it yet. But I have her in the
studio, smiling.” She gestures to the
framed photo of her grandparents, in
pride of place on her recording desk.
Her grandma is fabulously dressed
and smiling serenely with a goddess-
like aura. I tell Toya I think she has her
grandmother’s spirit. “Yeah. I’ve got
her eyes, too, I’ve been told.”
Our plan is to visit Toya’s boxing
gym, so she’s decked out in full work-
out gear: shorts and matching t-shirt
branded with her gym’s logo, sports
socks pulled up to the knees, scuffed
white trainers and orange braids in
her hair. Undoubtedly one of the most
stylish people I know, Toya has the
enviable ability to make everything
she wears look achingly hip. Before
we hit the gym, we grab a juice from
her local hipster cafe. When I offer to
pay, she shoos my hand away. “Girl,
stop playing.” She carries my bag and
opens doors for me, proudly proclaim-
ing, “Gentlewoman! I love treating
other females well. I like being chiv-
alrous.” Like you, me and every other
queer woman on the planet, she is
obsessed with Gentleman Jack.
Toya goes boxing once a week.
“It’s like therapy.” As a teenager, ath-
letics was a means to escape the rigid
path laid out for her. “It felt like there
was a definite way a woman needs
to go: wife, staying home, cleaning,not having much of your own – and
I just did not click it. Sports was my
way out. I’d be out of town, meeting
new people. I was like, ‘Ok, this is
taking me somewhere. It’s helping me
discover the world’.”
Before we enter the old-school
boxing gym under the railway arches
that looks like a film set, she warns
me, “These guys do it for real. It’s like
Rocky. Are you ready for the pong?”
Once she’s tracked me down some
gloves, my training begins. “Release all
that tension, all those monsters,” she
commands. When I give it some real
welly, she spurs me on, “Yas queen!”
She instructs, “Visualise things to give
you more motivation,” before dem-
onstrating. “Homophobe!” Uppercut.
“Traffic!” Swift kick. Toya’s a natural.
She attacks the punching bag with the
same fire she applies to her career. I
ask what she’s learned in all her years
in the music biz. “You can make it big,
but if you’re not true to yourself you
won’t be happy.” Thwack. “Don’t allow
people to push you in a direction you
don’t agree with.” Thump. “Don’t do it
to chase fame.” Jab, jab, cross. “Do it to
connect with people.”
Once we’ve exercised our bodies,
exorcised some demons and I’ve en-
dured about as much of the stench of
stale sweat as I can handle, Toya takes
me on an impromptu tour of herneighbourhood. We pass the London
Buddhist Centre, where she meditates
when she needs to calm her mind. We
pop into an experimental art gallery
and Toya quickly befriends the own-
er’s Dalmatian. Next door, the local
grocer greets her with a familiar wave
and a, “How’s it going?” Wherever she
goes, whatever room she’s in, Toya
radiates positivity. She’s so irresistibly
upbeat, she effortlessly becomes in-
stant BFFs with almost everyone she
comes into contact with, human or
canine. “I could be very closed up, but
this makes me feel like I’m home.”
Her magnetism shines through
onstage, too. She is an electrifying live
performer. “I just go out there and
BOOM. ‘Here’s my energy. Take it!’” A
few weeks ago, she brought the house
down at UK Black Pride, an experience
she describes as “maaad”. “I’m from
Zulu land, you know? White men are
at the top of the food chain and we
are just trying to get that same level
of privilege. So to be a person who is
queer, black, female – all these things
that could be against you – and pursu-
ing your dreams... people are glad to
see it.”
Buoyed up by happy memories
and afternoon sunshine, Toya makes
a suggestion. “Let’s get a damn cider
or something!” We head back to her
place for a cheeky bevvie and she >>>>>>th
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41COVER STORY | TOYA DELAZY