“We’re all inhibited by structural forces, societal pressures, and even by interpersonal challenges. But music shakes that off, and in some ways, brings you closer to God.” – Zwide Ndwandwe
Written by Hlengiwe Mkwayi
I met with Kujenga on a relaxed Saturday morning at an arranged photoshoot in a quiet house in Midrand, Johannesburg. We sat in conversation at a patio around a wooden table, while nibbling on fruits, sipping on water, tea and coffee for each person respectively. The rest of the morning saw mid-air moments above a trampoline, laughter cutting through the calm sunlight, and Takalani Mafumo taking stills of the future of Black band music in South Africa.
Kujenga is a seven-piece collective bound by brotherhood, friendship, and the refusal to accept life as is in a collapsing world. With Zwide Ndwandwe on bass, Thane Smith on electric guitar, Owethu Ndwandwe on keys, Bonga Mosola on trumpet, Keno Carelse on drums, and currently joined by session players Danél Murcott on saxophone and Hope Ngubeni-Hadebe on trombone, the band is building powerful soundscapes which blend improvisation, activism, and spirituality.
Kujenga means “to build” in KiSwahili. What inspired you naming the band and selecting Swahili as the language to communicate that?
Zwide: So, when myself, Thane and Owethu started the band in 2017, we had another drummer at the time, his name was Riley van der Merwe. We were talking about how we wanted to draw from some of the African music influences that shaped us such as Jimmy Dludlu, Fela, The Muffinz, etc.
We were really exploring African music and wanted our identity as a band to reflect that, and subsequently, an African name would best represent the kind of project we wanted to build. Riley actually found the word Kujenga online while searching through different African words and their meanings. We discovered it was Swahili, and it immediately felt right; it’s the most widely spoken language on the continent, and the word is a synonym “to create.” As artists, that resonated deeply with us, because that’s what we do; we build, we create.
I read in one of your previous interviews that Zwide, Owethu & Thane met at church. My favourite thing about church is the communal singing. And I think your music (especially in performance), while not directly drawing from church, reflects that same sense of togetherness.
So when you’re creating music, do you think about how it’s going to sound to an audience, or how they’ll respond to it and send that energy back?
Zwide: I guess especially when the horns come in, the structure of the song might follow a simple three-part harmony. That naturally resembles choral music, the kind sung in big groups, whether in church or traditional settings. But the idea has always been to create songs that can be as complex as we want them to be, while still allowing people to sing them back to us.
We’ve been incredibly fortunate to have had those experiences. But also, as Africans, singing in groups extends far beyond the church; it’s part of our protests, our celebrations, our ceremonies, our folk songs. So, I think that element in our music mirrors those shared experiences.
I’m interested in people’s little histories, and here, the stories before your connection with the band. For you two, please tell me a bit about your backgrounds before joining Kujenga?
Hope: I’m originally from Pretoria, but I moved to Cape Town when I started high school. That’s actually where my journey with music began. The head of music at the school once asked me, “Don’t you want to play the trombone or trumpet?” And in my mind, I was like, No, I don’t. I want to play the piano, I don’t even know what a trombone is!
Funny enough, that same day my mom picked me up and we were listening to Jonas Gwangwa in the car. We’d been listening to him since I was a baby, but I never knew that the instrument I loved hearing was a trombone. When I made that connection, I thought, Oh wow, that’s what it is — I’m definitely doing that!
That moment changed everything. I decided on the trombone instead because that music had always connected my mom and me, even before I knew what the instrument was. She didn’t know what it was either, but she loved it, so it felt right.
I started taking lessons and continued playing after school as well which led to my first encounter with Kujenga in my first year. When Tamsin couldn’t make one of their gigs, she recommended me to fill in for her. That’s when I met the guys, and that’s where everything started.
