Online Reporter
W
ELCOME back, dear readers, to this little corner of chaos.
Today, we are talking about music, borders and the art of not getting a beer bottle thrown at your head.
So, it seems some of those misguided xenophobic goons in South Africa have finally done it.
They have struck a discordant note so loud that it has drowned out the bassline of every Amapiano hit from Joburg to Harare.
You see, when those mobs decided to flex their muscles against our brothers and sisters from other lands, they thought they were “protecting” their turf.
But what they have actually done is create a continental Cold War.
Here in Zimbabwe, and apparently across the rest of Africa, the vibe has shifted.
It is no longer “Vula Vala” or “Jerusalema”.
The anti-immigrant sentiment has birthed a reactionary rejection of all things South African, and our local artistes are watching this unfold with a mixture of schadenfreude (pleasure derived from other people’s misfortunes) and a very loud, long-overdue “I told you so”.
For years, our local musicians have been crying into their recording mics, complaining that they are overlooked by local promoters. They have been paid in exposure, in peanuts and sometimes in promises that bounce faster than a cheque in a recession.
But now, suddenly, the promoters are looking at them with new eyes.
It is tragic, really, but you have to laugh.
When South African artistes were the golden geese, our own talent was treated like the village chicken —scruffy, ignored and only remembered when there is a funeral. Now that the geese have been grounded by politics, suddenly everyone remembers the chicken can sing, too.
But let us be serious for a moment, because this is where Mai Juju puts down her dancing shoes and picks up her thinking cap.
The actions of a few xenophobes are not just ruining playlists; they are tearing apart the fabric of our unity. Tribalism, xenophobia, or whatever “ism” you want to dress it up in, is a monster.
And the problem with monsters is that they do not know when to stop.
First, they eat the foreigner.
Then, they eat your neighbour.
Then, they eat your cousin because he supports a different football team.
Before you know it, the monster is eating the whole village, and we are all fighting over who gets to be the drum majorette in the apocalypse.
We are Africans.
Our music is a fusion of rhythms that cross borders.
To start drawing lines in the sand over a few misguided attacks is to let the enemy win.
But alas, we are not in a philosophy class; we are in the real world where emotions are running higher than a kite.
Enter Napoleon Nyanhi, the CEO of the National Arts Council of Zimbabwe and the voice of reason in a sea of noise.
He has warned that large-scale events with 10 000 people are a recipe for disaster if tensions spill over. Imagine it: 10 000 people, a few disgruntled individuals and one South African DJ trying to hype the crowd. The DJ says, “Sawubona!” and the crowd replies with a chorus of boos.
Chaos.
In such a case, security guards would be as useful as a chocolate teapot.
And the poor artiste? They could be forced off stage or, worse, injured.
And let’s be honest, the anger isn’t even personal. It’s about what these artistes are perceived to represent.
They are the face of a country that hurt our brothers and sisters.
They are the symbol of a system that looked down on us.
It is unfair, it is illogical, but it is the reality.
I remember the days when legends like Gregory Isaacs had to acrimoniously abandon shows because the crowd turned sour.
The Cool Ruler, forced to cool his heels backstage because the temperature in the venue was too hot.
Music is supposed to soothe the savage beast, but when the beast is already provoked, the rhythm just becomes a trigger.
So, here is Mai Juju’s verdict.
She agrees with Nyanhi.
For now, perhaps it might be wise to stop promoting South African artistes.
Not because we hate them — heavens no, we love our Amapiano and that other stuff they produce.
But because the risk is too high. The emotions are raw. And let us be real, we do not need a repeat of the Gregory Isaacs incident, where the only thing leaving the stage was the artiste’s dignity.
Let us use this time to promote our own.
Let us pay them properly.
Let us build our own industry.
And when the dust settles, when the goons realise that their hatred has only hurt their own pockets, we can dance together again. But until then, keep your stage local.
Safety first, music second.
Stay safe, stay united and, for goodness’ sake, if you see a South African artiste at the border, just wave. Don’t boo. We are better than that.
Ndikoko!
