I Came to Save a Thing Called Female Rap

By the 2010s, female rappers reached unprecedented visibility, branching into styles more varied than ever and ushering in what amounted to a second golden age for women in rap.

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Mar 29, 2025

At the end of the 2000s, this protégé of the rapper of the moment, Lil Wayne, began making a name for herself on mixtapes as a street-savvy mic specialist. In 2010, she astonished audiences with her striking verbal virtuosity on the colossal track “Monster,” where her incredible verse overshadowed even JAY-Z and Rick Ross—major rap stars also featured on that Kanye West cut. However, once Nicki Minaj joined a major label and sought to appeal to the mainstream, her style and image evolved: she adopted eccentric looks, appeared to undergo cosmetic surgery, emphasized her sensuality, flaunted a fashion-victim persona, and traded rap for other musical styles—R&B or Eurodance—considered more “feminine.” She openly acknowledged this strategic shift on one track from her first album, where the rapper-singer addresses her former persona with nostalgia, like an old friend she abandoned to find success.

Yet Nicki Minaj remains the heir of the previous decade’s female rappers. In fact, she is a grand synthesis of them all. Her music and lyrics reflect Lil’ Kim’s sexy stance and raunchy content (Lil’ Kim accused her of plagiarism), along with Missy Elliott’s flamboyant visual and musical flair, Ms. Lauryn Hill’s soul-diva mannerisms, and Eve’s intimidating style. Her triumph also set the stage for a new era rich in female rappers. As early as 2009, on “Can Anybody Hear Me,” a track where she vents her frustration at failing to sign with Def Jam, she proclaims, “I came to save a thing called female rap.” Time proved her right. In the years following her monumental success, we witnessed an overwhelming return of female rappers and a rapid expansion of their styles.

NORMALIZATION

At first glance, the following list may appear to detail all the women who have shaped hip-hop: Queen Latifah, MC Lyte, Nikki D, Lady of Rage, Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes, Queen Pen, Eve, Heather B, Charli Baltimore, Trina, Remy Ma, Ms. Jade, Jacki-O, Nicki Minaj, and of course Lil’ Kim. In reality, it’s something else: at some point, every one of these women has clashed with the jealous and highly irascible Foxy Brown.

These numerous scuffles suggest two things: first, that Foxy Brown is an unmanageable rapper, and second, that she can’t stand competition from other women. While multiple male rappers have often coexisted in the same era (despite plenty of feuds), it seems rap has never allowed more than one major female star at a time. In each period, one figure always loomed above the rest—MC Lyte, Da Brat, Missy Elliott, or Nicki Minaj.

The simultaneous success of the former friends Lil’ Kim and Foxy Brown is the only deviation from this trend, explaining much of their prolonged rivalry. Female rappers have always existed, but they’ve also always been a minority. One of rap’s pioneers, Roxanne Shanté, once remarked that women in hip-hop have historically been a “plus one.” She was referencing Sha-Rock of the Funky 4 + 1, yet her observation applies equally to herself—she was the lone female member of the Juice Crew—and to all the other rap groups or collectives thereafter.

Indeed, most of them featured a single female representative: Death Row (The Lady of Rage), Junior M.A.F.I.A. (Lil’ Kim), The Firm (Foxy Brown), The Click (Suga-T), Flipmode Squad (Rah Digga), Three 6 Mafia (Gangsta Boo), No Limit (Mia X), Terror Squad (Remy Ma), Ruff Ryders (Eve), Young Money (Nicki Minaj). It was rare for these crews—unlike the Native Tongues (Queen Latifah, Monie Love) or later Murder Inc. (Charli Baltimore, Vita, and singer Ashanti)—to include more than one notable female artist.

Gradually, though, as rap expanded and solidified its status as a dominant music form, the role of its women began to normalize. By the 2010s, female rappers reached an unprecedented level of visibility, branching into styles more varied than ever and ushering in what amounted to a second golden age for women in rap.

U.N.I.T.Y.

One example of women’s growing presence in early-2010s rap is drill music—a northern variant of Atlanta’s trap scene that originated in Chicago’s roughest neighborhoods amid intense violence. This style includes a significant number of women: Katie Got Bandz, Sasha Go Hard, Chin Chilla Meek, and Dreezy, all of whom contributed hits or major mixtapes to the drill genre. They also display a wide range of personalities, with some delivering raw intensity, others showcasing verbal dexterity, some being harsh and menacing, others occasionally revealing a sentimental side.

