There’s something electrifying about listening to uBaba Phuzekhemisi—his voice, his lyrics, his unflinching honesty. His music isn’t just entertainment; it’s a powerful act of resistance. And for someone like me, who grew up in a village where many truths remain hidden, his songs feel like a call to action, an anthem for challenging the status quo.
Phuzekhemisi’s rise to prominence wasn’t without its challenges. Songs like "Izwe Alithuthuki" and "Amagugu" didn’t just entertain; they provoked. Through his music, he exposed the systematic abuse of power within traditional spaces and dared to question cultural practices that, though sacred, often masked injustices. These songs put him in direct conflict with traditional leaders who saw his truths as threats to their authority. But Phuzekhemisi was unapologetic, and rightly so. His courage to confront these issues head-on highlighted the struggles of ordinary people—people like me—who navigate the complex intersection of tradition and modernity.
In my village, much like the worlds Phuzekhemisi sings about, silence often prevails. There are whispers of muti killings, of wealth pursued through unspeakable means, and of women confined to roles that deny their agency. As someone who deeply believes in traditions and customs but also identifies as a feminist, navigating these spaces is a constant negotiation. There’s a clash of identities every time I step into my village: the traditionalist in me honors our customs, while the feminist in me refuses to accept any practice that diminishes women.
Challenging traditional structures as a woman is no small feat. It’s a battlefield riddled with resistance, intimidation, and deeply ingrained patriarchy. Yet, like Phuzekhemisi, I persist because the stakes are once agani, too high in this particular space. When women are excluded from decision-making, entire communities suffer. My work as a human rights defender and feminist is deeply aligned with the ethos of Phuzekhemisi’s music—to fight injustice, amplify silenced voices, and demand accountability.
Listening to his songs feels like a recharge, a reminder of why this fight matters. His music electrifies me, not just because of its rhythm and melody, but because it resonates with my struggles and dreams. One of those dreams? To meet him one day. To tell him how his music fuels my activism and how his defiance gives me courage.
If anyone reading this knows how to make that happen, consider this my official plea.
Phuzekhemisi taught me that being a “troublemaker” is sometimes the most honorable title one can hold. And if being a troublemaker means challenging the systems that oppress, silencing the whispers of injustice, and making space for women in every corner of society, then I wear the title proudly.