Danél: I think, for me, music was always kind of around. My parents were both in the Navy band, and they both played saxophone and clarinet. So, naturally, I didn’t want to play saxophone! I actually started out with the flute. I did piano and flute, and eventually moved to clarinet.
In high school, I did two years of saxophone because my dad really wanted me to. He’d say, “Play saxophone, then you’ll get into the big band sound!” So I did it for about two years, but eventually, I went on to study music and, honestly, I wasn’t that happy with my degree. I remember thinking, Am I really going to be a classical flutist in a philharmonic orchestra for the rest of my life?
That’s when I started exploring jazz. I was learning from the Aebersold books, and I’d get a bit jealous seeing people switch over; it just looked so much more fun. So, I decided to take lessons with someone at UCT, but even then, I still didn’t feel like I was learning in the way I wanted to. Eventually, I thought, Okay, let me just do a diploma for a year and see how it goes. I ended up getting a scholarship, and that’s really when things started to click.
I think I got into Kujenga through Open Wine, which held a jam session in Cape Town that everyone knew about. All the musicians went there and it was just this beautiful, collaborative space. I went one night when Zwide was playing, and I performed Nomali along with him.
It was such a killer night. He later booked me for something, and that’s really where our connection began. I remember we ended up talking about Palestine, COVID, and vaccinations. That’s maybe where the mix-up or overlap started, but it was such a memorable exchange.
I went through your instagram, Thane and a lot of your posts have one line captions like “Loading”, “Don’t be surprised”, and “Unc Mode”. So if you were to caption your life right now in one line, what would it be?
Thane: It’s funny because I probably wanted to post the picture but didn’t know what to say; I mean there was a time where I just couldn’t say anything. For this moment right now I’d probably caption it as “Family”.
While still on IG captions, for you Bonga, what does it mean to be a “fly by day”?
Bonga: That’s a deep stalk; I don’t even remember that and don’t think there’s anything deep about it, honestly, but I can take it there!
So, we were playing at a this celebratory event for uBab Louis Moholo in Langa. It was really cool, I mean, I was enjoying it. But I remember seeing the tymas there — the elders — and they were steezing, you know? They were looking sharp, just owning it. That really struck me. It’s always been something that intrigues me, like when you look at old pictures in a family album, of your grandparents or great-grandparents. You see them and realize they probably didn’t have much, but they did so much with the little they had and they did it with style.
I think that’s something I’ve always looked up to. That sense of pride, of making the most of what you have. Seeing those times, that energy, it inspires me. So yeah, maybe in some way, I was just trying to be fly like them, you know?
When I first heard Ransome and then learned that it pays homage to Fela Kuti, I immediately recalled a specific tweet that Zwide once posted years ago about Fela Kuti; the story around Coffin for Head of State. That was the first time I’d ever encountered that specific story of radical tragedy in music.
Zwide: You guys know the story, hey? Basically, every time Fela dropped an album, he’d get arrested by the Nigerian government.
They had this long-standing feud, though it wasn’t exactly symmetrical; the state had all the power, and Fela was just a musician, building power among the people. At one point, they raided the Kalakuta Republic, and that’s when they went after his mother. Her name was Funmilayo, one of the earliest Black women lecturers and doctors in Nigeria. She was highly respected, both politically and academically, a real public figure.
The government captured her and threw her out of a third-story window. She died from the fall. They also beat Fela severely and evicted everyone living in the compound.
After that, Fela took his mother’s body, placed it in a coffin, and walked it all the way to the government headquarters. That act became the inspiration for Coffin for Head of State, both the song and the album. Yeah, it’s wild; tragic, but powerful.
So where did your interest in Fela Kuti begin?
Zwide: It started musically, because the music itself is just incredible. You know, people often think of that kind of sound as simple and that happens a lot with African music. Especially for people coming from more Western classical or even jazz and improvised music backgrounds, anything that’s repetitive in its own way can be dismissed as “simple.” But there’s so much genius in that music, even from a technical perspective. I think most musicians, and really anyone who loves good music, can pick that up.
