KUKII thrives in uncertainty

KUKII does not hesitate to admit that she doesn’t know, quite the opposite. She embraces the “not knowing,” seeing it as the uncertainty that defines true adventure. Formerly known as Lafawndah, the Egyptian-Iranian artist chose to leave behind a critically acclaimed and successful career in pursuit of self-discovery, a deeper sense of identity, and alignment with her karmic callings.

When KUKII, also known as Yasmine Dubois, began making music in Cairo after years of immersing herself in different musical landscapes –  having lived in cities like Paris, Mexico City, and London – she stored her early work in a folder named after her Egyptian aunt, Kukii. Yasmine had only met her aunt once, at age two, during a trip with her father. She didn’t realize then that this spontaneous act of naming the folder would later shape the next chapter of her journey and perhaps the rest of her musical career.

Speaking to me from her new home in Cairo, KUKII is fresh off the release of Rare Baby, a transformative debut EP that marks a fundamental departure from her earlier work as Lafawndah. This pivotal shift in Yasmine’s 15-year music career wasn’t the result of careful strategy; it’s the culmination of years spent searching, tracing the uncharted contours of her roots, ambitions, and artistic evolution.

KUKII speaks in a way that is distinctly her own, often chaotic yet singular; she draws unlikely analogies, comparing humanity to a vast pot of lentils and rebels to green peas. Her thoughts meander unpredictably, weaving between sharp philosophical musings and whimsical digressions. Her responses are never linear, always keeping the conversation on edge, rooted in uncertainty. This sense of unpredictability is central to both KUKII’s character and her music.

Rare Baby unfolds like an ever-present sense of tension that keeps you on edge, whether through its production, melodies, lyrics, or the next unexpected vocal shift. The album is an adventure that thrives in imbalance, contrasting rich cultural, political, and sonic identities in deliberate and untamed ways. “When I make music, it’s like having this diverse toolbox to create my own language,” KUKII tells me.

In an era shaped by identity politics, Rare Baby is a reclamation of KUKII’s own identity, which is rebellious, fluid, and rare. She moves beyond formulas and conventional structures, finding strength in instability, where her feet never quite touch the ground. Creative discomfort is her fuel and guide, leading her toward the uncharted territories of herself.

Let’s start with the big shift; you had an incredible run as Lafawndah. What made you transition to KUKII?

It felt like shedding a skin. I had outgrown certain things, especially with everything that’s happened in my personal life. I wanted the music to exist more in the light. There was an aura around Lafawndah, something more mysterious and unearthed, though that was never my intention. I just wanted to be more in the sun. I’ve wanted to do this for years but was always advised against it. People are always afraid of change. A lot of what was attached to the Lafawndah project doesn’t fit this new phase of your life, personally and musically.

Would you call this a rebirth?

It’s like finally landing in yourself. I’ve spent most of my life floating outside my body, and now, for the first time, I’ve truly arrived. I needed a new name that reflected that.

Where did the name KUKII come from?

The story behind KUKII is terrific. For the past 15 years, the only thing I knew about my Egyptian side was one thing: I had an aunt named KUKII. She lived in Cairo, and she loved me. She met me once when I was two and travelled to Cairo with my dad. She had a picture of me in my apartment in Cairo, and that was it. That name was my only connection to Cairo. I knew nothing about her or her life, but she loved me very much.

For the past 10 years, I’ve been coming to Cairo once or twice a year, and she became this sort of siren or muse to me. Every time I came back, it felt like I was chasing a dream, looking for her. I’d walk down the streets, see people, and wonder, Oh, maybe that person is KUKII… or perhaps that one. I had this whole fantasy around her because she was my only attachment to the city.

Then, about five years ago, I started making music here—just me, renting studios, figuring things out. I had a little folder for the music I was making in Cairo, and I named it Cairo KUKII. Every song I made here went into that folder for five or six years. When it came time for a name change, I had no idea what it would be. I just knew I didn’t want to keep the Lafawndah h name. I was talking to a friend about it, and we both looked at each other and said it at the same time: It’s KUKII. You’ve been living with this name, putting all your music under it—that’s your name.

Have you reconnected with her? How was that experience? 

I literally just met her last week. I’m honestly in shock because the level of “Subhan Allah” moments in this situation is really strong. She’s very sick; she’s had a few strokes, and she can’t move or speak anymore, but she understands. It’s so powerful for me that I took her name because, in a way, she continues to live through the music I make. It’s incredibly moving.

I’m just now learning all these things, and it all happened just a week before I released this project, Rare Baby. I discovered she had this deep, almost karmic connection with me. Even though she only met me once, she was always dreaming about me, talking about me, wondering how Yasmine was dressed, and keeping track of how old I was every year. And I just learned how obsessed she was with music and dancing; it makes me want to cry.

Do you consider the whole process a rediscovery of self? Now that you have reconnected with your Egyptian roots.

It’s not a rediscovery; I see it as a discovery. There was nothing before, you know? But now, everything is slowly falling into place. I’m piecing together new information about my life, like filling in a puzzle. Every day, I meet new members of my family. I’m spending time with my father for the first time in my life. It’s very intense and personal.

It feels like I’ve been living in a maze, and things are finally aligning. And it’s the same with the music. I’ve never made music this clear before. I’ve never created with such intentional lyrical and vocal gestures as I have on this record. 

Do you feel like you’re revealing more about yourself in this project? 

