When I first moved to South Africa from Lagos, I hated it. I had followed my father, who moved there temporarily for work. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Johannesburg was unlike Lagos in a way that I liked – for starters, it had seasons (it’s always summer in Lagos), there were malls and bookstores I could get lost in, infrastructure to appreciate, and of course, it offered the possibility of reinvention – but my boarding school was strict, the girls were mean, and I felt out of place. I begged my father to take me out – I would do anything – yet, he refused, so I stayed.
In 2011, the day we graduated from the 7th grade, we celebrated at my friend Zoë’s house. After spending the afternoon swimming and eating, about thirty of us squished ourselves into her living room to watch a movie – our pick was LOL. I found a free spot comfortably nestled between her dogs, Salt and Pepper, where I sat for the entire movie. The film was refreshing – not because the cinematography or storyline was particularly mind-blowing, but because of the music. I felt myself falling in love with a sound, which I later discovered was Indie/Rock music.
I listened to “Somewhere Only We Know” by Keane, “You Can’t Always Get You Want” by the Rolling Stones, and “Heart On Fire” by Jonathan Clay for days on end. It was like cocaine. For many, stumbling upon certain artists like The Beatles or The Rolling Stones is almost inevitable – they were everywhere. But it also depends on where you’re looking. In Lagos, it was more common to hear people like Micheal Jackson, Beyoncé, Aṣa, Wande Coal, Rihanna, and the likes being broadcast on the radio. But for some reason, rock music wasn’t there. At the time, it was classified as “white-people music,” a nudge that completely disregarded the essential role Black people played in the inception of rock music itself. Regardless, here I was in South Africa, casually stumbling upon the Rolling Stones for the first time. It was like something clicked.
I had probably listened to Indie/Rock music before, yet I’m still unsure why this was the moment that it stuck. For me, music possesses a sort of descriptive quality. How do I define myself? How do I explain who I am to people? These are things I’ve always had an issue with – how do I define myself when at times, who I am is such a mystery, even to myself? But finding different musical genres has felt like intricately weaving through and discovering different parts of myself. That day, I unlocked another layer of who I was. It was a moment of becoming. Now I had music that felt true to me – like it represented a part of me.
I loved the guitars, the sweety raspiness of their voices, it was so endearing yet chaotic and emotive – and of course, it was conducive to dancing (which I loved). Yet, in truth, my love of indie music was indirectly cemented by a girl about five years later. I find that most of my lovers have introduced me to or deepened my appreciation for different genres. I fell in love with indie music all over again, at a time when I was exploring my sexuality. I liked a girl. What were the odds that at the same moment, I liked a boy too?
I am one of those unapologetic lovers who would go to the ends of the earth for you – and to see you. So, I gathered most of my pocket money for the month and I bought a ticket for the Superbalist festival that was being held in Johannesburg at the Emmerentia Dam. I had no idea who was performing, all I knew was that Gemma was going to be there, and I wanted to be there too. We never really got to spend time together outside of school, so it felt like an opportune moment to find out what I truly felt.
At Roedean, borders were only allowed to leave for the weekend with their parent's permission, so I lied to my mother that I would be spending the weekend with a friend she knew, and, instead, I went with my friend Nikki who was always up for a party. Dressed up in my denim skirt and cutout bodysuit – I felt sexy. At 16, those days were hard to come by when I spent most hours dressed in a ghastly pinafore. My boarding school was an all-girls school that found the simplest ways to strip us of our identities – no jewelry, piercings or tattoos, specified monotonous hairstyles, the list was endless (homogeneity should've been one of their founding principles).
When we arrived at the festival, I was pleasantly surprised. A section of the Emmerentia Dam had been carved out for the show. There were food, drink, and tented vendor stalls neatly arranged along the length of the park with balloons strewn around. One of Nikki’s friends got us a pint of beer and we frolicked about the ground exploring all the hidden cracks and crevices, taking mental notes of all the alcohol stands.
I vividly remember the moment that Foster The People came on stage. There was a girl in front of us who was doing drug-induced twirls and skips around the space. They started with “Houdini,” ironically, it was one of the songs on the LOL tracklist that had eluded me. It was like a psychedelic trance, or maybe I was just buzzed off the beer, but whatever it was, it felt good. I started dancing. Skipping around the space in similar motions as the girl before. Now I understood her – it felt freeing.
In retrospect, dancing to “Pumped Up Kids” feels oddly satirical, but in that moment ignorance was certainly bliss. The perpetual drum and clap, paired with Mark Foster’s inviting voice were heavenly to me. My search for clarity with Gemma was drowned out and all I was left with was the music. Now, I don’t listen to Foster The People as much, but they were the last hurdle before I jumped into the Indie/Rock music rabbit hole.