So I was first drawn in purely as a listener. Then, as I started engaging more deeply with Fela’s work, I got into the politics surrounding it; the radical, unapologetic stance he took. As someone who was also becoming interested in history and emancipatory politics, I was fascinated by how he used his platform to speak on those things and to reignite that spirit of resistance and struggle.
When I discovered him, around 2015 or 2016, maybe even earlier, I was just out of high school and knew I wanted to be a musician. I also knew I wanted to make conscious music. Fela really guided my own political growth, alongside the other literary figures and musicians I was exploring at the time.
During one of the listening sessions for Common Ground, some ladies standing behind me remarked and said they are surprised that Keno is a drummer because he’s so chatty. What is your favourite thing about being a part of the band?
Keno: I don’t think I have a favourite thing, because everything just feels natural. I feel like myself, you know? I’m not putting on anything or trying to impress anyone. Everyone knows how I am as a person, outside of the music.
In a band you need to connect with your bandmates beyond just the playing. That connection outside of the music really taps into what happens when we perform together. Getting to know each other as people strengthens how we play as a group.
So yeah, everything just feels… cool. Natural. Easy.
My favourite thing is when musicians talk during their performances because it appeases my curiosity on what’s going on in their minds and hearts. Zwide, you do that quite brilliantly and that’s how the performance becomes a clear intersection of music, protest, and the personal live experience. This is a question for anyone at the table. There are so many things that fuel us politically, right? But what’s the one thing that has bonded you all as a group? The one thing you confidently stand for, or against, collectively ?
Bonga: Capitalism and state violence.
We were meant to join a protest in Rosebank, Joburg. It was a protest against what’s happening in Palestine. The plan was for it to take place outside the Cape Union Mart at Rosebank Mall because of their links to funding. It was meant to be peaceful. We were just going to play music, say a few things.
So we get there and it’s myself, Matt, and Tamsin, because we play horns. The rest couldn’t bring their electronic instruments or drums, but Zwide was there too. We didn’t really know Rosebank Mall that well, so we got lost trying to find each other. Eventually we reunite and start heading back and that’s when security stops us. These big security guys. For me, it’s about the extent to which they’re willing to defend their interests. And also, the fact that Rosebank Mall isn’t actually a public space; it’s private property. That realisation really shook me. A lot of the violence we see is justified through privatisation.
Think about what happened in Durban, the looting, the Phoenix situation. All of it is framed as “protecting private property.” It’s wild. In post-apartheid South Africa, so much has become privatised. Even state violence has been outsourced. It’s now carried out by private security. That ties straight into capitalism.
And then you think about Cape Town, the rent is insane. I always use that as an example because it’s killing me man. It’s ridiculous that you have to spend so much money just to have a place to live.
It’s also tough for us as musicians because this is an expensive craft. There are so many things we’ve wanted to do but couldn’t simply because of capitalism. And you still see how little has changed in this country, even within our own families. So much comes down to money.
It’s crazy. Like, they changed that dompass; it’s the randela now.
Owethu: I think one consistency across all the music we’ve made over time is that it highlights the reality that we’re living in a very anti-Black world.
And of course, each system that we speak about, whether it’s capitalism, privatisation, or state violence, has that underlying thread: the people who are most affected by it are always Black people. Even something as simple as us making music with a unifying or Pan-Africanist message becomes political, because the truth is, that kind of message isn’t wanted in this world.
It’s gotten to the point where we even find ourselves having to fight each other for it.
Danél: I love music and I grew up surrounded by it. I listened to Bob Dylan and all those guys. But it’s crazy how you sometimes find out something about a musician that completely changes how you see them.
Like, Bob Dylan wrote these beautiful anti-war songs like Masters of War and Blowin’ in the Wind, songs that really resonate with people. But then you learn he also wrote Neighborhood Bully, where he expresses support for Israel, and you’re just like, how? How do you write these incredible songs about peace and resistance, and then hold views that contradict that so deeply?
