Accra is a city that thrives on a high-BPM loop of Afrobeats and sweating bodies in packed clubs. The mandate for most is to be loud, visible, and outside, but Haeven stays home. She sits in the suburbs, headset on, killing zombies in Call of Duty to burn off the day. She describes herself as “neuro-spicy” while feeling “too Nigerian to be Ghanaian, too Ghanaian to be Nigerian”, and in a world that can feel too loud, too conservative, or simply not built for a girl who grew up in a “church house” screaming lyrics into a Pringles can, Haeven is building her own.
“Haeven” is a misnomer. The stage name implies peace, but its origin story is anything but. She arrived during the peak of the 2020 lockdown when the world caught fire—a period she describes as “hell.” “I felt like everything that could possibly go wrong went wrong,” she says. In the midst of isolation and loss, she watched the world come to a standstill and realized that “nobody was coming to save her.” She had to become that person for herself.
“I realized that there was nobody coming. I had to become that person for myself.”
Long before the studio sessions and the Spotify uploads, she found her voice through written poetry, using it as three minutes to say what she actually felt without the fear of being cut off. She tested this theory in high school by walking onto a stage with zero friends and rapping a manifesto for entertainment prefect. She won by a landslide, realizing for the first time that her energy could bridge a gap even when her words and story hit a barrier. Later, performing in places like Nima and Prampram confirmed it; audiences who primarily spoke local languages still resonated with her set. They could feel what she was saying without needing a literal translation.
That manifesto is much louder now. Her latest single, WTF, substitutes the siren-toned vocals of her earlier work for a heavy, aggressive bassline. She curses freely, dismissing the conservative Ghanaian community that flinches at swear words. “If you stub your toe, you’re going to say some sort of expletive,” she says, choosing raw authenticity over being consumable for the public.
The rage is a direct response to a childhood spent in a “cultural conundrum” which she explains as “never quite enough of anything for anyone.” She wasn’t Ghanaian enough for the Ghanaians or Nigerian enough for the Nigerians, and because she didn’t sound like either, she was often a target of bullying.
Reprieve was supposed to be found at home, but in a “church house” with two pastor parents, she found the sanctuary feeling more like a judgment house. She notes that the thin line between religion and medicine in West Africa is dubious, and confiding in a pastor about depression usually ends with a command to “go and give it to God”.
“The people who create the system that causes us to suffer, judge us for how we deal with our suffering.”
Haeven created her own ecosystem to escape that judgment. She’s focusing more on music as an outlet. While she previously modeled, she explained that the modeling industry expects a tabula rasa—a canvas for someone else’s expression—while her music demands the opposite. She designs her own stage looks on a sewing machine since buying new clothes for every show is financially impossible, but she finds a rhythm in the needle hitting the fabric that matches the songs she makes. She refuses to stand in clubs and look nice just for the business of it.
Haeven is carving out a world for the social pariahs, the cultural misfits, and the kids who had no choice but to scream through the walls because they were never noticed when they were standing in the room.
BSH: We listened to your music and thought it was not only good, but something very different. We don’t think we’ve had someone in the alt scene in Ghana carving their own path and bringing something new. How are you feeling after your recent shows?
HAEVEN: It was a chaotic couple of days. I think I had three shows on one day. That was quite a challenge, but it ended, so I’m glad.
BSH: We want to hear who Haeven is from your perspective. Who is she to you?
HAEVEN: I think Haeven for me is—it’s a bit corny—but a manifestation of a time that I felt like I was going through hell. Everything that could possibly go wrong went wrong. This was the peak of COVID, so the world was a mess. People were sitting with themselves for the first time and realizing that things aren’t okay. I just happened to be one of those people. As everything was going wrong and you’re losing people, you’re waiting for someone to come in and rescue you. I realized that there was nobody coming. So I had to become that person for myself. I realized that with music, I could also reach people in this headspace who had some sort of feeling that they didn’t really understand or couldn’t put into words.
BSH: You have this duality where you’re jumping between these very soft, siren-like tones and these much sharper, powerful sounds. For example, your recent single WTF has a lot more power in it compared to something like Era. How do you juggle those?