***
With the restraints of my school's rules, every opportunity to express myself fully and freely was a gift. I reveled in each moment of bliss against the backdrop of depression that followed me through the school halls. The expansive school grounds were lined with idyllic gardens that were tended to more than the students themselves. Somewhere along the way, the gardens converged at the kopje (a hillock), that we had illicit access to – the perfect place to house and germinate my escapist cravings. I was depressed and stuck in the place that inspired it – what more was I to do other than follow my hedonistic pursuits? I already loved to party but Superbalist made me realize that I wasn’t doing enough. I needed more.
My introduction to amapiano was fairly inconsequential. The day I landed in Johannesburg they were probably playing it on the radio, but in truth, I never took much notice of it. Most times, I appreciated amapiano when my school choir did renditions of songs. The choirmaster was painfully strict but it produced results, the choir was outstanding. I felt my soul leave my body whenever they sang. Their performances were one of the simple joys of going to Roedean. Besides that, I would listen to it here and there, but my appreciation only bloomed when I started going clubbing.
There is something about listening to music at clubs that has the potential to change your relationship with that music. Hearing an amapiano record in an enclosed space with the bass thumping, your entire body vibrating to the constant rhythm of the beat, bodies gyrating in synch – the euphoria is enticing. But beyond that, some of the records sound like gospel. Amapiano is South African house music infused with jazz, r&b, soul, and deep house tangs, marked by its slow gradual progression, deep basslines, and soulful vocalists.
The music of artists like Sun-El Musician and Dj Maphorisa possesses an innate holy quality. I once read a quote that likened gospel music to mining – looking deep within oneself to find the gold. That is amapiano to me. Dancing to this music, within the confinements of those walls, I found a sort of happiness that came from being so present that every worry fades and all that was left is the thumping and the celestial bodies that sang with the might of a thousand voices.
My exploration of all this music led me down a loophole. I was yearning for more. New artists. New genres. New sounds. I wanted to find them all. Somehow, this desire translated into a passion for curating music – sound.
After our school assemblies, we would have dance parties in Founders Hall. There was an aux capable, free space, and speakers at our disposal and we were all searching for moments of joy, so it was the perfect solution. Somehow, I was elected the DJ and it stayed that way. It felt good to be defined by something other than parts of my identity that I couldn’t control. When I first moved to South Africa, I became both Black and Nigerian simultaneously – two identities that were constantly scrutinized. But with this, it became more about my music taste and what I could create. I always felt limited by my identity – judged before I spoke, my whole essence curtailed by the color of my skin and where I came from – but music provided an unbounded pool of expression where there were absolutely no limits.
I was still clubbing, developing a love for DJs and the experiences they created. How, if they do it right, they could create a moment for their audience – one of pure bliss and presence. Looking back years later, it surprises me that I didn’t realize the weight of South Africa’s influence on me as a person and my music taste. I was in a space where I was exposed to so much music and so many different genres. In French class, we listened to Stromae, on the way to math lessons, we danced to amapiano in the car, and at clubs, I was dancing to house and techno – it was all coming together.
I started Dj’ing a few years later, but for a while now, I’ve felt uninspired and without the urge to create – until spring break. On our last night in LA, my friend Tomisin suggested that we go to an amapiano party. I agreed. It ended up being DJ Maphorisa’s show, and somehow we got in for free, bypassing the $35 tickets which I took as a good omen. The show was in a sequestered warehouse near Inglewood. The space was bare except for the perpetual warmth exuded by the red LED lights, scattered bodies, and what looked like a hanging grass sculpture.
DJ Maphorisa came on in a blur of smoke and flashing lights. He stood confidently behind the red joker-face LED sculpture hanging over the DJ booth. “Inhliziyo” by Mas Music started playing, and for a moment I stood there in awe and gratitude. One of the beautiful things about amapiano is that most of the time, I don’t understand what they are saying – perhaps a few words I picked up here and there, but my listening experience is mostly visceral. If you listen closely, you can feel what the vocalist is trying to say. The music accompanies it – the synths, drums, and heavy bass, mixed with the jazz and deep house elements – it’s transcendent.
When DJ Maphorisa played “Aside Happy,” I instantly started crying all the while dancing. The music felt like it was pulsating through my veins. I sang the lyrics with a passion and deep-rooted sense of hope, for I felt it coming back – slowly, song by song, my urge to create was coming back. It was a mixture of nostalgia and the birth of something. After the show, out of curiosity, I googled the lyrics to “Aside Happy”, it goes something like this…
Sonwabile
Siyathandana
Bazamile usohlukanisa, bohluleka
Abaphansi bavumile ukuba sifanelene
Thina sobabini
Masikhunye, ndiyajabula, jabula
We’re happy
We’re in love
They tried to come between us,
But they failed
Our ancestors concur
We are meant for each other
Me and You
When we are one, I rejoice.
Most times I hate to admit it, but South Africa made me too.
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