That’s why I think it’s important to take a stand and hopefully, we can hold onto that essence in what we do.
Zwide: I think, in terms of what we stand for, it’s clear that we oppose anti-Black, capitalist, patriarchal state mechanisms that oppress people in so many different ways. At its core, what we’re fighting for is freedom and autonomy that is particularly for Black people.
We feel that music, especially live music experiences, delivers that sense of freedom. Not just for us on stage, but for anyone in the venue sharing that moment. Even when someone listens to a song on their own, there’s this sense of liberation. We’re all inhibited or constrained by structural forces, by societal pressures, and even by interpersonal challenges. But music shakes that off, and in some ways, it brings you closer to God. That’s the only way I can put it; it’s when you feel truly free.
What we’re trying to do with our music is make that sense of freedom the essence of our mission. Not just for those two hours in a show, but imagining a world where people can exercise self-determination: choosing how and where they want to live, and why. It’s about reclaiming agency, building alternatives to what we’re told life should be.
That, I think, is the biggest part of being a musician. On an unspoken, even unconscious level, we’re chasing something that can feel almost impossible to imagine in a world like this.
You’re in a band that uses music as both expression and resistance. With that in mind, people often describe Kujenga as more than just jazz musicians. How would you define that for yourselves?
Hope: It’s really about the music, but I think the relationships matter too. Like Keno said earlier, it’s important to have that friendship among us, and to understand the positions we put ourselves in by standing for what we stand for. It’s not an easy thing because it’s a sacrifice.
There are so many organisations and companies that might want to book us or use our music in ads, but we have to do the research to see what they actually align with. Most of the time, the people with the money to spend on musicians support the wrong things. It’s on us to decide: do we participate, or how can we use the opportunity to our benefit while staying true to our values?
Even though we want ultimate freedom, there are constraints. Do we take these opportunities, knowing how the money is sourced or how the products are made? That’s always at the back of our minds. So beyond the music, it’s also about navigating those systems, using the platforms and resources available as strategically as possible, because often those people use us as much as we use them.
Zwide: But I always ask myself, did our musical idols ever take corporate gigs or do brand deals? Sometimes you can think “no” but actually, you just don’t know.
Bonga: Like Fela playing for Anglo Gold? [laughs]. You know, I was reading, I think it was the last chapter of I Write What I Like. It was written like a letter, or maybe a chapter framed as a letter (I can’t remember exactly who wrote it) but it was explaining why the Black Consciousness Movement was willing to take money from Anglo American.
And I guess it’s similar to what Hope was talking about. In the book, it was framed as fundamentally our money, because it was looted from us. So in that sense, there could be a justification. But it’s tricky, though because of course they spend their money for a reason. And in a way they maybe even more than you do, because you’re the one associating with them.
Zwide: Capital is sanitised when it links itself to the arts. And the thing I’m most wary of is how the money that we get given, still circulates back to them; the money we get from them is often just a fraction of what we could potentially be earning.
More than anything, Danél and I have been talking about the contradictions of being a band that tries to be conscious about everything we do. Considering the constraints Hope mentioned — rent, living expenses, all of that — it has meant we’ve had to say no to a lot of high-paying gigs. And sometimes, we’ve said yes to gigs that felt questionable. But when we do, we commit fully, knowing that we’re taking action thoughtfully, without causing harm.
These tensions are not things we shy away from; we confront them and work through them because they’re inevitable. And I think what I’m most proud of about this band is that it really feels like a movement. People outside the immediate musical configuration of the band are part of this movement as well. We try to think beyond individual goals to communal ones, ways we can serve the community that we ultimately make music for.
We all love a good call & response moment. And so for my final question, what is your call, Owethu and I’d like Danél to be in response to that.
Owethu: My call is: let’s get it.
Danél: Yeah!