The women of drill music also succeed in freeing themselves from the usual female rap tropes. Often as “unapproachable” as their male counterparts—Katie Got Bandz, for instance, was in prison when her breakthrough track “I Need a Hitta” came out, and only turned to rap at her cousin’s urging to break free from crime—they don’t overplay their femininity, preferring to discuss street strife. That also shows in their style of dress, typically basic and unadorned. Often sporting minimal makeup and sometimes tattoos, these women are not trying to be tomboys; nor do they hide or deny their womanhood. It’s simply that their idols are no longer Lil’ Kim and Foxy Brown but male drill figures like Chief Keef and King Louie.

Most importantly, these female drill artists understand they gain nothing by competing among themselves. On the contrary, they often work together. Sasha Go Hard, for example, is well-known for frequently inviting groups of her friends to appear in her videos.

In the 2010s, other women realized there was strength in numbers. One such figure is Remy Ma, who—calmer after a lengthy prison stint—told Variety in 2018: “Numbers bring power. If I’m doing something good, and the girl next to me is doing something good, people will take us more seriously… We all bring something different to the table, and once we realize we need to stop bickering, work together, help one another, we’ll do so much better.”

Remy Ma followed her own advice in 2017 during a stadium performance, uniting several generations of prominent female rappers (MC Lyte, Queen Latifah, Lady of Rage, Lil’ Kim, Young M.A., and Cardi B) to perform “U.N.I.T.Y.”—Queen Latifah’s 1993 feminist anthem. (To be fair, that same concert also saw Remy Ma launch a blistering attack on her archrival Nicki Minaj.) This kind of female solidarity was growing more common in the early 2010s: the white rappers of the White Girl Mob were another example.

WHITE GIRL MOBS

White artists are a similarly small minority in American rap. While they’ve always existed—Vanilla Ice, Mac Miller, and of course the most iconic, Eminem—they generally make up only a fraction of the scene. Being white in rap has traditionally carried accusations of being a new Elvis, accused of stealing and appropriating African-American music and culture. Consequently, for a woman seeking a career in rap, being both female and white poses an even greater challenge.

Indeed, few recall Tairrie B, an Eazy-E protégé who, in 1990, became the first white female rapper to sign with a major label. Her career soon fizzled, and she switched to a genre more commonly linked to white musicians—metal. Later, New Yorker Princess Superstar worked with the eccentric Kool Keith but remained largely under the radar aside from a niche following. Around the mid-2000s, Lady Sovereign from England created some buzz and had Jay-Z’s support, but her momentum wasn’t sustained. And even though The White Rapper Show and Miss Rap Supreme, launched by Ego Trip magazine and VH1 in 2006, aimed to spotlight a few white female rappers (Byata, Persia, Lionezz…), none achieved much beyond their fifteen minutes of fame on television.

However, by the early 2010s, as rap fully normalized and cemented its dominance in popular music, there were stirrings for this doubly marginalized group—white women. Iggy Azalea became the most visible figure of this shift. In 2014, the Australian simultaneously held the first two positions on the Billboard Hot 100—“Fancy” and “Problem” (with Ariana Grande). Others also made a mark. Kreayshawn, from Oakland, attracted attention in 2012 through her song “Gucci Gucci.” Audiences discovered that she was connected to other San Francisco Bay artists, such as Lil B, and that she belonged to a trio of white female rappers known as the White Girl Mob. The most talented and enduring of the three appears to be Lil Debbie, but the third member, V-Nasty—who is partially of Vietnamese descent—made the biggest splash by collaborating with Gucci Mane, a leading figure in Atlanta’s trap scene, and releasing a joint album with him.

None of these women found enduring success. Within a few years, Iggy Azalea and Kreayshawn vanished from the spotlight, even becoming persona non grata in rap. Critics accused the first—a blonde from the other side of the world with a Southern U.S. rap accent—of appropriating an African-American culture that wasn’t hers. Meanwhile, V-Nasty was lambasted for using the word “nigga.” The path for white female rappers remains narrow. Often, they either stick to an underground purist niche or if they aim for mainstream success, they embrace the unruly persona—just as the Beastie Boys and Eminem once did. That strategy paved the way for Bhad Bhabie, whom we’ll revisit later.

