BananaOverdose: “I like being the black sheep — sonically”

Yasmin — known by her stage name Bananaoverdose, or BOD — is a Somali musician whose work drifts in and out of form, often skirting the edges of lo-fi, ambient, disco, and experimental production. Now based between London and the internet (she’s chronically online), she crafts music that feels both deeply personal and deliberately hard to place in terms of genre. Her sound moves through chopped-up samples, distorted cassette textures, synth loops, and hazy vocals — occasionally sweet, often unsettling, always layered. 

Her releases, mostly shared via platforms like YouTube and SoundCloud, don’t arrive with marketing campaigns or polished visuals. They appear quietly, sometimes unexpectedly — full of estrangement, clipped memories, and sonic fragments that seem stitched together from different timelines. Old Somali melodies might surface beneath a wall of static. A lullaby might melt into a bass-heavy loop. Field recordings, synth pads, and tape hiss coexist in tracks that are less about genre and more about mood, memory, and intuition. 

BOD’s work doesn’t present itself as a revival of Somali music, nor as a critique of it. Instead, it sounds like what happens when someone grows up in the echoes of a culture — distanced from it, yet deeply shaped by its residue. There’s no overt narrative, no manifesto — but there is a consistent refusal to explain or perform identity in expected ways. In a digital landscape where diasporic artists often feel pressured to represent or translate, Bananaoverdose opts for something murkier, more interior. 

Though she’s not widely known, her work has circulated steadily among listeners drawn to the fringes of Somali and East African sound — especially among those seeking music that doesn’t smooth itself out for broader acceptance. In her own quiet way, Bananaoverdose is expanding the boundaries of what Somali music can be — not by fusing it with something else, but by letting it leak into her world on her own terms. 

In this interview with Geeska, BOD speaks about early influences, her relationship to sound and silence, and why being misunderstood doesn’t bother her. 

Ibrahim Osman: Let’s start at the beginning. Tell me a bit about your childhood—what was it like growing up? 

Bananaoverdose: My childhood was a mix of bittersweet memories—shaped by fun times and a dash of trauma I can’t fully recall—but the happy, cheeky moments stand out. As an only child with a single mum, we shared chores, though I dreaded mine. I was such an entertainer, always thinking I should perform rather than clean. My mum’s best advice was: “Yaasmiineey, futo aadan laheyn ha ku xaarin,” meaning “Live within your means,” though it literally translates as: “Don’t use others’ bums to poop—use your own.” I always argued, thinking I could have anything I wanted. I grew up as a princess in a humble home, but I never let that stop me from dreaming. 

IO: What kind of music and art first caught your attention and made you want to create? 

BOD: I remember the first time I watched Dreamgirls—I was 10 years old—and something inside me wanted to be part of a musical film. That movie was my cue to get into singing and acting; mainly, it was a way to express myself. 

IO: I love the term SomAlien [Somali Alien]—where did it come from, what does it mean to you, and can it hold space for all the Somalis who don’t often fit neatly within the frames of Somali stereotypes? 

BOD: The first time I heard the term SomAlien was from my husband. We were getting ready for a beach party, and I was dressed in traditional Somali attire, with cosmic make-up and crystals on my face. I asked him how I looked and, after a moment of stunned silence, he said, “Wow, you look SomAlien.” A few months later, after graduating from a music production school, I created a track for my final project and titled it SomAlien. The term just felt right. While the rest of the world mistakenly refers to Somali people as “Somalians” instead of “Somalis”, it became a playful twist that stuck. There’s also a humorous stereotype about Somalis looking like aliens—mainly because of our prominent heads and foreheads. But beyond the surface, SomAlien carries a deeper meaning. It represents someone who stands out, someone unafraid to defy convention and think outside the box. In Somali culture, individuals who don’t conform to societal norms are often marginalised, much like the black sheep in any family. SomAlien embodies the rebel—the one who isn’t afraid to be seen as different. 

IO: Somali band music from the ’60s to late ’80s had such a rich repertoire of sounds and styles. How has this influenced your experimentation? And do you think your music could’ve been received much better if you’d lived in that time? 

BOD: Every true artist stands on the shoulders of those who came before, drawing inspiration from their legacy. Right now, I’m diving deep into honouring the artists who share my roots—roots that are slowly slipping into the shadows. I often dream of being part of that Mogadisco era, where creativity was unfiltered, raw and unapologetic. My sense of style, sonic direction, and my whole aesthetic right now are definitely influenced by that era. I can’t help but think that my music—my art—would have resonated deeply during that time. The vibe was more open, the artistic freedom more expansive. But even though it’s not the ’70s anymore, I’m carrying that energy forward. I’m pushing boundaries, blending the folk, funk and disco spirit of that era into 2025 with even more boldness, more freedom, and more nostalgia than ever before. 

