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-ngoma: (n) song; beat
Isangoma: (n) diviner [ukubhula: to divine; to beat; to extinguish]
What could these isiZulu terms offer us at a time when there is so much at stake in the future of the world? Put aside for the moment the ancient secrets of time and space at play on this, the darkest of continents. Those which forge the contested space-time complexes undetectable to the untrained human eye. Those which allow pathways to ancestral realms hitherto heard only by those who listen, as fundamentally maternal. Yes, briefly, lay these to rest, for even if we were to venture into these notions, we could never dream of fathoming them.
At this current juncture, we shall take a decidedly smaller bite. Even so, we must begin with the humble recognition that even this pie is made of things which we know nothing of. And yet it is our duty as both the architects and the inhabitants of the future, to peer out and prepare ourselves for the impending leap. For one thing we must be certain of, dear reader, that that leap is indeed inevitable. It may mark an end to some or other trajectory and it may very well be unexpected and even undesired. But it is imminent.
It may appear, at a glance, that your devoted scribe pays far too much credence to what’s to come. That may be so, but I am simultaneously tormented by the past and the present. And in this upside-down domain, my torment also becomes my insatiable pleasure. For it is here within my own immeasurable solitude that I am able to untangle what it may mean to be femme, African and still alive. In the face of Afropessimism, social death, necropolitics and global deathspaces, it is the gqom blasting into my doomed ears, alchemised by my addictive headphones that compels me towards a deafening dance of defiance.
Like many Black sonic traditions, gqom — born in the early 2010s in the townships of Durban and named after the onomatopoeic umgqomo (barrel or drum) — is both a percussive force and a situated philosophy. This hypnotic house hybrid, eternally rooted in the African drum, oozes virile voices and eerie synths, often digitally distorted by over-compression and cracked software. Its intimate entanglement with pirated tools and spectral textures embodies the isiZulu term for technology, ubuchwepheshe — a word that carries not just technical know-how, but a cunning, subversive intelligence.
While the African subject is often cast as technologically passive and unaware of the technologies imposed on them, genres like gqom and its descendant amapiano reveal a different story — one of intentional subversion, mastery, and insurgent productivity. Amapiano’s obsessive reliance on the log drum, like gqom’s relentless, almost painful pleasure-pounding, becomes a form of refusal: not just music, but a tactical reclaiming of sound and tech. This is the music we were never meant to make, and the manner in which we were never meant to engage with this technology.
Within Black cultural production, technology is never static — it is continually rerouted, repurposed, and recompiled. This isn’t just adaptation; it is a kind of alchemical transformation, at once volatile and sublime. Jacques Derrida’s concept of iterability — the idea that every sign can be repeated and recontextualised — comes alive in Black sonic traditions, not as abstract theory but as living code. From ingoma to amapiano, we hear recursive forking: production becomes a form of ancestral version control. These are not official protocols, but pirated ones — oral Git repositories with infinite branches. History here is modular, and resistance is rendered agile.
In a city like Joburg, the evidence is everywhere. Taxis, trains, electricity, cellphones — all used in a kind of fugitive way. As I observe the movements of our communities — the shindigs we frequent, the venues that host our nights — I notice a striking pattern. Though DJing in gqom and amapiano remains a predominantly male domain, there’s an undeniable wave of femme and queer DJs seizing the decks. Joburg beloveds like MamThug, NotaShe, and NoDiggity dominate the city’s scene, while the ascent of local femme amapiano and gqom DJs has transcended borders, erupting on the global stage through icons like DBN Gogo, Uncle Waffles, and Success\_\_\_SA.
Many would consider Mandisa Radebe, known as DBN Gogo, the ultimate boss of any such list. The name alone with its implications of superiority, paired with being a bit of a nepo baby (she’s the daughter of Jeff Radebe, a powerful South African politician) make her untouchable. She rose to prominence with her 2021 Boiler Room set in London that was one of the markers of amapiano’s arrival in serious electronic music, with her at the forefront. Her polyrhythmic, tension-filled mixes are seductively assertive, with quick cuts, layered vocals, blending so fluently with gqom’s militant drive with amapiano’s sensual flow.