EVER-GREATER DIVERSITY

Nonetheless, the emergence of these white women highlights the increasing variety of female rappers—especially since they’re not the only ones mingling with African-American artists. By the 2010s, several Latinas also began to stand out. Much like their male, Spanish-speaking counterparts, they had always been part of hip-hop—witnessed the musical careers of radio host Angie Martinez and Hurricane G, a Puerto Rican member of the Hit Squad collective. But the new generation saw other artists from this ethnic community, such as the Mexican-American Snow Tha Product or Raven Felix, the female face of Wiz Khalifa’s Taylor Gang. Latina pride got a major boost via Cardi B’s second big hit, “I Like It,” reflecting her Dominican and Trinidadian roots. Some didn’t hesitate to rap in their native language, like La Goony Chonga, a Miami-based Spanish speaker also known for her work with Spanish trap rapper La Zowi. Simultaneously, Asian artists emerged, such as Awkwafina (*sigh*)—a New Yorker of Chinese and Korean descent who juggles careers in rap and film—Honey Cocaine, a Cambodian-Canadian protégée of Tyga, and Ruby Ibarra, a Californian of Filipino ancestry.

Today’s female rappers span every background and embrace all sexual orientations. Granted, hip-hop women have never consisted solely of heterosexuals. For years, rumors circulated (whether accurate or not) about the sexual orientation of major female rap figures like MC Lyte, Queen Latifah, Yo-Yo, Da Brat, Heather B, and Missy Elliott. Yet few openly confirmed these rumors, often appearing in relationships with men to quash suspicions. Even Queen Pen—one of the first to broach female homosexuality with her single “Girlfriend”—later clarified that she was straight after repeated questioning on the topic. In fact, only a handful of women in progressive but less visible hip-hop circles, like Invincible, publicly identified as lesbian in the 2000s.

Female rap, too, has had its share of homophobia, sometimes as virulent as in the male scene. Foxy Brown provided a striking example when she shot back at Queen Pen’s “Girlfriend” with harsh verses in her track “10% Dis,” also targeting Queen Latifah, and escalated even further on “Talk to Me.”

For a while, New Orleans was the notable outlier. Known for its party spirit, the city maintained rap’s original dance-oriented roots through the steamy, rhythmic style called bounce. Within that subgenre emerged “sissy bounce” in the late 1990s, rooted in the city’s longstanding tradition of drag shows and cross-dressing entertainers. Led by trans and transgender rappers such as Katey Red, Big Freedia, and Sissy Nobby—who unhesitatingly sang about gay relationships and male prostitution, drawing in clubs packed with young women eager to twerk and attempt other sexually explicit moves—this scene offered an alternative interpretation of femininity within rap, one not always embraced by other bounce artists.

By the early 2010s, though, hip-hop’s relationship with homosexuality began to relax. R&B singer Frank Ocean, affiliated with the at-times homophobic collective Odd Future, came out in a high-profile moment. White heterosexual rapper Macklemore released “Same Love,” which became an anthem for gay marriage supporters. Some newcomers, such as Kalifa (formely known as Le1f), Mykki Blanco, and Cakes Da Killa, built their careers entirely around queer identity, while certain hetero men like Young Thug played with an androgynous, feminine appearance that alienated some potential fans. Around the same time, female rappers started openly proclaiming their lesbian identities—Siya, Dai Burger, Young M.A., Lor Choc, Bali Baby—while others identified as bisexual or pansexual (Azealia Banks, Angel Haze, who shared a personal take on “Same Love”).

This wave of diverse origins and sexual orientations also includes women challenging long-established beauty norms. Princess Nokia, who identifies as queer and has Hispanic heritage, proudly asserts in her signature track, “Tomboy,” that she can seduce men even with “little titties and a fat belly.” Chicago’s CupcakKe, who has a fuller figure, unabashedly leans into outrageous pornographic themes. Lizzo, from Minneapolis, doesn’t hesitate to call herself “fat,” appearing nude on the cover of her 2019 album Cuz I Love You—aligning with the body positivity movement that encourages people to reject shame over their bodies.

Many contemporary female rappers question clichés and upend the conventions of women in rap. New Yorker Leikeli47, for example, devotes multiple albums to themes of beauty but makes a point never to show her face, reveling in the contrast between occasionally sexy poses and the unattractive ski mask covering her head.

RAPPERS FROM ELSEWHERE

This proliferation of female rappers isn’t limited to North America. In England, women have frequently moved to the forefront. As early as the late 1980s, several all-female hip-hop groups—Wee Papa Girl Rappers, The She Rockers, Cookie Crew—found moderate success, followed in the 2000s by Ms Dynamite, Shystie, Lady Sovereign, M.I.A., and Speech Debelle. Yet in the decade thereafter, women became even more numerous within the margins of grime (the UK’s homegrown sibling of rap).