What I’m pushing is unfamiliar—maybe even uncomfortable—but that doesn’t make me the villain. Change is inevitable. And clinging to harmful cultural norms, like shame and silence, has done more damage than good. 

IO: While many people love your work, some see you as pushing against Somali cultural norms. How do you handle that, and what do you think about their reactions? 

BOD: I know that while I have people who support me and show love, I also have people who hate to see me online, speaking my truth. What I’m pushing is unfamiliar—maybe even uncomfortable—but that doesn’t make me the villain. Change is inevitable. And clinging to harmful cultural norms, like shame and silence, has done more damage than good. We’ve seen it too many times: Somali girls who are sexually assaulted, only to be silenced by their own families in the name of protecting “honour.”  

Girls who speak up, only to be met with smear campaigns for daring to tell their stories—or for advocating for someone else’s. And now, there’s a growing online incel culture that thrives on tearing Somali women down. It’s not just young boys either—we’re seeing 11- and 12-year-olds already weaponising misogyny, but they’re being influenced by grown men in their 40s and 50s who are proudly parading the same toxic ideals. These men are being treated like role models. So when we say Somali men lack healthy role models—we mean it. If you don’t want women to “act out”, maybe it’s time men fixed their behaviour too. Because a mere act of freedom is seen as “acting out” in these communities. Yes, there are beautiful parts of our culture that I celebrate—but that doesn’t mean I’ll stay quiet about the parts that harm us. So no, I don’t take their reactions seriously. They don’t pay my bills. They don’t care about my safety or my future as a woman. I have no rights in an incel’s world, and honestly, they have no place in mine. 

IO: There was a viral clip of you dressed and posing as in the “golden era” of Somalia, which had such a nostalgic feel. Beyond the music, what do you love about that era—fashion, nightlife, or even just the vibe of daily life? 

BOD: The ’40s–’60s in Somalia was an iconic time in history because folk music grew with modern influences, leading up to the golden era in the ’70s–’80s—a time of folk dances, vibrant funk, infectious disco, and a freedom of expression that seemed limitless. People danced, dressed boldly in their funky, colourful clothes, and the music was a celebration of life in its purest form. Some of our elders look back on those days and call them “ignorant”, believing that the culture back then was lost—but that is when our culture was booming at its finest. That is the Mogadisco era—the era I want to revive. 

never wanted to follow the masses. I always wanted people to hear my sound and be like, “Who the hell does she think she is?” I like being the black sheep — sonically. 

IO: Your music blends electronic, alternative, and underground Boiler Room vibes with a different vocal style. What drew you to these sounds and what’s been the biggest challenge in making them fit with the cadences of the Somali language? 

BOD: I’ve always felt like music is the one place where I can experiment without any limitations. I see myself as an alternative, experimental artist — someone who’s intentionally doing the opposite of what’s expected. I guess I’m just stubborn like that. I never wanted to follow the masses. I always wanted people to hear my sound and be like, “Who the hell does she think she is?” I like being the black sheep — sonically. That mindset has helped me build a loyal fanbase who really ride for me. I call them my Harambaes — it’s this amazing online community of people who connect with my weird, bold, emotional, SomAlien music.  

As for fusing my style with Somali cadences — to be honest, I don’t really stress about making it fit. I’m not trying to force tradition into my art just for the sake of it. I write while I channel. I follow what feels good to me. If it fits, great. If not, I’m still doing my own thing, and that’s the whole point. 

IO: Penetrating the music industry is not an easy task, and being an African female artist makes it doubly challenging. What do you think are the biggest struggles female artists face in the African music industry right now? 

BOD: Misogyny is, hands down, the biggest struggle female artists face in the African music industry. It’s not just about being overlooked — it’s about being silenced, dismissed, and hyper-scrutinised at every level. From gatekeeping by male producers and executives to being told how to dress, how to sing, or how “feminine” to be — the industry is still deeply patriarchal. Women are constantly navigating power imbalances just to be heard, let alone respected. As a Somali-Ethiopian artist, I’ve seen how this misogyny intersects with culture, religion, and colonial hangovers. You’re expected to be “respectable,” quiet, obedient — and if you’re not, you're seen as rebellious or even dangerous. But art requires freedom. Expression demands audacity. And I refuse to tone down my truth just to fit into a system that wasn’t built for me in the first place. There’s a fearlessness required to be a woman — especially a Black, East African woman — in music. We’re not just fighting for visibility; we’re fighting for survival. That’s why I use my voice not only to sing, but to speak out. My existence in this space is resistance. My music is a reclamation of power. 

