“My name is Thandokazi, which translates to great love. I’ve been in love with many things, but music is my first.” — Thando Zide
Written by Hlengiwe Mkwayi
The first time I met Thando Zide was when a friend of mine, Nkateko Mondhlana who is a photographer, called me to come and assist him with a stills shoot for her EP, Umvulo. Our encounter featured a hike uphill, in warm and sunny Roodepoort, to find the perfect frames. Because I was part of the post production process, Intwenhle, rang in my space for 2 weeks and ultimately moved in with me after the post phase was completed.
This conversation with Thando Zide, the Soweto-born artist whose bodily voice feels both ancient and current, threads her artistic identity, creative philosophy, emotional grounding, and evolution as a musician. Somber by default but chasing joy by choice, Thando Zide delicately lets us in on why music is her chosen medium for archiving the lived experience.
I think it’s quite easy, and has become a default question, to ask someone who they are as intro. But sometimes, clarity lives in the opposite. So, to start us off: who are you not?
To keep it simple: I’m not a product but rather an experience. What I mean by that is that through my reflections on the industry, and observing the work of others I look up to and admire, I’ve noticed a pattern. There’s this tendency for art to become devalued over time. I hesitate to call it overconsumption,” but that’s really what it is.
There’s this rush, this demand, to consume a product, an art form, or an artist as quickly as possible. And in that rush, the experience of the artist and the essence of the work, gets lost. The artist gets washed out. And that, honestly, breaks my heart. Of course, I’m not saying people shouldn’t experience art. That’s why we create, to be experienced. Art is not meant to be kept to oneself. But with this culture of constant consumption, the cycle often strips the work of its depth and longevity.
So yes, I’m not a product to be over-consumed. I am an experience.
And I say this in response to people who ask me,
“Why don’t we see you more?”
“Why don’t you do more?”
“Why don’t you create more?”
I am creating. Always. But I think I’ve come to understand, through reflection, that I don’t want to put work into the world just to be consumed because it’s there. I want the experience to be intentional; for me and for the people engaging with it.
You touched on your approach to creating. What does that look like?
I usually create from a place of personal experience. That’s typically my approach. For example, I’ll be going through something, whatever situation I’m in, and automatically a song will come to me. Or sometimes… I wouldn’t call myself a poet, because I’m not, but sometimes words just come out and I’ll start writing.
I’ve once mentioned how I’m always writing on my phone. Even if it’s not for a song, I’ll be journaling. And then, if an opportunity for a song comes up, I’ll pull from those journal entries. Some journals end up becoming songs.
The lived experience is the greatest teacher. There’s nothing more truthful than the present moment. So, when you write from that place, is there a particular emotion you’re especially drawn to?
I’m thinking about the songs you’ve written, and just broadly, the themes that come through in your songwriting; we hear joy and optimism in Dawn to grief and revelation in iLanga Lakho. Is there an emotion or theme you find yourself returning to the most when creating?
I love that you asked that because it’s something I’ve thought about. I’ve not always liked the fact that I’m drawn to sombreness.
Whenever I write, whether it’s a love song or something more joyful, my default emotion tends to be somber, for some reason. If I’m in a writing camp and we’re having conversations about what we want to create, even if the song is meant to be about joy, love, or something beautiful, my first instinct is still to approach it from a somber place.
And like I said, I haven’t always been a fan of that, and I haven’t always understood it. But I think I’m just naturally inclined that way. Maybe it’s because I’m an empath. So yeah, my starting point when writing most of the time, even if the song ends up being joyful or full of life. I do try though to navigate through the sombreness to arrive at something lighter. To arrive at joy, in a way.
On being somber, can we tell everybody in the room that the song iLanga Lakho is in fact about the emotional dissonance of approaching a key celebratory moment after a breakup?
I’ve seen how people have related to the song. I’ve seen them use it for birthdays, and some have interpreted it as a love song. And I mean, sonically, it does sound like a love song and I think that’s beautiful.
But the truth is, the song is about someone trying to navigate life after losing an integral part of their daily routine. Right? Whether through death or a breakup, the relationship that was once woven into the fabric of their everyday life has now dissolved and they have experienced a kind of loss. The song reflects the experience of having to understand yourself and your life anew.
When someone is a part of your daily rhythm, you know exactly what to expect. It becomes predictable in a comforting way. And particularly when it comes to birthdays; a month or two before, your life starts revolving around that person. You’re thinking about them, planning for them, wanting to make their day special. But now, when that person is no longer there… it’s like: Okay, what does this day become? What does my life become about now? And that’s a hard thing.
