023, the RSF has been in armed conflict with the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF), plunging Sudan into the world's worst humanitarian crisis. While both parties stand accused of committing war crimes, the RSF has explicitly been inflicting widespread sexual violence on women and girls and terrorizing communities across the country.

On March 5, Sudan filed the case with the ICJ, asking that provisional measures be taken and for the UAE to do all it can to prevent the killing and targeting of the Masalit people in Darfur. On April 11, the RSF descended onto Zamzam camp in West Darfur, home to half a million displaced persons, killing at least 400 people, looting and burning homes.

People are voicing their anger over the ICJ's dismissal on social media. "Lack of jurisdiction? It's the INTERNATIONAL court of justice; their jurisdiction is the whole globe," wrote one user on Instagram.

However, lack of jurisdiction refers to the fact that, even though both countries are signatories to the 1948 Genocide Convention, the UAE made a reservation against Article 9 of the Convention. Accordingly, other states cannot sue it over genocide allegations. The ICJ rejected the request for provisional measures by a 14-2 vote and ordered the case removed from its docket by a 9-7 vote.

"The Court concludes from the foregoing that, having regard to the UAE's reservation to Article IX of the Genocide Convention, this Article cannot constitute, prima facie, a basis for the jurisdiction of the Court in the present case," the court said in its order.

Amongst Sudanese, the UAE's relationship with the RSF is a well-known, undisputed fact. While there is no direct evidence of the UAE's involvement in the RSF's warfare, Sarah Nouwen from the European University Institute tells DW that Sudanese claims are based on suspicious activity.

"Flights are going from the United Arab Emirates in that direction," she says. "One cannot really explain what else would be there. The United Arab Emirates says it's humanitarian aid, but there isn't much humanitarian aid coming in. Many Sudanese say this must be arms. Otherwise, we can't explain how the RSF has been so successful militarily."

While online users doubt that the ICJ holds any actual power or significance after it failed to stop the genocide in Palestine, the court's decision to abstain from the horrors being committed in Sudan deals another blow to its fragile reputation and closes another pathway for Sudan to leave its hellish war.

"In the entrance hall of the Grand Egyptian Museum (GEM), there's this gigantic statue of Ramses II. It's the largest standing statue of an ancient Egyptian king on Earth, and it's on a base surrounded by water in the shape of a pyramid," Ibrahim Morgan tells OkayAfrica. He chuckles. "Many guests are mesmerized and drawn by the statue's beauty, so they don't focus. They keep walking towards it and end up falling into the water."

Morgan is an Egyptologist and tour guide with 29 years of experience. Eighteen months ago, he started working for GEM, the world's largest archaeological museum complex, home to more than 100,000 artifacts.

GEM's foundation was laid two kilometers north of the Great Pyramids of Giza in 2002. Its construction began in 2005, but the Arab Spring, political turmoil, and financial setbacks repeatedly stopped the works. On July 3, 2025, it will finally open its doors to the public.

Some people have already had the chance to visit this architectural masterpiece and its thoughtfully curated galleries during its trial phase. In segments edited for length and clarity, Morgan tells OkayAfrica about the great honor and pride he feels working at GEM.

Morgan: "Studying Egyptology has been a dream of mine since I was a child. I was born in a small town in Upper Egypt, in the Sohag governorate. My dad would always take me to old sites, like churches and monasteries, in our town and the nearby provinces. It was awesome to feel such a connection to this ancient civilization as someone with deep Egyptian roots through my family lineage. These were my forefathers who left such a great civilization, and we have a personal link.

In sixth grade, my mom, a teacher, started teaching me English. I wanted to use my love for learning languages to tell the world about the greatness of my forefathers and the history and antiquities they left behind for us. The only way to come in contact with tourists is through studying Egyptology, archaeology, history, and foreign languages at university. Then, you can get a license to become a tour guide. You have to have two licenses from the Ministry of Antiquities and Tourism and join the Tour Guides Union or Syndicate so that you can work legally.

Upon learning about this, I applied to the University of Alexandria with the highest marks. This meant I had to leave my small town and go to the big city for the first time. I knew nothing; I'd never been to Cairo or Alexandria. At 18, it was a big cultural shock for me. I went to public school in my town, but everyone who studied with me [in Alexandria] came from private schools, so there was a huge difference. I had to lose my thick Upper Egyptian accent; I came a long way.

I have visited the Pyramids of Giza 8,104 times. I keep a record because it's the only existing [ancient] world wonder. It has magic. Every time I go, it's as if it's my first time. If you have this love in your heart for ancient sites, you don't exert effort to keep it interesting.

Listen to Ibrahim Morgan

Tour guide Ibrahim Morgan stands next to the statue of Ramses II in GEM's atrium. In this clip he talks about the positive feedback he gets from guests who have been part of his tours, their impression of Egypt and the kindness of Egyptians.

Sometimes, I'm so happy that I don't even want to eat when I see the expressions and feelings of speechless guests. Many cry and say that this was the best trip they have ever taken; that is the crowning of my work. They may have heard that Egyptians are aggressive and not welcoming in western media, but then find that most Egyptians are kind and genuine. Through my work, I help correct people’s misconceptions about Egyptians and replace them with the truth about how loving and caring we are.

The physical aspect of being a tour guide is demanding, plus the heat. GEM is a new concept. It's clean, secure, air-conditioned, and has a hospitality team. There are cafes, restaurants with local food, and shops with local crafts. I wear a uniform with beige pants, a white shirt with the logo, and a blazer, and I feel proud. I can speak through a microphone instead of yelling. My team is highly educated; they speak German, French, Italian, Japanese, Chinese, and even Hebrew. We're paid very good money and looked after.