I’ve come to understand that I’m ahead of my time. What I’m doing might feel extreme to some, but that’s not on me. 

IO: How do the Somali people react to your music? Do you think the growing Somali music scene is making people more open to new sounds, or is it still too early? 

BOD: The reactions online have definitely been interesting. What I’m doing is very new — no other Somali woman has really touched this sonic space while still speaking the language and staying rooted in it. But I’m not presenting myself like your typical Xaliimo, and that’s been triggering for a lot of people — especially men. I’m so used to reading at least one comment a day that says something like sharmuto [prostitute], “we don’t claim you,” or “you’re not Somali”.

Whether it’s on IG or TikTok, it used to confuse me. Like — why is my identity as a Somali woman so dependent on how I choose to live? Why is self-expression treated like betrayal? Eventually, I came across the term cognitive dissonance — when people experience psychological discomfort because they’re forced to confront a truth that doesn’t align with what they’ve been taught. That explained everything. I’ve come to understand that I’m ahead of my time. What I’m doing might feel extreme to some, but that’s not on me. Even one of the managers from Durdur Band said I was “too advanced” when asked if I could open for them. But guess what? Durdur and Iftin were considered “too advanced” when they were playing their afro-futuristic, funky rhythms back in the day. Those bands were mostly male-dominated, though I’ll always give credit to women like Maryan Cali Muudey, Sahra Abukar Dawo, and the iconic Fadumina Hilowle. Still, it’s rare to see women doing this kind of sonic innovation — and that makes people uncomfortable. But to me, there’s no such thing as “too early.” People are just behind. They’ll catch up as I keep evolving at my own pace. At the same time, I know I’ve got the right people in my corner. I receive so much love online from Somalis who get it — who feel seen by what I do. That’s what keeps me grounded. I’ve realised I’m not for everyone, and that’s okay. I just want to stay true to my craft, have fun with it, and celebrate my culture on my own terms. 

IO: Your Somali take on “Yekermo Sew”, a renowned song by the father of Ethio-jazz Mulatu Astatke, felt like such a rare kind of cross-African fusion. What’s your connection with non-Somali African music, who are your favourite artists and how has it shaped your sound? 

BOD: Music started in Africa. That’s just facts. It’s the root of everything, and that’s why African music hits so deep. I can’t say I know every artist out there, but the ones I connect with? I really feel them. Fela Kuti is a huge one for me—his energy, how he spoke truth through music, how fearless he was. That inspires me a lot. Bonga from Angola is another artist I love. After learning more about what he stood for, his songs started hitting differently. You don’t even need to understand the words—his voice just cuts through and you feel the emotion straight away. Tinariwen from Mali. I first got into them because I was drawn to that hypnotic, looping electric guitar sound, but the more I listened, the more I realised I really connect with the nomadic energy they bring — always moving, always adapting, but never losing their sense of self. As someone with a cross-cultural identity, that resonates with me on a deep level. I feel like I’m always navigating different worlds, and their music reminds me that you can do that while still holding onto your roots. Oum from Morocco is a recent discovery and I'm obsessed with her. I think what draws me to her the most is that she embodies freedom. She carries culture without being boxed in by it. And as a woman in music—especially coming from a region where there are so many expectations placed on how women should sound or act—she really pushes against all that. She's graceful, experimental, and brave with her sound. I feel reassured when I listen to her music. These artists inspire me to stay true to my roots while also experimenting and evolving. Times are changing, but I feel like going back to where we come from is key to growing. We need the guidance and blessings of our ancestors to keep us on track as we move forward. 

IO: Tell us a bit about what you’re currently working on and is there anything to be expected from you soon? 

BOD: I’m currently working on a project that’s been brewing in my mind since I first started exploring the disco era of Somalia. It’s a sonic journey that pays homage to the vibrant soundscape that Somalia once shared with the world. I’m channelling what Somali music could’ve been if we had the same freedom we had back in the 70s and 80s. My take on it is bolder and more innovative, but that’s just my unique twist. For the first single, I’ve sampled a song from a play called Hablayahow Hadmaad Guursan Doontaan. This play touches on relationships, love, and marriage in Somali culture, and its themes are still powerful today, particularly in how it navigates the intersection of tradition and modernity. The song I picked is the most controversial one by Qamar Cabdilaahi Harawo. The reason I chose that song was because it connects deeply with my rebellious spirit—especially when it comes to reclaiming my sexuality. I’ve had my own struggles with FGM (Female Genital Mutilation), which is an extremely harmful practice that many Somali girls are subjected to in the name of tradition, meant to “purify” and “tame” them for marriage.  

