The origin story of any musical movement is often murky. It might have been Wiley who started grime, by flipping the garage sound into the “Eskimo” instrumental and laying the foundation for a new genre. Or maybe it was Ruff Sqwad, featuring a baby-faced Tinchy Stryder and his friends, who would cut class to make beats in the basement.

There are a few generally accepted facts: Grime was born in London, in the early 2000s, and it’s undeniably British. Depending on who you ask, popularity waned for a few years before grime came upon its current renaissance in the past two years. Cosigns from pop culture heavyweights have helped to pique interest in grime abroad. Drake signed with the genre's flagship label, Boy Better Know, about a year after Kanye West brought grime’s old and new guard on stage with him to debut “All Day” at the 2015 BRIT Awards. With this renewed interest amongst North American audiences, all eyes have been on veterans like Skepta and JME, plus newcomer Stormzy, who’ve all released either full-length albums or popular singles in the past year.

Yet for all the hype surrounding grime’s current wave, not enough of it is devoted to the scene’s women, who are every bit as impressive in their skills. Lady Leshurr is the most visible of grime's women at the moment—for good reason—but her melodic shit-talking is nowhere near as known as it deserves to be. Croydon MC Nadia Rose recently put her own spin on the “Eskimo” instrumental and made it sound as fresh in 2016 as it did in 2002. Ms Banks sets booths on fire, packing mentions of politics, financial aspirations, and female empowerment into one slick verse and wondering if anyone who might question her talent is “feeling alright.”

To be sure, the disparities in recognition stretch across an ocean. In 2014, British broadcaster Channel 4 teamed up with Dazed for Open Mic, a documentary that chronicles grime from its origins through its two waves of mainstream recognition. It’s a short doc but rich with vintage clips of OGs like Skepta, Wiley, and Kano from when they were earning their stripes in east London. We’re offered glimpses of a few raves, including one under the command of two female spitters, though we never learn who they are. During the concert scenes we see several young women either standing up front near the stage, or braving London weather in lines outside the clubs waiting to see their favorites perform. They are the kind of fans who memorize all the lyrics and recite bars effortlessly in front of the MC that wrote them. Still, the only woman to get any facetime in the documentary is a journalist. Make no mistake, she knows her grime. But she’s neither an MC nor a product of the marginalized communities that fostered the genre, and several women have ticked both boxes over the years.

Take Shystie, the Hackney native who first gained fame with “I Luv You,” her take on Dizzee Rascal’s breakout track “I Luv U.” In Dizzee’s tale, the female protagonist is nothing but a whore who trapped her partner for life because he dared to say three magic words to her. Shystie’s version serves up a fiery riposte. Given that grime was an underground genre for years, it’s noteworthy that Shystie was the scene’s first MC to be snapped up by a major label, signing with Polydor in 2004 for her full-length debut.

By the late 2000s, reinforcements had come by way of Roxxxan and future Wiley collaborator Mz Bratt, to name just a few. These MCs traded heavily in bravado. They undermined their enemies’ realness, adding in enough detail to make it clear that all threats were personal, and bragging that they were the best at everything.