If there's one question I answer differently depending on who's asking, it's that. At work – despite it being the most diverse office I've ever set foot in – it's easy: "London." Around my black peers? I've mastered the art of deciphering whether they mean geographically (hardly ever) or culturally. And when I say my mum's Jamaican and dad's Nigerian, that they met in Hackney, I always crack the same joke that, no, of course they didn't "work out."

For as long as I can remember, "where are you from?" has been a loaded question, and in my case it feels particularly so within the black British community. In my teenage years, the "wrong answer" could lead to violence if you were found a few miles beyond your own postcode. And as second- or third-generation immigrants, it's one of the questions you can't help but ask other people who look like you, allowing you to make the silent mental calculations to decipher what you may have in common – and sometimes make clumsy assumptions based on the responses.

As Mr Eazi recently discovered, on the Ghanaian vs. Nigerian end of spectrum, it can be just a jovial question of whose jollof rice is best. But it can be a different story on the Nigerian vs. Jamaican end, it wasn't too long ago that the rivalry paralleled a Lord Of The Mics soundclash, with Jamaicans swiping at African "booboo-scratching" poverty while Nigerians claimed superiority over uncouth "Jamos". All the while, as a product of both cultures, I'd look on in bemusement, thinking how terribly similar (side-note: loud and ostentatiously proud) they can be.

But it didn't matter what I knew to be true. Jamaica's chart dominance during my 90s childhood meant I was more likely to sing along to Shabba Ranks' "Ting-A-Ling" than any Fela Kuti track. Therefore it was far cooler to be a black British Jamaican – end of. But now things are changing. From Donae'O to Sneakbo, the young, gifted and black diaspora are rewriting the rules of black music, blending afrobeat drums, bashment basslines and trap bars. British-African musicians who, in their younger years may have been teased for adopting Caribbean culture, are singing classic dancehall lines with their chest. We no longer need to stick to our "own" sound, limited by the idea of one rigid cultural identity. And thank fuck for that.

Music is and has always been a huge part of the black experience – so in hindsight, I can understand why my Jamaican friends displayed a pride for their home culture louder than anybody else. Even if they hadn't yet visited their parents' or grandparents' home countries, you'd be none the wiser. From bogle to butterfly, screechy to gully creep – the latest dance moves proved to be Jamaica's greatest export. Soundtracked by my mum's music collection, my impressionable ears were accustomed to Bob Marley, Maxi Priest and Shabba Ranks every Sunday, while I'd only see my dad get down when Prince Nico Mbarga's "Sweet Mother" played at family events. The comfort of home aside, popular culture dictated what banged at school. The truth is, Jamaican culture prevailed, and all the schoolkids wanted to be involved.