At a US Treasury event this week, rapper Nicki Minaj clasped Donald Trump’s hand and declared herself his “number one fan,” insisting that criticism of the President’s leadership only cements her support.
It was nothing less than a moment of bitter irony: one of the most influential Black women in popular music publicly aligning herself with a man whose political legacy is steeped in hostility toward Black communities and women.
Maybe Minaj is aiming for edgy contrarianism, but more likely this is a prime example of when fame collides with power to the extent that someone quite literally forgets who they are.
Minaj grew up in Queens, in working-class Black neighbourhoods shaped by poverty, underfunded schools, policing disparities, and systemic neglect.
Trump’s political worldview on the other hand, has long treated communities like these as problems to be controlled rather than people to be supported. His rhetoric has forever centred around “inner cities,” crime, and consistently leant into dog whistles of racial fearmongering. To Trump, Black neighbourhoods are dangerous wastelands. Social programs designed to raise these communities up have been eradicated under his presidency. Right now in the US, Black Americans are incarcerated at nearly five times the rate of white Americans.
For Minaj to come out and defend Trump as a victim of “bullying” is a staggering inversion of reality. Trump has never been bullied. He is the bully. His entire platform and public persona is proudly built around this. He is a billionaire politician who built a brand on attacking minorities, immigrants, journalists, and political opponents.
And of course, there is also the gender hypocrisy. Minaj built her career on defying misogyny in a male-dominated industry. She has been vocal about sexism and exploitation in hip-hop, even suggesting that “some female rappers get scared out of the business before they can make it.”
Trump’s record on women, meanwhile? Well, it’s potentially the most notorious of any modern political figure.
His infamous boast about sexually assaulting women captured on tape was a clear admission of entitlement to women’s bodies. He has been accused by scores of women of sexual misconduct, and found liable in court for sexual abuse and the defamation of E. Jean Carroll. His friendship and involvement with prolific sex offender, Jeffrey Epstein is strongly speculated upon. He has mocked accusers, belittled female journalists (just weeks ago telling Bloomberg News reporter, Catherine Lucey to “quiet, piggy”) and repeatedly reduced women to their looks, weight, or perceived loyalty.
Supporting Trump as a woman, especially a woman who has branded herself as a feminist disruptor, is not just contradictory but politically incoherent for Minaj. Trump doesn’t see women as equals. He sees them as objects, enemies, or punch lines.
Minaj may believe that holding proximity to Trump, and defending the indefensible makes her powerful. But Trump isn’t seeing her as a true ally. She is a cultural shield; proof that his movement is not racist or sexist because a famous Black woman likes him.
She can stand on a stage with him, hold his (tiny) hand and shower him in praise, but she will never be his equal in the power hierarchy he represents. Black women from immigrant backgrounds are never powerbrokers. At best they are props (such as in Minaj’s case), and at worse they are held in contempt.
Of course, wealth and fame can insulate people from the realities they once lived. When policy impacts no longer touch your daily life, it becomes easier to romanticise strongmen and dismiss systemic injustice as “smear campaigns.” But the communities Minaj came from do not have that luxury. Trump’s policies may not affect her private jets, mansions, or wealth, but they will affect the poverty-stricken families still struggling in Queens, New York.
Minaj has spent her career insisting she is more than a puppet. Yet in siding with Trump, she’s proved that’s exactly what she is.