Kai-Isaiah Jamal: 'Now More Than Ever, It’s Important To Amplify And Listen To Trans Voices' (2025)

Photographs by Ronan Mckenzie. Styling by Rudy Simba Betty.

Kai-Isaiah Jamal's poetry finds you. Their voice, both soft and seismic, weaves love, sex, queerness, freedom and self-discovery into musings. Each word carries a quiet alchemy – an invitation to feel, to question, to become.

It was the power of their words – following an invitation from director Mollie Mills to write for a Stella McCartney campaign – that launched them into modelling. They penned a poem for Idris Elba to recite, but when they showed up on set with cheekbones sharp enough to start a revolution, their face quickly became part of the story.

An impressive career has followed, with a roster already including Fendi, Mugler and Gap, and collaborations with icons such as Willy Chavarria and the late Virgil Abloh. They were the first trans model to be nominated for Model of the Year at the 2023 British Fashion Awards, and the first Black trans model to walk for Louis Vuitton’s menswear show in 2021.

In a world that constantly enacts violence on Black, trans and queer bodies, Kai’s visibility in the arts and in fashion feels like a revolutionary act, one that has helped to shape the expansiveness of their gender expression and how they move through the world, through poetry, fashion and all they do. Next, they are launching their musical career under the alias Kissin Teef, and describe the work as a love letter to home, to community and their beloved south London.

Kai understands how fashion, music and culture can help bring communities of support together, such as the queer BBZ club night in south London, where we both grew up, were nurtured and had each other’s back when the rest of the world didn’t. It’s no surprise, then, that Kai views their career as part of something bigger than themselves. Their work is not just about visibility; it’s about the reclamation of space, championing a narrative that celebrates the multiplicity of queer and trans life.

There’s a beauty within them that radiates, one that transcends physical appearance and speaks to a sense of purpose. At a time when visibility and the celebration of these voices has never felt more urgent, Kai’s journey reminds us that change is worth fighting for.

Let's kick things off with those south-London roots. What was little Kai like?

I was always very talkative. I was very confident. I understood that language was something that I enjoyed from the beginning of time. I was lucky because my mum was so conversational, and I feel really privileged to have had that from a young age. There was always this idea of talking through your feelings. There were definitely some difficulties with that as I got older, when it came to conversations about gender and sexuality, but the offering of feeling was always there.

Were there any other adults who nurtured your creative talents?

Do you know what? I fancied both my English teachers, and I think there was something in that – I probably wanted to impress them. Now, I look back and I’m like, ‘Oh, you didn’t fancy them’; they just gave me the thing that made me feel seen and valuable. I probably made their lives hell because I was annoying and always chatting, getting up, taking my shoes off and walking around. But I think both of them had a soft spot for me because I really did love to work.

What were some of the first queer spaces that left an impression on you?

The first thing I went to was Black Pride with my friend. We must have been about 17. I had some stupid multi-coloured hair. It was in Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. That Black Pride was like the birth of both me and my friend. We didn’t know there were so many queer Black people of such a variety. It was the most inter-generational space. Lady Phyll (founder of UK Black Pride) brought in a cross section of our generation with hers and it was the first time I really saw older queer Black people and thought, ‘This is what we’re going to look like.’ For a long time, I believed queerness was something that stopped at the age of 40 because we didn’t really see it.

That period was the genesis of many things, so many spaces. It was the era of BBZ, GAL-DEM, PXSSY PALACE.

So many. They had the last Pxssy Palace the other day and I felt both sad and hopeful because the generation before us opened so many doors, and we opened them a little further. Now, I’m excited to see what this [next] generation can do. They have so many more freedoms and a self-awareness that we didn’t have at their age, and such a lack of insecurity.

How has your self-expression evolved as you've navigated the world of fashion?

I remember when I first met people in the industry, I was so hyper-masculine, going by he/him pronouns, even though I was scared of masculinity. I grabbed on to any piece of it I could. Now, I’m so comfortable in my fluidity, I’m much more playful with my gender. I used to think, ‘How can I be non-binary if I’m just here in a grey Nike tracksuit?’ I felt pushed out of non-binaryness because I had the privilege of passing. I was scared that queerness had to be this outward performance. Now, I’m so happy that my performative element of queerness is something I choose to step into – and fashion plays such a huge part in that.

How did you learn to show you on your own terms and resist the pressure to conform?

Well, Covid was the worst time for so many reasons, but the one beautiful silver lining was that I had time to sit with myself. Before that, I was known for being open about masculinity, and then I suddenly thought, ‘Oh God, if I speak about femininity, are people going to think I’m a fraud?’ Also, the residue of transphobia – the constant need to justify yourself. I was like, ‘If I look feminine, someone’s going to say I’m de-transitioning. I can’t give them that.’ Then one day, I just broke down and thought, ‘I just don’t want a gender,’ and someone said, ‘Don’t have one.’ And it was literally that.

