Madjozi: Keeping It ‘Real’ Privileged
A “Good Samaritan” came to the aid of Denel by way of a mysterious paycheque.
Unbelievable, but the workers are getting paid the full amount if the anonymous benefactor does not appear on state capture chronicles as a simple thug and con.
Thanks to Pravin Gordhan living up to the “rogue” and “noble” billing, the situation has been remedied.
So far State-owned companies remain rotten places beyond repair. But this is not about politics. Stay with me, don’t get confused.
I was thinking of writing about Steve Hofmeyr – the pin-up boy and towering figure of Afrikaner protest songs.
Accolades are accorded accordingly.
I cry my eyes out when I hear Steve sing. His voice gets to me when I’m wearing my khaki shorts – such demanded notes and suitable supplicant that my social cohesion boere chums want to strangle me when he belts out Die Land.
Wonderfully varied career, amiable presence on the small screen, absolutely mesmerizing acting talent if you can call it that and many, many beautiful twitter posts.
Steve performs moth-eaten numbers to sold-out gigs, so inspirational that Afrikaners who can’t find a better place elsewhere to live, depict him as the obvious Afrikaner benefit. They almost think they belong to Afrikaner heaven when they hear him talk prejudice and sing that inflexible genre of music.
I understand his son is the understudy to the Hofmeyr Afrikaner story and creative mediocrity – a sublime discovery for a millennial who should be endlessly perceptive.
Like Pa, little Steve doesn’t stray from the comfort zone of the Afrikaner as a rare species – important and divine. This is fine by me because little Steve is a harmless substitute.
If you must know, little Steve was apparently kicked out of the Ghoema Music Awards for allegedly standing up for his “language and culture” after his father’s song about the land was removed from the nominees’ list or something to that effect.
I get confused when the ANC wants to make a meal out of his “death threats”. Steve is from “Vaderland” and ‘we are off soon’ to New Zealand and Australia street and that’s it.
This plunges to obscurity, however. I want to dash directly to snarking if you allow me.
Sho Madjozi won a BET Award –a Best New International Act.
As far as I know, a good person, charming to the nth degree and kids love her. Not to bore you but seven-year-olds told me about this artist, ubiquitous in their world for obvious reasons. She doesn’t rap/sing any repertoire I like.
My inbuilt self-importance is very well known in Bophuthatswana. Villagers want to do me for it and more importantly for my strict ordering of art.
I refuse to see or listen to crap even when it’s dressed up as contemporary, “disruptive” or whatever Jo’burg is into these days.
Disclaimer, I missed my superstar bus when Dr. Sipho Sithole refused to sign me as a Native Rhythm rap artist. So there’s a little bit of bitterness and brain injury from that rejection. I have this little injustice scribbled in my diary as a great crime of the 21st century. I feel that I was overlooked.
The better half of this is about Sho Madjozi. The little sob speech from Sho Madjozi when receiving the BET award sits in the stomach like an undigested rock.
Any misgivings I have going about these youngsters seem to have been justified. She said something to this effect: “My story is a testament that you can be from any village and any forgotten part of the world and you can still be a superstar.”
Thanks for showing us that we could celebrate the village and claim its sacred humble status. But this is completely misleading. The first unwritten commandment in rap/hip-hop is ‘keeping it real’ as far as I remember or is it what you do with the lie that matters.
When I was at it, ‘keeping it real’ was the nuts and bolts of being an artist. I understand Sho Madjozi wants to market her material on that street cred farm by any means necessary but the truth is she comes from a privileged background.
She has a dad who can log on to social media to wish her well. She gets to travel and see the world on daddy’s ticket. Down here village girls are SASSA and sugar daddy material. I should know. I have a ringside seat to Bophuthatswana villages.
I’m witness to the blows of poverty, hopelessness and shattered dreams. Hear me good, nothing wrong with her privilege, but the fact that she made the first option to mislead reflects the current narcissistic performance of so-called modern artists. Lies work on the world stage I suppose. Meticulously planned tributes to humble beginnings give rise to “great” art.
“For girls that come from Limpopo, I just want to say you don’t have to change who you are, you can still be big,” she said.
Of course, they can “still be big”. Believe you me Sho Madjozi; girls in Bophuthatswana villages hardly paddle across the Molopo channel to grab that stardust. They need a daddy like yours who is influential and a few support systems to be big. Just keep it real even when real is a privilege. Fuck the humble game.