HAEVEN: I stop trying to control where the music goes. Sometimes I start a piece and I want it to be really jovial, and it ends up becoming moody. I allow the music to express itself in the most authentic and raw possible form that it can. In my current community, it’s quite a struggle because Ghana is very conservative. People don’t really do well with curse words and swear words. I thought to mediate that before, but I’m like, what’s the point? If you stub your toe, you’re going to say some sort of expletive. To be raw and authentic is more important to me than to be consumable.
“To be raw and authentic is more important to me than to be consumable.”
BSH: You grew up between Nigeria and Ghana. How do those two worlds influence your creativity?
HAEVEN: Having stayed in Ghana longer, the language and pidgin in my tracks is definitely influenced by both cultures. But when it comes to the attitude—the non-conservative nature—that’s the more Nigerian side. Most of the sound that is emerging or different tends to come from Nigeria, so that motivates me to be out of the box and push myself.
BSH: We noticed your lyrics often sound like spoken poetry. Was it poetry that influenced the music first?
HAEVEN: I grew up on Hannah Montana, like every other kid. I always liked music, but I also liked writing. The music and the writing evolved into poetry, and then further on into rap because of rhythm.
BSH: What has surprised you most about how people respond to you in Ghana?
HAEVEN: The language barrier. I had been told it would be a huge thing, that I would be able to reach more people if I incorporated Twi, but I don’t speak that on a regular basis. That would seem pretentious to me. But I have gone to shows at Nima and Prampram—communities where people predominantly speak local languages—and I rapped, and the reception was overwhelming. They didn’t need to understand exactly what I was saying to feel what I was saying.
BSH: You mentioned being “neuro-spicy” in Ghana. How does being neuro-divergent play into your visual world?
HAEVEN: Between philosophy and psychology and all these things you do to try and understand exactly what’s going on in your head, you develop different modes of art. I believe every artist is equally a painter and a movie director; your mode of expression is just the difference. When I’m making a song, it doesn’t exist in a vacuum. The visuals are already mentally there.
BSH: We saw the visuals for WTF, and we thought the gritty grungy aesthetic was really interesting. How did you come up with that?
HAEVEN: We really wanted to give off the idea of youthful exuberance and anarchy. We had a very little budget. What we wanted to represent is the irony of the fact that the people who create the system that causes us to suffer, judge us for how we deal with our suffering. The irony was something that was interesting to play with and represent visually.
BSH: We have to say, you have great music taste. It’s very different from what most people listen to in West Africa. We’re pop punk fans ourselves, so we hear those influences. Who are you feeding into your own ears and who actually inspires your sound?
HAEVEN: I definitely listen to Stromae—his writing is impeccable and his artistry is just amazing. I also love Jacob Banks and Bruno Major—just people that can reach somewhere that you don’t even understand until you feel it. Growing up, I was inspired by Sleeping With Sirens and Bring Me The Horizon. I also admire Rihanna for her unrepentant confidence—just the ability to exist as whatever version you want of yourself without caring.
“I admire Rihanna for her unrepentant confidence—just the ability to exist as whatever version of yourself you want without caring.”
BSH: Besides music and modeling, what other creative arts do you want to explore?
HAEVEN: My mom used to make clothes and my dad was into architecture. I’ve recently gotten into making clothes. It was a necessity because I can’t be buying clothes every time I need a show. It’s also calming; I like the rhythmic nature of the sewing machine. I’m designing them on 3D software now and hoping to commercialize it. I’m no longer modeling as intensively because in modeling, you are a tabula rasa—a canvas for someone else’s expression. That dichotomy can be quite whiplash when you’re switching.
BSH: We noticed the headset—are you a gamer? What are you playing right now?
HAEVEN: Yeah, I’ve been playing quite some games. Right now I’m really into Call of Duty. It’s good for stress relief. Sometimes when someone pisses you off, you just put it in the game. I streamed it once and the reception was good. That’s my social life right now.
BSH: As you’re entering this new stage of your career, what is your mantra for staying grounded in the industry?
HAEVEN: I try to remind myself that it has to be fun. If what I’m doing is not fun, there’s no point. If it doesn’t reach someone, there’s no point.
Photographer Desmond Agyeman-Duah
Stylist Eleblu Supreme
Make-up Artist Vanessa Yeboah
Interviewer The BLACKSTAR Haus Editorial Team
Creative Direction BLACKSTAR Haus
Co-Creative Direction Eleblu Supreme