Recording this track was a blast, thanks to an amazing collaboration with a Dutch producer, Sjef Rolet, and my fiancé Oliver, who played guitar and directed the music video in Addis Ababa. Bringing this project to life with them was so much fun. However, I do want to clarify something about the lyrics—I am not promoting prostitution. While I respect women who choose that path, this track is about empowerment. If you choose to express yourself however you see fit, that’s your decision—your body, your rules. Art is art, and just like I took on a different persona in my “Dalkeena” video, where I symbolically sacrificed a coloniser, this single is me in a whole other form. So, before anyone tries to come for me thinking I'm promoting harmful messages, just know—I'm standing for freedom of choice and reclaiming my narrative as a woman. 

IO: Do you have any plans to collaborate with other Somali artists, and is there any possibility of you performing in any of the prominent Somali cities, either Hargeisa, Mogadishu or even Djibouti? 

BOD: Currently, I’m collaborating with Somali female artists across various mediums, whether it’s music, visual arts, fashion, or even film. These collaborations are a way for us to support each other and amplify our voices, creating space for diverse expressions of our culture and experiences. It's all about unity and pushing boundaries together as women in the creative world. As for performing in those cities, I’m not sure they’re quite ready for me just yet. In 2023, I was set to perform in Djibouti, but I ended up pulling out. One of the promoters added me to a WhatsApp group with all-male organisers, and when one of the artists made a misogynistic comment, I just didn’t feel safe. As a Somali female artist who isn’t your typical “Halimo,” it’s really important for me to feel safe, respected, and supported in the spaces I perform. Even though I was excited to meet my Djibouti Harambaes who support me online, I had to make the tough decision to walk away because performing in spaces that don’t honour my authenticity just isn’t something I can compromise on. If they’re ever ready to create a more inclusive and respectful environment, I’d definitely reconsider. But for now, I’ll just hold on to the dream. 

IO: What advice would you give to young Somali women aspiring to pursue a career in the arts? 

BOD: I could give one piece of advice to every Somali girl who wants to pursue a career in the arts, it would be this: learn how money works. Financial literacy will give you a kind of freedom that no one can take from you. And on top of that, learn about mindset—how your thoughts, your beliefs, and your energy shape your path. The law of attraction is real. Don’t give up on your dreams. I know it sounds cliché, but the journey is hard, and you’ll need that reminder. There’s something powerful about having your own income—no one can hold anything over you. It gives you room to be bold, to make your own choices, and to protect your art. Art isn’t easy. It takes guts. There’s no map or shortcut, especially if you’re not coming from money. Even if you are, you’ll probably still have to keep pouring into your craft for a while before it starts pouring back into you. But if you really believe in what you're doing, that belief is the foundation. You don’t need the whole world to get it—you have to get it. For me, art is Plan A. I don’t have a Plan B, and that’s what keeps me focused. It’s scary sometimes, but honestly, if you give yourself too many exit routes, it’s easier to quit when things get hard. And as a Somali girl, the truth is—this path might challenge people. You may have to choose between following your calling and making everyone around you comfortable. That’s not easy. Even the most supportive families can feel pressure from the wider community. But don’t let that stop you. You’re allowed to dream big. You’re allowed to break the mould. You’re allowed to be different. Just stay true to yourself, protect your spirit, and surround yourself with people who see your light—even if it’s still dimming or flickering. Keep going. You’re not alone. 

IO: Finally, I want to ask—despite the criticism and even personal attacks from some in the Somali community who focus more on your private life than your music, you’ve chosen the harder path: to keep creating in Somali. What gives you the strength to keep going? 

BOD: What keeps me going is the love and support I have in my life. I'm so blessed to have a solid support system. I don't take the hate seriously because I know who and where it comes from. Being a Somali woman means I come from the bloodline of Queen Arawelo—her courage, wisdom, and defiance live in me. Fear doesn’t sit in my spirit. I carry myself with pride because I know firsthand how powerful Somali women are. We hold families, histories, and entire cultures together, often without recognition. But I see us. I see our magic, our strength, and our softness—and I’ll never stop celebrating it.