That’s leadership, that’s Jabba
Every youth month since 1994, we have had to listen to politicians and many political opportunists spread their usual rhetoric about the singularity of the 76 generation. I always ask myself: “Have they heard of HHP? How about kwaito? And more recently, have they heard about amapiano?”
Because if they had, they wouldn’t be asking such lousy questions. If they were really serious about South African youth, they would have heard about some guy from Mafikeng who made Setswana fashionable, in the process creating a genre with an industry that employs hundreds, if not thousands, of South Africans.
That’s leadership. That’s HHP. He didn’t just give Khuli Chana, Cassper Nyovest and many others air to breathe and minds to dream, but he went beyond the call of that duty.
In Vuma, a 2014 music documentary I made with two good friends, DJ Mahoota says: “Kwaito is worth about R2-billion a year. We create jobs. We created an industry, but no one wants to talk about that.”
The youth of this country, from Denville, Mahikeng, Vryburg’s townships, Leondale, the Cape Flats and Reiger Park to Gqeberha, Soweto, Umlazi and beyond, have met this “free” South Africa halfway, only to be reduced to Twitter weekend trends and club twerk queens.
As a filmmaker, I shot some of the first music videos for Khuli Chana and Cassper Nyovest. I came to know
and work with both artists thanks to Jabba.
Years later, we attempted to make a documentary on his life story. In one of the final meetings we had together, he was planning the next phase of his trip to Nairobi. Soon after talking and deliberating we tried to recap but, sadly, Jabba was
just blank. He couldn’t remember any of the things we discussed during the meeting.
Looking back, I knew that that was possibly the beginning of his end. The “self-destruction” was a side many others possibly saw.
I tried to motivate Jabba and tell him how important his achievements
and story were to South Africans. However, his constant response to me was: “Letona, fuck South Africa; fuck these South African clowns. I don’t care about what this industry thinks of me. Let’s think of Africa. Let’s focus on the world. The rest of Africa is where my next chapter is. People on the rest of the continent, unlike here, have more respect and dignity.”
During that period, Jabba found more joy talking about some poor family in Mozambique who took him in for a night on one of his many stops on his journey north, or recording in a makeshift studio in Kenya.
After the death of hip-hop great Pro, Jabba said: “I saw dirty motherfuckers at Prokid’s memorial drinking and shouting. And if I die, I don’t want any of these motherfuckers at my funeral.”
I’m not sure whether that statement was political, social or aimed strictly at the industry. In a few months, he too would be gone.
Nota, a good friend for years, states: “The problem of our industry is that we don’t have a hall of fame where we celebrate our rock stars. And that’s why we find our legends fighting for relevance each year, instead of retiring in glory as the icons they are.”
I know for a fact that the soonto-open South African Hip-hop Museum will honour Jabba with a bronze statue for his contribution to the development of the genre.
Furthermore, I’m still hopeful for the day when North West Premier Bushy Maape will honour the great son of the province with a street named after him and a statue in the traffic circle just outside Denville before you walk into Mahikeng’s city centre.
For his contribution to South Africa, Hip Hop Pantsula, aka HHP, aka Jabba, aka Letona, aka Jabulani Tsambo, is worthy of nothing less.