“Listen to me now, believe me later on.”
Khujo said it first on Cell Therapy, but Drew of Enstrumental (full name: Dwamina Drew) has been living it for two decades. No hooks. No hype. Just cultural deposits in a world of performative overdrafts. And now, with a major exhibition opening in Chicago this May, the multi-hyphenate—designer, collector, curator, griot—is ready to take his place among the architects of modern Black memory.
The DREW Collection: Listen to Me Now, Believe Me Later On is more than a show. It’s a cipher. A syllabus. A sanctuary for the objects and ideas that shaped the man behind one of the most quietly revolutionary brands in the country. The exhibition is a 200+ piece reflection of a life in conversation with Black art, music, ephemera, resistance—and rap.
For those unfamiliar with his impact, Drew is what happens when a backpack hip-hop kid grows up, stays rooted, and refuses to commodify the culture he came from. This cover story isn’t just a profile—it’s an explanation.
The Origin Story: Museums, Mix CDs, and Memory
Before the archives, before the exhibitions, before Enstrumental, there was just Dwamina Drew—though most know him simply as Drew. A kid from Englewood with South Central summers. One foot in Chicago’s Black Belt, the other walking past gangbangers to attend programming at the African American Cultural Center in L.A.
“I remember walking past them on 49th, and then stepping into what felt like a temple," he recalls. "It smelled like shea butter, sounded like drums. It wasn’t just a space. It was the shift.”
He talks about seeing John O. Lockhart’s piece What Are You Gonna Tell Them?—a haunting work featuring three Black boys staring straight into the viewer. “That piece never let me go. I still hear it asking: What are you gonna tell them?”
Drew’s earliest interactions with art weren’t in elite institutions—they were on record covers, Source spreads, the graffiti on 95th Street walls. His parents, readers more than collectors, gave him books. Hip-hop gave him everything else.
“We didn’t grow up around ‘art’ like that," he says. "Art was album inserts. It was murals behind DJ booths. It was Rakim.”
From Consumer to Collector
Years later, a conversation with longtime friend Hebru Brantley cracked something open.
“He looked at me and said, ‘You need to collect,’" Drew recalls. "Not because it was trendy—but because we weren’t owning anything we were creating.”
That’s when Drew started digging deeper—not just into the past, but into ownership, preservation, and legacy. He began to notice a pattern: while Black artists were increasingly being shown in galleries and museums, the people buying, selling, and controlling the work rarely reflected the culture it came from. That disconnect sparked a sense of urgency.
“We’re often the creators of the work, but not the owners. That’s the gap. That’s the danger.”
Collecting became more than acquisition—it became an act of reclamation. Whether it was original pieces from local artists, rare vinyl, or limited-run publications, Drew saw every item as a vessel of memory and message. It wasn’t about building a collection—it was about building a living archive that could challenge erasure and empower future generations to see themselves not only as producers of culture, but protectors of it.
“What good is making history if we don’t protect it?”
Style vs. Substance: This Ain’t Merch
Drew’s voice sharpens when the conversation turns to authenticity.
“We’ve seen what happens when people take the culture but not the care. Aesthetics with no ancestors. Looks with no legacy.”
For him, a T-shirt isn’t merch—it’s a medium. A garment is a gallery. Each drop from Enstrumental reads like a lyric sheet annotated with footnotes: Fred Hampton. Ida B. Wells. Chairman Fred. Emmett Till. Baldwin.
“I treat clothes like curriculum. Each piece is a prompt, a reminder, or a tribute.”
Blueprints from the Greats
Enstrumental has collaborated with heavyweights: Lupe. DJ Premier. Hebru. Brantley. Robert Glasper. Little Brother. But Drew is clear—it’s not about proximity to power. It’s about creative communion.
“What they taught me—especially Lupe—is that intention is the only flex," he says. "Watching him write is like watching a surgeon operate. Every syllable is a scalpel.”
From Hebru, he learned you could be “wildly imaginative and deeply rooted at once.” From Glasper, that there’s genius in fusion. These aren’t just influences. They’re elders in a cipher of accountability.
Capitalism vs. Consciousness
“Look, we exist in a capitalist society—I’m not naive," Drew says. "But that doesn’t mean I have to become the thing I’m critiquing.”
Drew doesn’t chase virality. He chases vibration.
“If it doesn’t move the people or leave something behind, I’m not interested,” he says.
He quotes Black Thought. He references What They Do like scripture.
“Keepin’ your party jumpin’ with an original somethin’... I dedicate this to the one-dimensional...”