Hailing from Birmingham, Lady Leshurr captured attention on both sides of the Atlantic with her “Queen’s Speech” freestyle series. Another Londoner, NoLay—formerly of the collective Unorthadox—has been a mainstay of the movement. Others, such as radio host Julie Adenuga (sister to Skepta and JME), Nadia Rose (Stormzy’s cousin), A.Dot, Manchester’s Envy, Lady Chann, Cleo, Mz Bratt, Lioness, Stefflon Don, Ms Banks, and DJs Flava D and AG, or the trio Ruff Diamondz, have all shaped or supported the scene. Most notably, these women steer UK hip-hop into territory beyond grime, encompassing American-style rap, revamped soul, dancehall, and electronic experimentation.

France, however, seems behind the curve. Despite its lengthy local rap tradition, it has yielded just one bona fide female rap star: Diam’s. In the mid-2000s, as Mélanie Georgiades peaked in popularity, some attempted to anoint her the spokesperson for France’s young women; indeed, then-presidential candidate Ségolène Royal courted her on a famous TV show. How shocked some feminists and secularists were when Diam’s re-emerged later, having left rap behind, as a conventional mother who wore a headscarf. Yet Diam’s evolution makes sense in the context of French rap, which—as noted—often arises from communities more conservative than African-American ones and tends to watch with skepticism, distance, or even hostility the rise of flamboyant American stars like Nicki Minaj and Cardi B.

Likely for the same reasons, women making inroads in French rap remain few, and they generally stick to one path: in the long national tradition of singer-songwriters and politically engaged artists, they favor a socially conscious rap. Saliha, B. Love, Melaaz—early French female rap pioneers from the early 1990s—mostly championed political and social messages, occasionally Afrocentric and sometimes feminist, usually excluding sexual topics. This continued as the norm.

In the 1990s and 2000s, the leading female voices in French rap exhibited modest femininity (Lady Laistee), a unisex vibe (Princess Aniès), or an androgynous style (Casey), sometimes covering their hair (Keny Arkana), and typically engaging in political protest consistent with traditional leftist, alter-globalist ideologies. Likely hampered by sexist bias pressuring them to keep a low profile, French women rappers have always struggled to get mainstream exposure.

However, as rap solidified its dominance in the 2010s, France’s scene followed the American pattern of female proliferation and stylistic diversity. There was LaGo de Feu—daughter of a famous journalist—embracing trap music; Chilla, who combined modern rap with explicit feminism; and Lala &ce, whose mumbled delivery was doused in Auto-Tune. The French-speaking contingent also drew members from beyond France, such as Belgium’s Shay—an openly self-described “jolie garce” (pretty bitch)—or Switzerland’s La Gale, emerging from the punk scene and mentored by Paris’s La Rumeur, and KT Gorique, who showcased her freestyle abilities by winning the international End of the Weak contest in 2012.

None of these women truly broke through. Few—like Sianna, Shay, and Chilla—secured contracts with major labels. Those who managed to rise in broader “urban music” generally did so as R&B singers (Aya Nakamura, Marwa Loud), rather than as straight-up rappers.

When asked about this reality, journalist and author Thomas Gaetner offered one explanation: “In twenty years, rap shifted from lyrically polished texts conveying emotion and melody to a heavy dose of ego-tripping drowned in testosterone and Auto-Tune,” with the result that “women find it difficult to make themselves heard in that world.” That reasoning, however, is incomplete. It can be disputed (ego trips and testosterone have always been part of rap) and is contradicted by the U.S. example, which followed a similar musical trajectory but still yielded abundant female talent.

THE SOCIAL MEDIA STARLETS

In truth, the global picture is starkly different from Gaetner’s statement: during the 2010s, more female rappers existed than ever, and their styles multiplied at breakneck speed. The landscape for rap has changed. It has become the mainstream musical language for many young people, even those outside hip-hop’s historical bases. These newcomers enjoy fresh platforms: the internet and social media.

In the 1990s, a figure like Lil’ Kim owed her career to the powerful endorsement of Notorious B.I.G. By the late 2000s, Nicki Minaj’s rise also stemmed from a major rap godfather—Lil Wayne—and her proven skill on the mixtape circuit. Even Heather B. initially rose to fame in 1992 via MTV’s pioneering reality show The Real World, but she still had to rely on major New York rapper KRS-One for support. Above all, acceptance by core hip-hop fans and artists themselves was critical.

Over time, the industry’s rules evolved: with the internet, artists now connect directly to potential fans. Cardi B, for instance, was first a social media personality on Vine and Instagram, then a reality TV star, before demonstrating her rap abilities on singles and mixtapes. Because reality TV and social media bypass rap’s classic gatekeepers, they have fueled new models for female rappers, exemplified by Danielle Bregoli. After she caused a sensation on Dr. Phil about troubled teens, Bregoli became a social media figure; then, with the help of influential manager Adam Kluger, she turned into a rapper under the name Bhad Bhabie. Following a string of remixes, she released “These Heaux,” which made her the youngest female rapper ever to enter the Billboard charts—just fourteen years old. Another hit followed, “Hi Bitch,” along with collaborations with respected rappers, an album on major label Atlantic, and occasionally glowing reviews praising her persona and her definite skill on the mic.