Sometimes, all it takes is one person to give you that mirror moment. When it come to modelling, your body is yours, yet it becomes part of the industry. How do you navigate that balance?

Obviously, at the beginning of your career, we all do the same thing: you shut up, and even if you’re doing something that makes you want to hurl, you’re like, ‘OK, everything’s fine.’ And now I’m like, ‘OK, cool – you can tell people when you’re uncomfortable.’ And that’s important – not just for me, but for other people in the industry.

It takes time to build that.

Exactly. Now, I can do that, but that wasn’t the case at the beginning. I was reflecting recently on how my entire transition has been documented by so many different people. Sometimes I wonder if I would have made different choices if I’d been in closer conversation with my body and not been caught up in all the noise of others. Not that I wish for it – I’m comfortable with where it is now. But maybe I would have saved some time on not caring about perception. It’s hard to be you and be a muse at the same time.

How does writing feed into this?

I’m so glad I do both, because in the spaces where I don’t want to speak and instead want to create images, I have modelling. And then there’s writing, my forever love. There’s just something about it that grounds me; I understand who I am most when I’m writing, and I feel clearest when I’m writing. Sometimes I’ll go from the fancy fashion world and suddenly sit on my sofa with a cigarette, scribbling in my notebook. And I’m like, I still love returning to this – it will forever be my safe space.

You wrote the most beautiful poem about home for my novel Rosewater, and you even have 'home' tattooed across your stomach. What does the word mean to you?

Finding home in yourself is important. I think it’s the most important thing. But as I get older, and now that I’ve also bought a house, it’s become about space. I remember talking to my therapist; I kept saying [as I was viewing places] ‘I don’t get it. I don’t like any of these houses. Why do I not like these houses?’ She said: ‘Why don’t you lead with what your inner child would want?’ And then I went to see this chapel and told the estate agents: ‘I just want to run around it.’ The first day I got the keys, I ran around the space. I never thought of home as a house or a location – but being a homeowner is about having a space where the rules belong to you, where you can express yourself however you want.

Tell me about the people who make up your community - those who truly feel like home.

I feel privileged that I have so many real, genuine friendships in this industry. People say that it can be fickle, and there are stigmas attached. But if you look beyond some of the madness and the questionable stuff, there are some incredible people out there, friendships that feel like family. I have friends who are models, designers, and they’re in New York, Paris and everywhere. You get to see them in their city, or they come to yours. There’s a whole other life, and I feel blessed to have that community. Without it, I don’t think I would have been able to work in the industry as long.

Why is it important that we back each other?

Well there’s so much shit in the world; everyone’s trying to kill us. As queer people, as Black people, as kids of immigrants – many people aren’t on our side.

Fashion can often reduce marginalised bodies to tokens, but there are also those who are truly committed to building with you. Tell me a bit about working with Virgil Abloh.

Virgil. I always say, damn, he made it so hard for everyone else because he set a standard that was exceptional. Someone who moved with love and without ego. No one will ever be able to even match it. I feel like one of the lucky ones that got to do a lot with him. Even now we don’t get to see [the extent of] what he did for the Black community. It might be 20 years before we fully realise it. Even at the last Pharrell show, I was just like, ‘Wow, what this man did changed the course of fashion for so many people.’ He did it with such integrity and hunger because he actually cared about it.

Finally, what can we expect from your upcoming musical project?

It’s like a love letter to nostalgia. It’s also a love letter to where I grew up in south London. It’s about those years, the collective idea of growing up, feeling lost, arriving home, leaving home and all those radical ways we have to find love in places that aren’t always the easiest. There are little elements of grime, UK funky house and old soul that we grew up on. It’s like an amalgamation of my teenage years with a little bit of reflection of who I am now.

Love that - we need nostalgic vibes to warm our souls when the climate is hostile. What does hope mean to you?

Hope is knowing that you’ve been through darkness and found the light once, so you can do it again. And it’s for people to realise that we’ve been here a long time as trans people, for centuries. Sometimes it’s about looking back in order to see what direction we need to go in to walk forward. And I think now more than ever, it’s so important to amplify and listen to trans voices. What better way than to get people to listen via music and collectively come together. It’s the storytelling that’s so important.

HAIR: Issac Poleon at The Wall Group, using Bumble and Bumble. MAKE-UP: Saint Maretto, using Tatcha and Lisa Eldridge. NAILS: Simone Cummings, using Bio Sculpture Gel. STYLIST’S ASSISTANT: Sabrina Leina. SET DESIGN: Lee Flude at Agency 41.

This interview is the cover story of ELLE UK's April issue, on sale from March 13.

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