Lullabies for Peace

Mon Rovîa’s Afro-Appalachian songs summon healing in an age of violence

Image by Zayne Isom © Mega House Music provided with permission

Blending West African musical lineage with Appalachian folk traditions, Mon Rovîa has emerged as an artist whose work is rooted as much in moral inquiry as in melody. At a moment when political power is wielded through fear, erasure, and relentless force, Mon Rovîa’s music offers something increasingly rare: a vision of healing that does not turn away from suffering, but asks listeners to sit with it—and to speak.

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From oral tradition, to the modern-day singer-songwriter, folk music has always dwelled in narrative. While the range of topics in it’s storytelling are vast, the desire to point listeners to some type of truth is consistent. For artist Mon Rovîa, it’s all about healing. 

In the midst of the Second Liberian Civil War, Janjay Lowe was adopted at the age of seven by missionaries and relocated to the United States. After turning to music, he decided to give his name back to his land, embracing the name of Liberia’s capital, Monrovia. 

Mon Rovîa’s style is proclaimed as “Afro-Appalachian,” a blend of his West African heritage with the sounds of traditional Appalachian sound. Now in Chattanooga, he writes with the goal of peace and healing, yet resistance to injustice. 

His song “Heavy Foot,” which was released in September of 2025, marked many failures in the United States’ government, such as the prominence of gun violence as well as it’s refusal to affirm the current Palestinian genocide. 

The song’s title is perhaps attributed to poet Audre Lorde’s “A Litany for Survival” where the “heavy-footed” are repeatedly trying to silence the marginalized. For Mon Rovîa, the image can be encapsulated in the current state of US government. “And they tried to keep us all down,” he says before adding, “No they never gonna keep us all down.” 

But not all Mon Rovîa’s songs are rallies. Some are heart-felt depictions of mental health wounds. Others reflect love and it’s permanence against transgressions. What’s clear is that Mon Rovîa desires to paint a world joined in togetherness, one that reaches beyond nation and language and embraces a collective humanity. 

This togetherness is not without pain, for Mon Rovîa knows that in order to heal, one must acknowledge whatever darkness, internal or external, surrounds them. In his most popular tracks, “crooked the road,” or “To Watch the World Spin Without You,” Mon Rovîa’s subject is trapped in their painful memories. This repressed hurt then causes them to live a life without fullness, one that Mon Rovîa is uncomfortable with.

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Mon Rovîa is not without his own scars. A transracially adopted refugee, he is open with his feelings of survivors guilt towards the Liberian Civil War, which totalled to at least 200,000 casualties and left half the population displaced. In his song “Who’s face am I,” Mon Rovîa accounts for this acute diaspora, actualizing it through the image of something left behind. In his own words, he is “Trying to give meaning / To phantom feelings,” he says, “Yearnings in my soul / For a name I’ll never know.” 

It wasn’t until after COVID when Mon Rovîa found his niche Afro-Appalachian sound. After dabbling and experimenting in the R&B sphere, his 2022 song “Vulture Culture” started to solidify his earnest, folk storytelling. It was then that he started to soar as an artist. Ever since, he’s been steadily growing through his TikTok videos where he markets himself as a writer of “lullabies for adults.” 

And to be truthful, the comparison isn’t unfounded. Mon Rovîa’s songs are present, yet twinged with an atmospheric quality, almost like a gentle wave of sleep. Many comments see this picture, too:

One user said, “It truly does something to me vibrationally! It feels like it heals my soul. Wow.”

Another stated, “Just so you know, this song still gets me thru my fathers death.” 

Other of his TikTok videos address the heart of his music and mission. In one video Mon Rovîa poses the question “Who radicalized you?” to which he responds “When I took the sermons seriously that I used to listen to where I learned about loving my neighbor, helping the needy, and welcoming foreigners.” 

The paradox at hand is one in which Christians stand at the helm of an empire that revels in division, cutting SNAP benefits, and facilitating ICE raids. This immorality so stark, it leads one to earnestly wonder what is going on? 

Perhaps the true power of Mon Rovîa’s music lies in its dwelling in empathy—something so often lost in today’s world. To imagine a world where we are not only listening but also advocating for the oppressed is a vast vision; yet for some, like Mon Rovîa, it is not impossible. 

As Audre Lorde reminds us in “A Litany for Survival,” when fear is rampant and the powerful are suffocatingly unjust, it is still better to speak than to remain silent.