Definitely. Even if I spoke purely about how I use my voice. I was very, very clear. Usually, before starting a new record, I like to set rules for myself—kind of like game rules. Whether or not I stick to them isn’t the point, but I always start the process by creating a framework within which to work. But for this record, I knew from the start that I wanted an unleashed voice, something not bound by slickness or traditional beauty, especially the kind of feminine beauty often found in most female voices. I was very clear that my inspirations were rooted in more traditional music from Iran and Egypt, as well as popular styles like Rai from Algeria and Mahraganat from Cairo.

We saw those Eastern influences on the record, how do you approach working with these musical foundations and incorporating them into the record?

It’s natural; it’s not like I sat down with a mood board or anything. Yes, there are Eastern influences, but the record also has a lot of ’80s and ’90s punk and grunge in it. I think people sometimes focus too much on the “exotic” side of things. But when you grow up between different places and cultures, you naturally become a mix of all of them.

I’ve been listening to North Eastern music since birth, these were the first songs I learned to sing, even before I could speak. But then, as a teenager, I was listening to The Smashing Pumpkins and Nirvana. All of these sounds are in my DNA. When I make music, it’s like having this diverse toolbox to create my own language. It’s not a deliberate choice to blend genres just for the sake of it, it’s not some external, conceptual collage.

How would you describe the album?

It’s a revenge album for my teenage self. I was really into aggressive music. I liked guitar music and voices that were angsty and raw, not necessarily pretty, anti-establishment. But most of that music was made by predominantly white men, so it carried a lot of white male anxiety. This record is my way of inscribing my own musical legacy. I later discovered that the music from my background also has its own protest music, revolutionary music, and guitar music, all the things I didn’t know about as a teenager but uncovered in my twenties when I travelled and learned more about my origins. So this record is a nod to that teenage rebellious spirit, but within the musical tradition I’m truly a part of.

Has being in Cairo influenced the making of this album?

I recorded the album everywhere. I started working on it in Cairo but also in Spain, the Cayman Islands, LA, and France. I brought my friends who collaborated on the album to Cairo so they could spend time here. There was a lot of back and forth, but the record is infused with my time in Cairo.

I don’t mean that in a purely literal way. It’s not just about the sounds; I’m not simply using mahraganat or specific sonic elements, though that’s one aspect. There are deeper layers tied to my voice, connection to God, spirituality, family, and even the parties I’ve been to. It’s not just about sound; it’s about the urgency in the music. 

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by KUKII (@cairokukii)

I was reading your conversation in Flash Art and you were talking about a really interesting concept: “developing new geographies”. Is this transition from Lafawndah to KUKII and the move to Cairo a part of this? 

There’s a sense of continuation, but this also feels like a clear new chapter. I just know and feel that I belong here. I’ve never felt that anywhere else. Not in France, even though I spent most of my life there. I am not in Iran, even though my formative years were there, but my family is there, and I love the country. And yet, I’ve never felt this sense of home anywhere except here.

Something about Cairo, karmically, is telling me, You can rest now. You are home. It’s asking me to stay. This is a new beginning. That new beginning is also because I’ve decided to shift my centre. Europe was never truly my centre, but by moving here, getting a house and a studio, and inviting people to meet me here, I’m creating a new centre for myself and for those around me. It’s something entirely new for me.

So Lafawndah as a project is over for good?

Yes, it’s over forever. 

Now, with the expertise you’ve gained throughout your music career, both as Lafawndah and KUKII, how is it different from when you first started? 

There’s been a huge journey of growth and learning because I’m a different person now. I have a different relationship with my voice, body, and love. However, one thing that has always been important to me is staying wary of creative comfort. As soon as I feel like I’m figuring something out -whether it’s writing music, producing, singing, or approaching melody- if I start to feel like I have a way of doing things, I disrupt everything. That’s crucial for me. 

Do you feel like this expertise or “the way” you’re talking about limits your expression?

I just love not knowing. That’s what drives my music; I love the uncertainty. I don’t mind being wrong; sometimes I prefer it. The music that interests me is found in that space, not in the ease. I listen to a lot of music and find it so easy. I have a very specific calling, and that calling is about searching and opening windows along the way. There’s a sense of adventure in the music. When you’re on a true adventure, you don’t know what’s going to happen to you.

How is it different to you, creatively?

The most important thing to me, and what I’m thriving off, is embracing uncertainty. As I mentioned, I love having rules for every record but also breaking them. The rules aren’t meant to be rigid; they’re there so we can have fun. All of this ties into uncertainty, not knowing, discomfort, and searching. That’s where I am, somewhere in that space.

Your work always has a lot of intention, even in the album titles. What made you go with Rare Baby?

Album titles have their own way of coming to you; they either come at the beginning, before the music, or at the very end. In this case, it came at the very end. I’m not going to invent a concept for you or pretend I had the name all along, it’s not like that. I had a song called Rare Baby, and as I finished the record, all these family things were unfolding.

I started learning about the rest of my family, which is primarily a family of women. Then, suddenly, I’m meeting my dad and my cousins, and I find out they all come from a dynasty of rare babies.

The title is also relatable because a rare baby isn’t just someone born from an exotic mix of descent. A rare baby is a manifesto for anyone who isn’t following a prescribed path. People say the world is made of lentils, and there are green peas in the world of lentils. The only way the green peas can survive is by finding other green peas in the large pot of lentils. The rare baby feeling is the green peas finding each other.