Raised in Moss Side, Manchester in the nineties, when the neighbourhood was known as one of the worst places in the UK for gang culture and gun crime, Itonisha's story doesn't follow the polished narrative of traditional artistry. It's layered, raw, and deeply human. Before tattooing became her medium, art was her escape. A quiet space to process, to imagine, to rebuild.

Today, her work exists far beyond aesthetics. It speaks to identity, heritage, and the power of self-expression, especially for those who haven't always seen themselves reflected in the industry. But what makes her journey compelling isn't just what she creates, it's how she got there: through curiosity, disruption, and an unwavering instinct to follow what feels true.

This is not a story about becoming a tattoo artist. It's about becoming yourself.

You've spoken about growing up in Moss Side. How did that environment shape you?

It shaped everything. Moss Side in the nineties was at the pinnacle of gun crime in the UK, and the men in my family were heavily involved in gang culture, so my household was directly affected. When I was twelve, I was in a car that was chased and shot at. No one was hurt, but that moment changed my life and my family's forever. Growing up like that forces you to develop a kind of masculine, protective energy just to survive. The women in my area had to be built differently. But it also created a need for something softer, another world. That's where art came in.

What did art give you before it became your career?

It was my escape. My brother's thirteen years older than me and he's been in prison since I was eight, so it was mostly just me at home, and my mum has struggled with alcoholism for a long time. I spent a lot of time alone. Drawing was how I processed everything I couldn't say out loud, and how I imagined a different life for myself. I'd dream up new versions of who I could be. I always knew I'd be an artist, I just didn't know tattooing would be the form it took.

Your path into tattooing wasn't traditional. How did you find your way into it?

It wasn't linear at all. I moved to London at nineteen to study sculpture, dropped out, tried creative computer science, dropped out again. I worked retail, hospitality, managed a gallery for the sculptor Gavin Turk. I'm naturally curious, so I kept trying things. Eventually I realised I needed to commit. I wrote a list of everything I thought I might want to do and tattooing was at the top. I started learning informally through someone I was dating, and when that situation ended a few months in, I had to decide: stop, or figure it out myself. I chose to keep going.

Seven years later, here we are.

You've described tattoo artists as “pirates on the fringes of society.” What did you mean by that?

Tattooing has always lived on the edge. The people doing it, the people getting it, historically they've been outside what society deems acceptable. Growing up seeing police brutality firsthand, I was anti-establishment quite early on, so that fringe energy really pulled me in. And I think tattoo artists get to live the kind of rockstar life people imagine rockstars live now but don't really, being their own bosses, travelling, doing what they want. That freedom felt true to me.

Your work has a strong cultural identity. Was that intentional from the beginning?

Not at first. When I started, I didn't even realise how underrepresented Black tattoo artists were in the UK, or that there was almost no Afrocentric flash out there. Once I saw the gap, I couldn't unsee it. Moss Side is a predominantly Black area, it's home to the Manchester Carnival, so that culture is in my blood. I started drawing flash that reflected my own experience, and it grew from there. I also started learning that tattooing has been practised in Africa for thousands of years, and most people don't know that. Every culture has its tattoo tradition. I wanted Black people to have art on their bodies that celebrated theirs.

How has that perspective evolved?

 In the beginning it felt like a mission, and there was frustration behind it. It became political. Now I'm in a different place. Black art is still the focus of my work, but honestly I just want people to celebrate who they are, whatever their heritage. If a white Irish client wants to celebrate their Celtic roots, I love doing that too. Our lineage is part of why we are who we are.

That's worth honouring.

You've described tattooing as more than a craft. What is it to you now?

It's a language. It helped me process life when I couldn't speak, and it helped me understand myself. But I've zoomed out, and I've realised it was never really about the tattooing. It's about community. It's about helping people become their most truest, authentic, rebellious selves. I'm building a company now to carry that forward, workshops, talks, another Afrodemic this year.

Tattooing is still part of it, but it's one tool among many.

Looking back, what would your younger self think of you today?

She'd be surprised I became a tattoo artist, that wasn't on the list. But I think she'd be proud. Not so much of what I've made, but of who I've become. The healing, the growth, being on the other side of all that. That's the real achievement.

And where are you now in your journey?

Learning to be softer with myself. I grew up in a harsh environment, and I was harsh on myself for a long time. I overthink, I spend too much time in my head. Right now I'm practising doing more and thinking less, showing myself more grace. It's uncomfortable, but it's where I am. Still

becoming.