To Drew, authenticity isn’t an aesthetic—it’s an ethic. It’s a daily decision to resist dilution. He’s acutely aware that his work exists within an economic system designed to commodify everything it touches, especially Black expression. But instead of rejecting the market altogether, he subverts it from within. His brand operates more like a cultural cooperative than a business.
“I’ve turned down opportunities that didn’t align," he says. "That’s not just strategy—that’s self-respect.”
Drew's seen what happens when the symbols of the movement are sold without the meaning. So every drop, every release, every word stitched into a garment is designed to disrupt that cycle. The mission isn’t to sell out venues—it’s to sell back a history that was never truly for sale in the first place. It’s about reintroducing value to the stories and symbols we’ve always held dear—on our own terms.
The Process: Designing as Digging
“First, I feel the moment," says Drew. "Then I sit with it. What’s underneath the headlines? What’s unsaid? Then I research—archives, lyrics, books, memories.”
Once Drew has the truth, he translates it. Typography. Color. Cut. Fabric. The result? Pieces that double as flashpoints. Each one designed to ignite curiosity, spark dialogue, or confront erasure.
“I want someone to look at a shirt and ask, ‘Wait... who is that?’" he says. "That’s when the education starts.”
It’s not about being provocative for the sake of it—it’s about being purposeful. Drew's designs are time-stamped lessons that pull the past into the present. Like a hip-hop sample, they take something sacred and remix it with modern urgency.
“The goal isn’t to make you comfortable," he says. "It’s to make you think. To remember. To dig.”
Every thread is chosen with intent. Every phrase is tested for weight. For Drew, design isn’t just about composition—it’s about conviction.
The DREW Collection: A Cultural Cypher
Opening May 29 in Chicago, Listen to Me Now, Believe Me Later On will feature more than 200 pieces: art, figures, rare books, vintage vinyl, magazines, and ephemera. But it’s also a flex for the everyman.
“This show is about letting folks know—yes, you can collect," Drew says. "You don’t have to be rich to be a steward of culture.”
Museum curation with mixtape energy. And yes, while the phrase may be widely associated with Khujo’s line on Cell Therapy, Drew notes that his inspiration for the title came from its use on a late ’90s soundtrack—an echo of a generation steeped in coded truths. That line—Listen to me now, believe me later on—wasn’t just a throwaway lyric. It was a challenge, a warning, and a prophecy. Drew’s exhibition borrows that urgency, turning it into invitation and affirmation.
His work asks: What are we missing in the moment that will matter in hindsight?—vision turned into verification. A warning. A prophecy. A promise.
“It’s a cultural call to action. Not a personal victory lap.”
Interactive panels. Limited-edition merch. Old Enstrumental classics reissued. New collabs debuted. Friday/Saturday for the people. Sunday–Thursday for the intentional. As always, even the access is curated.
Responsibility of the Artist
With so much knowledge flowing from Drew, the conversation naturally turned toward his thoughts on the responsibility of artists—especially as it relates to cultural activism.
Drew speaks with reverence for those who came before: Baldwin. Hansberry. Public Enemy. Basquiat. The Black church. The blackboard. The boom bap.
“We are part of a lineage. Art is not separate from survival.”
The mirror we hold, he says, can either expose or distract. And every artist must choose.
Message to the Young Creatives
After discussing legacy, ownership, and the cultural weight artists carry, it only made sense to ask what Drew would say to those just starting out—especially the ones discouraged by a system that rewards spectacle over sincerity.
“It’s a performative world. But your work doesn’t have to be,” he says.
Drew recalls releasing a shirt about Emmett Till. No promo. No campaign. Just message. Years later, someone told him that shirt changed their relationship to history.
“That’s when I knew: you don’t measure impact by the algorithm,” he says.
Drew urges new artists: stop chasing applause. Chase alignment.
“Performance fades. Substance stays,” he says.
Outro: Believe Him NowDrew’s top five hip-hop albums read like a mission statement:The Low End Theory (A Tribe Called Quest)Let’s Get Free (Dead Prez)The Minstrel Show (Little Brother)Be (Common)Black Star (Mos Def + Talib Kweli)
“These are the albums you study, not just play," he says. "They taught me to stay sharp, stay soulful, stay necessary.”
That’s the spirit of The DREW Collection. Not just a show. A syllabus. A mixtape of memory, curated with care, for a culture still becoming itself.
“This work is meant to endure,” Drew says. “Believe me now.”
The DREW Collection: Listen to Me Now, Believe Me Later On runs May 29–June 14, 2025, in Chicago.Public hours: Fridays & Saturdays.Private visits by appointment: Sunday through Thursday. Inquiries: drew@enstru-mental.com