‘When I say ‘Hull’, you say ‘City’! Hull …” Chiedu Oraka grins, pointing his mic towards the middle of a near-empty recording studio. Silence – for now, at least. Next week, that pause will be filled by 20,000 voices at Craven Park stadium, where the local rapper will open Coldplay’s latest UK run of Music of the Spheres tour dates. And he is determined to make that crowd his own. “There’s going to be people there who haven’t seen me before, so I want to give them everything – new songs, old ones and a party,” he says. “I’m proper buzzing for it.”
Last year, Oraka played Glastonbury, opened for Skepta at South by Southwest and supported the Brit-award-winning rapper Casisdead. But these Coldplay shows are the 37-year-old’s biggest gigs yet – and Hull’s most high-profile music events in years. The gigs reflect Coldplay’s effort to reach working-class areas, while 10% of the proceeds from ticket sales will go to the Music Venue Trust, which protects grassroots venues. Chris Martin enlisting Oraka fulfils part of that ethos to uplift communities.
“Chris FaceTimed me from his studio in LA and said: ‘I’m coming to your city. How can I help you?’” says Oraka. We are speaking at Yankee Land, a Hull fast food spot renowned for its chips. Oraka is a family friend who has been anointed with his own box meal: a giant burger with turkey bacon, fries, chilli cheese bites and popcorn chicken. Today, however, he has opted for a chicken burger, strips and a chocolate milkshake.
“I was just brazen with it,” he continues. “Like: ‘Mate, I wanna support you on both shows.’” They announced the news on social media with a staged video call, in which Martin repeatedly butchered the pronunciation of Chiedu, before conceding that Coldplay would be, Oraka says, “closing the show for me”. The line was Martin’s idea; the mispronunciation gag came from earlier conversations, when the frontman struggled with his name.
Over email, Martin keeps up the shtick: “I discovered Chiedu while learning about the music scene in Hull, and after we spoke a bit I asked him if he’d be open to us closing for him there. He took his time, but eventually agreed, as long as we don’t look him in the eye.”
In Yankee Land, at least, the 6ft 7in (2-metre) star wears his homegrown celebrity status with warm humility. Staff repeatedly offer to replenish our spread of food. “Hey, Chie!” is followed by promises to text meet-up plans. “Everyone’s my best mate now,” he laughs, recalling the frenzy that followed the Coldplay news. “Like: ‘Oh, I knew he was always going to do it!’”
Oraka was born and raised by a single mother on a council estate in north Hull and his identity is at the core of his artistry. They were the only Black family in the area; he grew up surrounded by white classmates who didn’t understand his Nigerian heritage. Racism was so entrenched that some of his friends hid from their parents the fact they were hanging out with a Black kid.
“We were eating pounded yam and when my friends came over they were weirded out by it,” he says. “I was embarrassed. I just wanted to fit in.” He soon started getting into trouble. By 10, he was arrested for shoplifting; in 2007, he went to prison for fighting. “I’ve gone through the system of crime, I’ve sold drugs – the stereotypical ‘Black thing’ to do.” Now, through music, Oraka wants to tell a different story.
Sonically, the rapper is indebted to London, switching with ease between grime, garage and UK funky. But on his debut mixtape, 2024’s Misfit, Oraka raps about mental health and race through the lens of a working-class northerner. On Own Kind, he is candid about feeling like an outsider in mainstream Black spaces: “At home, I’m way too Black / When I leave it’s not the same.” On No Need, he voices his mum’s fear of him ending up like Christopher Alder, a Black man who died in police custody in Hull in 1998. “I’m trying to northernise the Black experience, because it’s more than just inner-city London,” he says.
Oraka says he has encountered hostility in the London-centric music industry, from comments about his accent to a lack of interest from Black music outlets. “I really wanted to be accepted in the GRM Daily, Link Up TV, Mixtape Madness world – you know, the main Black media. And I just wasn’t getting no love,” he says. “When a Black guy raps about drugs and jail, it unfortunately sells, because that’s the language people understand. But there are stories to be told from kids who grew up like me. I just want a level playing field.”
Oraka has since learned to embrace his difference as a “superpower” – hence his slogan “The Black Yorkshireman”, which today is emblazoned on the back of his T-shirt. A new EP, Undeniable, will drop in October, accompanied by a UK tour that kicks off at the New Adelphi Club in Hull, a tiny venue that has hosted Oasis and fellow local success story the Housemartins.
His new music, he says, is “going to show the listener that I mean business. I’m coming for the title of king of the north.” He catches himself to avoid disrespecting the incumbent royal. “I’m not trying to slate Bugzy Malone – I think he’s unreal. What he’s done for northern rappers is mad. He created the blueprint.”
Diversity in Hull has improved significantly since Oraka’s childhood. But after last summer’s riots and the election of a Reform mayor in East Yorkshire this spring, Oraka acknowledges that there is still work to be done. “That was embarrassing,” he says, of last year’s violence. “That’s not a true reflection of Hull at all. It’s just a very small minority. The recent election was terrible – unfortunately, a lot of these people are sheep. They don’t do their own research and follow the bandwagon. It’s very toxic.”
The weight of this moment is not lost on Oraka and he is prepared for the pressure that comes with increased visibility. “This is an opportunity for young Black kids from Hull to see me supporting the biggest band in the world. Like: if he can do it, there’s hope for us,” he says, beaming. “I feel that responsibility and I’m relishing it. I was born to do this.”
