In Christianity, a litany is a simple, repetitive type of prayer; the priest might say a line and then the congregation will repeat it back, in a way that can feel quite meditative. In more everyday usage, it’s a word used to describe a long list of grievances. For singer-songwriter Konyikeh, the meaning of it sits somewhere in between. Though she does not consider herself to be religious, she grew up in the Catholic Church, where she came across litanies – which would give the name to her alluring EP. “It's kind of a little prayer to soothe yourself,” she says, “And the things that I wrote in my teenage years that held me together; these are songs from the darkest time in my life. They're like little prayers to myself.”

Largely produced by British producer Charlie J Perry, throughout Konyikeh’s debut EP there’s a sense of plaintiveness and liturgy, all while she ruminates on her sorrows track by track and, in doing so, carves out a space to transcend them. Born in London and raised in Essex, Konyikeh makes soulful music with striking lyrics and, it can’t be stressed enough, that voice. You might recognise her distinctive vocals from her evocative moment on-stage at the BRITs in 2022, performing alongside Dave, as the opening soloist, during his astonishing rendition of ‘In The Fire’ – but now, the 23-year-old is getting ready to continue to step into her own light, quick to point out that: “It’s been a long time coming; it’s been a journey to get here.”

While her family were not musicians  themselves, Konyikeh grew up with music always being played in the house. She recalls her parents taking her to see classical music at the BBC Proms, and hearing musical theatre, Jennifer Hudson’s Pocketbook, her mum’s Destiny’s Child CDs, opera; “It was all to really expand my palate.” she explains. Of Cameroonian and Jamaican heritage, Konyikeh started to play the violin aged seven, latterly alongside  classical singing and piano. She remembers long car journeys with her mum going to Woodbridge, where the violin shop was, listening to  the Kenyan Boys Choir on CD. “It was beautiful,” she recalls, “It exposed me to traditional African music, harmonies and stuff like that.”

Konyikeh became a music scholar at a prestigious school in West London, then on Saturdays she would go to the Guildhall School of Music and Drama where, for ten years, she would play violin, piano, perform in the orchestra and chamber choir, alongside learning music theory. In these spaces, she was told to play with emotion, and to draw out her most intense feelings when performing: it’s something which Konyikeh seems to have channeled into her own work one decade later. Still, she felt uneasy within her identity, she explains: “Going to a very white girls’ school, it was only later I really connected with my heritage.”

The feeling of displacement that Konyikeh was dealing with during much of her time growing up is palpable in her songwriting; there was how she felt at school and it was exacerbated in turn by the classical music world where she was very cognisant of the racial and financial barriers to entry and “felt like an alien”. This was all alongside a difficult period in her home life. Although she moved for sixth form and was finally among at least some Black peers, her notions of self, worth, love and beauty had already been shaped: now, she says, she is still in the process of unlearning it all, building and rebuilding her confidence.