Writer: Nthabiseng Matshwane | Photographs: Supplied

Uma ngathanda nawe

Nawe ungithande ngokweqiniso

Ngiyobe sengikufezile konke okwasemhlabeni

Ngiyokhululeka kakhulu

I must have been around eight years old when I pleaded and negotiated with my mother to buy me a CD copy of Shwi noMtekhala’s Wangisiza Baba. The album was an echoing sound in Soweto from the time of its release and for a few years after. After much negotiation—and having to sacrifice about R5 from my allowance—we headed to Reliable Music Warehouse, and I got one of the most memorable gifts I have ever received. This, along with many similar experiences, has shaped my relationship with music, and Maskandi in particular.

As a follower and supporter of Maskandi, I have always been fascinated by the lyrical content and storytelling that underpins the genre, particularly newer versions of the art form. Maskandi has been documented as a subgenre of Zulu folk music, and in recent decades, it has extended beyond the Zulu, middle-aged listener to a broader audience of Setswana-speaking individuals like myself. This has been made possible by social media and the influence of the younger generation of AmaBhinca and Maskandi artists such as Khuzani, Ntencane, Sminofu, Skweletu, Limit Nala, and many others. Perhaps the injustice I am committing in this piece is leaving out the women in Maskandi and the Amabhincakazi.

Zulu men are often seen as the paragon of African hegemonic masculinity and ubudoda, which defy all traits typically associated with femininity—gentleness, vulnerability, and affection. Reflecting on Mphiliseni Gumede’s (professionally known as Sminofu) discography, I argue that it is through their music that Zulu men perhaps find an escape from a traditional masculinity that imprisons them. Through aural expression, they become vulnerable in ways that do not subject them to shame and do not take away from their notions of masculinity. Although they display masculine ideals through their music, many Zulu men—as aesthetes and musicians—explore romantic love, loss, grief, and other life experiences that a patriarchal world does not allow them to engage with in their daily lives.

For example, in his three most recent albums—Gqiba I Bigger, Uber Driver, and Rush Hour—Sminofu expresses nuanced vulnerabilities that he might not be expected to share in everyday conversations with friends, family, and fans.

On Love and Romantic Relationships

Dating and romance in South Africa are as dynamic as every other aspect of South African life, and this is often explored in the craft of many young Maskandi musicians. In Inkanyezi (the opening lyrics for this piece), Sminofu expresses a deep sense of attaching his life’s purpose to loving his significant other. A longing for reciprocity is also evident… later in the song, he sings:

Uyinkanyezi kimi, ukhanyisa esibhakabhakeni, mina ngiyilanga, ngikhanyisa emhlabeni, sehlukaniswa yini pho?

This effortless yet skilfully curated lyricism, charm, and beautifully melodic expression are hardly ever appreciated. The sagacity and creative ability displayed here are often glossed over. The sentiments and metaphors are reminiscent of Erykah Badu’s Orange Moon, in which the moon is symbolic of the female lover and femininity, while the male counterpart, the sun, represents masculinity. This aligns with many transcultural and religious cosmological perspectives.

While many may not consider Mphiliseni and Erykah as musical counterparts—both representing supposedly polar worlds—Mphiliseni’s world is often perceived as backward, violent, underdeveloped, and inferior, whereas the latter belongs to a superior, modern, classy, and ‘woke’ world. It is worth noting that this perception is shaped by colonial logics and understandings of what constitutes ‘real art’.

In the same album, songs such as Ngithandana Ne Owner, Itender Yomjolo, and Ilotto explore the complexities of navigating life and love in the city under a capitalist system. They deal with financial burdens in relationships, transactional love devoid of genuine affection, and unhealthy dynamics founded on fear and control. These vulnerabilities are also evident in Rush Hour, where Sminofu laments and begs the taxi to speed to his destination because uthando yiRush Hour—love is worth pursuing intensely and passionately. The longer he waits, the more likely his love interest will slip away. The song takes the listener on a tense yet exciting journey with him as he pursues this love. Through imagination, one gets a seat inside this Toyota Quantum—a recurring motif—and shares in the anticipation of reaching the destination (his love interest) before the hour strikes. Such imagery is further reinforced by Sminofu’s promo videos and his aesthetically inviting social media presence.

Beyond Love and Romance

Beyond love and romance, the politics of Maskandi—not just as a music genre but as a cultural arena—are often ignored and undermined. Through their penmanship, performance, and style, Maskandi artists and AmaBhinca navigate and detail socio-economic life under capitalism. These narratives are evident in works such as Sminofu’s Uber Driver, where he speaks of having to become an Uber driver because there is no work and NSFAS has not paid out his allowance. In Uzuka, he reflects on how money has been the root of conflict in Black life for generations. Similarly, in Skweletu’s Ikhaya Lam’, he longs for home despite the financial hardships he faced growing up.

The agency and self-determination of AmaBhinca can also be seen in their fashion choices—often opting for luxury brands and flashy attire. Scholars and artivists have theorised this as a way in which AmaBhinca, like Izikhothane, present an illusion of wealth despite the reality of financial difficulty.

Bell Hooks, in The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love, writes:

“The first act of violence that patriarchy demands of males is not violence towards women. Instead, patriarchy demands of all males that they engage in acts of psychic self-mutilation, that they kill off the emotional parts of themselves. If an individual is not successful in emotionally crippling himself, he can count on patriarchal men to enact rituals of power that will assault his self-esteem.”

In light of Hooks’ assertion, what can attuning to Maskandi do for us? In the face of persistent colonial methods of producing knowledge and art, appreciating such artists becomes an Afro-decolonial exercise. Recognising Maskandi artists as pedagogues and aesthetes, centering the experiences of Black men—in this context, Black, intellectual men—undoes the harm of colonial systems in relation to creative expression. This exercise helps us truly see Black men and rehumanise them, acknowledging their capacity to feel deeply—to love through poetry and song.

Our everyday language and intellectual discourse remain silent on the narratives of Black men beyond pathologising and criminalising their existence. Yet, Maskandi provides an overlooked empirical detail of their experiences. Maskandi is an invitation to deconstruct masculinity and manhood in the African context.

I am 26 now, and Shwi noMtekhala have left an irreversible imprint that has blissfully haunted me through my childhood and continues to reverberate into my adult life. My hope is for music lovers, academics, and artists to bask in the brilliance and intelligence of Maskandi.

Kukhona okulungayo

 Kukhona okuhlanganayo.