Writer: Nthabi Matshwane | Photographs: Arthur Dlamini
I write this piece after four years of exposure to producer, trumpeter, and all-around musician Ndabo Zulu’s debut album Queen Nandi: The African Symphony. Collaborating with a band of exceptional musicians, collectively named the Umgidi Ensemble, Zulu created what many have simply dubbed “a beautiful work of art.” I fell in love at first listen, initially appreciating this body of work solely for its sonic elements. However, I later found myself deeply considering the title and the underlying complexities that exist beneath the perfect synergy of percussion, voice, and all the other instruments one encounters upon a surface-level listen.
One of the themes that emerged in my engagement with the album was feminism. This album serves as evidence and a manifestation of the histo-political power of music. It guided me through a sonic journey into the lives and times of King Shaka, and more notably, his mother, Queen Nandi. This work shines a spotlight on a figure whose voice has remained unheard—almost censored—despite her pivotal role in the Zulu kingdom. As Kwanele Sosibo has written, the album enables us to “imagine the socio-political and emotional texture of Queen Nandi’s world,” a world I only truly delved into upon listening to the album. Zulu’s work is an extension of an “African feminism” that honors the “Mother,” acknowledges, and centers the African woman through Nandi kaBhebhe, sharing her story beyond the violence and trauma of colonialism, war, and suffering.
In the first track, Umgidi 1st Mov, the exceptional Mbuso Khoza sings “Siyabonga ngokusizalela iqhawe lamaqhawe,” paying homage to the woman who birthed Inkosi uShaka kaSenzangakhona. This deliberate and honest celebration of the Queen Mother by Zulu is an invitation: first, to honor Black motherhood, and second, to bring to light the voices of women whose stories have been muted by patriarchal history. It also serves as a reminder of the essential role of art forms in propagating ideas and pushing societal ideals. This work is part of the decolonial labor that reminds us that Black and African history did not begin with African peoples’ encounter with the white man and colonization, as some historical teachings suggest.
Anthropologist James Scott has made a persuasive argument that, since dominated groups could not openly express their opposition, their resistance manifested through humor, play, rituals, poetry, music, and other art forms. Consider how music and dance have shaped South African ways of protesting. For example, iToyi-Toyi, a form of protest dance, was at the core of non-violent protests during the struggle against apartheid, and even today, it stands out as a powerful form of resistance at protests and gatherings.
Artists have always been writers of history, and art is an extension of this history. Creative expression informs how we experience the mundane aspects of everyday life, how we (re)tell our stories, how we organize, and how we imagine the future. Think of Mama Miriam Makeba, Bra Willie, and N.W.A. in the US—voices that spoke out and resisted multiple forms of oppression. We can also reference artists such as Thandiswa Mazwai, whose music transcends time and drives public discourse on pressing social issues. Ndabo and the Umgidi Ensemble also showcase artists as pedagogues, conveying parts of history through a sound experience. This reminds me of Nduduzo Makhathini’s invitation to think of the sonic not only as sound but as text—something we read and learn from, as feeling—a way to connect with our emotions, and as a way of being in the world—the sociological, political, and spiritual (in my interpretation).
Epistemic discrimination and colonialism have undoubtedly tainted and distorted our knowledge and understanding of Black African history, and Zulu’s work serves as an antithesis to this. It also reminds us that there should be no place for genre narcissism if we are to make meaningful strides in “decolonizing music.” Whether it is jazz or Amapiano, a painting or poem, it is necessary that we intentionally recognize and celebrate the intelligence that exists in every lyric and contour, be deliberate about investing in art, and firmly advocate for the rights of artists. These artists, through their work, not only reflect the condition of society in its beauty and horrors but also become our conduits to the future. The artists allow us to navigate our daily joys and struggles while also revisiting history justly and changing antagonistic narratives about Black people and other communities who have been misrepresented—just as Zulu and the Umgidi Ensemble have done in the album. This work of rewriting and amending narratives is part of the necessary restorative work that many scholars, activists, and artists live for—work that foregrounds Black joy, Black women, self-determination, and depicts Black communities not through the lens of those who only documented Black plight. It is thus worth appreciating and celebrating artists like Ndabo Zulu and the Umgidi Ensemble as we continue to dream of and work toward a just society.
We wait in anticipation for Ndabo’s upcoming offering, Radio Bantu.