We have standardized, guided tours that typically last around 90 minutes, but each guide adds their own touch and storytelling. I answer the common questions first: What's so unique about GEM? I explain that it has the only hanging obelisk on Earth and the largest standing statue of an Egyptian king, Ramses II, which was broken into six pieces until Gamal Abdel Nasser asked a German company to restore it.

There is a false assumption that Egyptians don't care about their heritage. Most Egyptians love their heritage and feel proud to be Egyptian. I became more aware of this when I started working at GEM, where we do Arabic tours. When I showed locals around, they would say, 'We need to protect these antiquities, and we would like to have the antiquities that were taken away from Egypt back.'

The Egyptian Ministry of Education recently started teaching more about Egyptian history and antiquities in schools. And what's so impressive is that they began to teach the ancient Egyptian language in schools for the first time in the history of Egypt.

GEM is Egypt's and Africa's gift to the world. I advise anyone to come and visit; they will be amazed. I've been to the Louvre, the Metropolitan Museum in New York, and the Egyptian Museum in Berlin, but GEM is the best museum in the world. It's truly a gem. Every human should be proud."

If you would like to book a tour with Ibrahim Morgan, contact him through his Facebook page.

It is common knowledge in the Arab world that Egyptians tend to overstate their cultural achievements. They successfully exported their films and music to the rest of the region, asserting themselves as an artistic hub for decades (and sometimes forgetting that they are not the only ones creating good art).

Growing up with Ramadan mosalsalat, other Arabic speakers usually switch to the Egyptian dialect when talking with an Egyptian because most Egyptians only understand their own dialect. As a result, there is a certain resentment when Egyptians dominate cultural spheres.

This is to say that I am aware of how controversially Egyptian April’s list of best North African songs is. But denying that the catchiest, most interesting music came out of Egypt this month would be a lie. So, at the risk of being part of the Egypt-centric problem, here are this month’s song recommendations.

Carly Gibert, Lella Fadda - “Everything new [remix]” (Egypt, Spain)

Egypt’s most-streamed female rapper Lella Fadda jumps on a remix of Spanish singer Carly Gibert’s “Everything New,” rapping in Arabic and Italian over the track’s industrial beat. With its ethereal back vocals and harp-like synths, “Everything New” is at once a hopeful spring song and a badass rap collaboration.

Nadah El Shazly - “Kaabi Aali” (Egypt)

“Kaabi Aali” teases the upcoming second album of Egyptian-born, Montreal-based producer, vocalist, and composer Nadah El Shazly, titled Laini Tani, set for release on June 6. As with her previous offerings, El Shazly creates a hypnotic, multi-layered soundscape, fusing experimental electronics and Egyptian rhythms over which she delivers haunting vocals. “This song takes place amidst Cairo’s neon green city lights and should definitely be listened to at high volume in the car,” says El Shazly.

Wegz, Tayc - “Girlfriend” (Egypt, France, Cameroon)

Rapper Wegz teams up with French Cameroonian R&B singer Tayc for Afro-R&B track “Girlfriend,” demonstrating Wegz’ versatility; the single dropped only a few days after a nostalgic return to his 2019 trap roots on “ElWa3d.” While the track is an interesting, unusual conversation between artists from different worlds, I would have loved Wegz to do a dance scene like Tayc for real revolutionary appeal.

Mazin Hamid, Eiman Yousif - “Ya Jamal Alneel” (Sudan)

Sudanese musician and actor Eiman Yousif, best known for her role in Goodbye Julia, collaborates with Mazin Hamid for “Ya Jamal Alneel,” an ode to the beauty of the River Nile. Over simple guitar and melodica chords, this heartfelt duet remembers Khartoum as the place where the White and the Blue Nile converge, invoking memories of joyful afternoons at the riverbank before the outbreak of war.

Dallo - “Ghara (Remastered)” (Egypt)

Cairo-born electronic music producer Dallo returns with “Ghara (Remastered),” a hypnotic journey that links sufi chants with electronic experimentation and plays with the voice as a soundscape.

Warchieff, Freek, Ma-Beyn, The Hws, TUFF - “Mahzla” (Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Somalia, Syria, Palestine)

On “Mahzla,” Saudi producer Warchieff brings together a powerful group of up-and-coming rappers from North Africa and the Levant. The track features Freek, Ma-Beyn, The Hws, and TUFF, blending their high-energy bars and various Arabic dialects with hard-hitting trap beats and an experimental soundscape built on an unsettling bassline.

DJ Habibeats, Felukah - “Hayati” (Egypt, Palestine, US)

Taking us back to the early 2000s, Palestinian American DJ Habibeats and Egyptian rapper and singer Felukah throw a garage party on “Hayati,” a dance track that makes me yearn for summer. Over Habibeats’ trap rhythms and R&B textures, Felukah delivers bilingual Arabic and English vocals that explore diasporic identity, a theme relevant to both US-based artists. The mood switch halfway through the track makes me want to hit repeat every time it ends.

Marwan Moussa - “Bosakber” (Egypt)

Egyptian German rapper Marwan Moussa, the country’s third most streamed rapper, is preparing to release his most personal album. The album is split into five parts, each section tracing the stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—after the loss of his mother. “Bosakber” is the second preview single, a fusion of hip-hop beats, sufi elements, oud arrangements, and shaabi that narrates the experience of heartbreak, trust issues, and spiraling mental chaos. The music video is a testament to Moussa’s love for film, which he studied in Rome.

Obie - “AS7a” (Sudan)

Obie is a Sudanese teenager with a promising flow. On his latest track, “AS7A,” he reintroduces himself to the scene after releasing his Supernova EP last year, and I am intrigued. Mixing fast, playful beats inspired by Afrobeats and Amapiano, paired with his effortless, assertive bars, Obie sounds older than he really is.