Lungelihle Zwane, aka Uncle Waffles, Eswatini-born and Johannesburg-based, also exploded onto the global stage in 2021 after a viral video of her dancing to “Adiwele,” caught Drake’s attention and launched a world tour, Coachella debut, and major endorsements. Upping the ante, Waffles proved her technical prowess with her live sets on Apple Music’s Boiler Room and BBC 1Xtra, eventually signing to OW Label and Epic Records. Her energetic performance style blends Swazi aesthetics with various African and pop culture influences, bringing amapiano to global audiences authentically and unapologetically.
The lesser known Lerato Matsoso, popularly known as Success\_\_\_SA, is a Cape Town-based DJ originally from Soweto, celebrated for her Afro-queer, minimal, and hypnotic fusion of gqom and hyper-techno-inflected amapiano. Regularly playing at hybrid and queer venues like the now closed Kitchener's in Braamfontein, her sets, weave pitched-down vocals and sparse drums, moving like meditative poetry. Supported by powerful queer underground collectives such as Femme Kollektive and Vogue Nights Jozi, Success\_\_\_SA eschews aggressive marketing, to reinforce translocal networks of curiosity, care and communion.
To decode these sonic grammars, we can turn further afield to Kodwo Eshun, who in More Brilliant than the Sun (1998) introduces “chronopolitical ruptures” — moments where Black music folds time, unzips reality, and reprograms the present through rhythm. Fred Moten’s In the Break (2003), sees Black performance theorised as a sonic excess that exceeds Western aesthetics. Daphne A. Brooks, in Bodies in Dissent (2006), shows how sound and gesture in Black women's performance act as archival and political disruptions. Louis Chude-Sokei, in The Sound of Culture (2016), goes on to read diasporic sound as machinic — attuned to glitch, automation, and repetition.
But of course, while the connections with the diaspora allow more avenues to think of how Black sonic traditions evolve through time and space, there is something deliciously oneiric about the genres that are born right here. It’s too easy to say the difference lies only in language — though linguistics are a luscious starting point. As we’ve seen, the very names gqom and amapiano carry meanings that outsiders might miss, already signalling a kind of refusal: sound made for us, on our terms. And yet, this same fugitivity has gone viral. A happy accident — a blissful glitch.
While these African youth genres may seem like frivolous fun to those outside the fray, that assumption is weak. Yes, many tracks are lo-fi and lighthearted, rightly so — but even the harshest sceptic ought to take note. These are not just partying tracks; they are vital cultural codes, spiritual frequencies, and political refusals wrapped in rhythm and drip. With amapiano alone grabbing 1.4 billion streams on Spotify in 2023 — with 55% coming from outside Africa, the time for denial is over. This is not child's play — it’s an ongoing African sonic uprising.
At its heart — the divine feminine — an ineffable source of profound elsewhere erotic energies that animate the very workings of the cosmos. Femme bodies not only bear the future of humanity from birth but also wield the capacity to manifest it through random acts of divine creativity, particularly through sound. Credo Mutwa’s many teachings, including in Indaba, My Children (1964) emphasise sound, the drum and rhythm as divine feminine forces that connect all things. To centre African futures is to surrender to the might of feminine energy in modes of world building.
Local femme DJs are thus more than selectas; they are global custodians of frequency, serving those on the continent and beyond. Through their bodies and beats, they proliferate the primordial pulse. They reroute global networks, reclaiming white, male-dominated spaces. They wield pleasure and softness, redefining care by turning their decks into altars — amaziko; and their mixes into medicine — amakhamba. Far from anomalies, they embody African feminism as established and popular method — excessive, radiant, and precise — using technological vibration to refuse to be contained.
