Rose said the determination that got her where she is today comes from her Ghanaian mum (“nothing stops her”), while her Jamaican dad, a dancehall DJ and MC, instilled in her a love of music from a young age. He’d play Capleton, Beenie Man, and Sizzla around the house and took her to Notting Hill Carnival, London’s West Indian street festival, every summer.

Her cousin Michael Omari, who today makes grime under the name Stormzy, lived four doors down, and they’d often sleep over at each others’ houses. Rose tells me she slept with a dictionary next to her bed in order to broaden her vocabulary — that sounds like a line, but she swears it isn’t. After she started MCing at 13, Rose quickly became accustomed to holding her own during rap battles with “the lads” outside her council estate. But Rose’s commitment to performing extended beyond spitting bars with her friends, and she spent her Saturdays taking classes in dance, acting, and singing at The BRIT School (alumni include Amy Winehouse, Jessie J, and King Krule).

By age 20, Rose was working 12-hour shifts in run-down branches of betting stores like Ladbrokes and Coral, using her spare moments to write lyrics behind the clear plastic partition. After clocking out, she’d head home to lay down that day’s bars over simple beats that she made using Logic. She described the job as “bollocks,” and adding to Rose’s frustration was the fact that “the guys from the ends” — Croydon artists like Section Boyz, Bonkaz, and Stormzy — were starting to make waves beyond their south London borough. “I was seeing what was going on and feeling really sad,” she said. “The males had been coming in strong, and the girls weren’t making their mark.”