Likewise, in the late 2010s, another cohort of female rappers, all calling themselves “Doll,” found an audience primarily through social media. Hailing from various cities and rap backgrounds, they engage in multiple spats with each other—yet Kash Doll, Asian Doll, Cuban Doll, and DreamDoll all share a fondness for bright makeup and flamboyant style, making them the heirs of Nicki Minaj (in fact, she has openly endorsed several of them). Their visual flair multiplies their impact on platforms like Instagram. For these rappers, as for many others, the internet is their playground, a space for amassing views and broadcasting their rivalries.

Barbie-like personalities and internet sensations aren’t the only ones leveraging social media. Other female rappers use it for more creative ends. An example is Tierra Whack, a Philadelphia-based artist with an arty, experimental approach. Her debut album, Whack World, comprises fifteen one-minute tracks, each accompanied by a vibrant, imaginative video that meets Instagram’s time-limit requirements so it can be shared there.

EQUALS TO MALE RAPPERS

After this long tour of the genre, at a time when rap feels omnipresent and rarely questioned in terms of legitimacy, the experience of female rappers reveals some persistent realities. While nobody demands that male artists justify their place in rap, women are still routinely expected to define themselves relative to men. In the late 2010s, letting two female rap superstars coexist still appears difficult. The endless comparisons and tensions between Nicki Minaj and Cardi B illustrate as much. Meanwhile, the dichotomy between “bad bitch” and “sista” continues to shape the world of female rap. Consider the two women the critics most applauded around 2017: Cardi B on one side and Rapsody on the other—each embodies one of these two archetypes.

Nor is the issue of rap’s misogyny anywhere near resolved. The controversy resurfaces periodically, as it did in 2013 over the track “U.O.E.N.O.” by Rocko, Future, and Rick Ross. Ross faced a fierce backlash for verses suggesting drugging women to have sex with them, which caused a sponsor to cut ties and forced the cancellation of a show. The conflict between proponents of artistic freedom and those concerned about the effect such lyrics have on young people remains as heated as ever.

In the wake of the Harvey Weinstein scandal, the #MeToo movement, and revelations implicating Def Jam founder Russell Simmons in sexual assault allegations, public scrutiny of sexism and harassment intensified. Rap is often labeled the enemy in this climate.

And yet, there have never been so many shades, nuances, and forms in which women participate in rap. They are more numerous and visible than ever before in the United States. Asian Doll, Bbymutha, the City Girls, CupcakKe, Junglepussy, Kash Doll, Kodie Shane, Leikeli47, Megan Thee Stallion, Noname, Princess Nokia, Rico Nasty, Queen Key, Tierra Whack, Tommy Genesis, Tink, and many more garnered strong critical attention in 2018 alone, representing unprecedented variety.

As audiences, artists, and media become more sensitive to women’s experiences, more doors open. That’s how Insecure, a TV series launched in 2016 that explores the lives of contemporary African-American women achieved near-unanimous critical acclaim. Naturally, its soundtrack relies heavily on female rappers—Kari Faux, Junglepussy, Dreezy, DonMonique, Kamaiyah, Leikeli47, Cardi B, Cam & China, Rico Nasty, Lizzo, Saweetie, City Girls, Tierra Whack, Maliibu Miitch, Tasha the Amazon, Tommy Genesis, Molly Brazy, Little Simz, Lord Narf—alongside R&B singers. Collectively, these artists almost perfectly encapsulate the breadth of modern female rap.

Granted, many emerging women in rap are short-lived phenomena. Angel Haze and DeJ Loaf may score one hit or get raved about by critics but never fully break through. The public sometimes follows, and commercial success meets critical acclaim. In the 2010s, Nicki Minaj and Cardi B have sold more albums than certain male darlings of the press and fanbase. In 2018, no female rapper had ever triumphed like Cardi B, who became only the fifth female MC to top the U.S. album charts and the very first with two (and then three) number-one singles. Despite her seemingly commodified persona, she never truly compromised her music. “The only thing fake is the boobs,” she boasts on “Get Up 10.”

In an era where rap is an integral part of the mainstream, the status of women in the genre follows a similar trajectory. That label—“female rappers”—used for so long to lump them together as if they formed a subcategory of hip-hop is fading fast and hardly resonates anymore. Never before have we been this close to the moment when female rappers finally stand as equals to their male counterparts.