I know I’ve personally struggled with having to come to terms with no longer having people in my life who once played such a meaningful role. And now I have to ask: Who am I outside of you? What does this once important day mean now, when it’s just an ordinary day again? And that’s a difficult thing to grapple with.
Can you paint a picture of what your childhood looked like?
I’m the last of four; I have two brothers and a sister. My parents divorced when I was quite young, so I don’t really have many memories of a two-parent household. It’s always been me living with my mom for most of my life, and then at some point, living with my father.
My childhood was filled with a lot of music. Like in many African families, music was always present when we gathered, whether it was for a funeral or an Intlombe. I mention Intlombe specifically because two of my aunts on my father’s side are traditional healers, so there were always gatherings with community and family where there was singing and being together. Music was never absent in those spaces.
My father was also really into music, and I think I take after him in that way. My parents worked regular nine-to-five jobs, but my dad continued to pursue music as a hobby. On weekends, he’d have rehearsals, and I’d tag along, taking videos, sometimes even singing with them. My mom was part of a choir too, though that was long before I was born. By the time I came along, both my parents had moved on from choir life; but funnily enough, that’s how they met. They met through a choir group.
From UMvulo through to “Ziveze”, and now the latest offering Break – how has your creative voice evolved since?
When I was creating Umvulo, I wouldn’t say I was rigid, but I was definitely locked into a specific idea of who uThando is and what her art was supposed to sound like; how it was meant to be received.
As time passed (and it wasn’t even that long, maybe a year or two between creating Zveze and Break) I started telling myself: You know what? Creating should be fun. It should be about exploring different sounds. It should be about enjoying the process, both while making the music and performing it.
So I think my creative voice shifted in that way. It became less about sticking to what I know or what feels safe, and more about experimenting, doing something new. That’s why I personally feel like Umvulo and Break exist in two completely different universes. Break was me just having fun with creating.
You’ve spoken about how, in the beginning, there was a more rigid idea of who you were creatively and now there’s more freedom and a desire to have fun. So, thinking back to that earlier version of yourself, what did she want to sound like and what were the boundaries had she set for herself back then?
I was very much for African language preservation. That’s why I wrote strictly in isiZulu at first, and would occasionally incorporate bits of isiXhosa or Sesotho here and there. At the time, I was like, “There’s already so much English in the world.” So I thought, let me write in a language that allows me to express myself most honestly.
When it came to Break, though, I said, “Okay, let’s try something different. Let’s include some English; just to explore, to experiment.” So, to answer your question, the boundary I had set for myself at the time was language. I could’ve written in English or any other language when I created Umvulo, but I was very intentional about introducing myself to the world as a vernacular artist. It was important to me to contribute to the preservation of our languages.
Now, though, I think I’m more open. I still want to preserve our languages, definitely but I also want to expand the message and reach a wider audience. Including English in my writing is part of that.
If Issa Rae’s Insecure was South African, I think Break would sit so perfectly as a soundtrack in that world. With the opening lines “I fought a racist on the road today,” you manage to skilfully portray what’s frustrating about the world, then you bring it in to the frustrations that trickle into the intimate. So let’s unpack Break a bit more. What did you draw from in writing it?
When I wrote Break, I was literally breaking. I had just gone through a really difficult encounter with a deeply racist individual. In the song, I say, “I hardly react,” because that’s how I usually am; I don’t like giving external forces that much control over how I feel or behave.
But that day, I was already in a tough season, and he caught me at the wrong, and right, time. The situation even turned violent on his part. Still, I chose not to stoop to that level. Later, when I got home, I sat with everything. I was overwhelmed and not just by that moment, but by a growing disappointment in human relationships. And as cliché as it may sound, I wrote a song. That’s just how I process.
I didn’t love the idea that Break would make those feelings permanent, because now, every time I hear it, I go back to that moment. But I also think it’s important to reflect the times, like Nina Simone said. So Break became that; both a reflection of the world around me, and of the emotional space I was in.
One of my favourite songs you’re featured in is Isineke with Jabulile Majola. What does uk’wala ngawe look like for you?
On my vision board for this year, I included a quote I found on Pinterest. It says: “Respect yourself enough to walk away from everything that violates your value.” That quote perfectly captures what I mean when I say yala ngawe.
Anything that makes you feel unworthy, less than, or inferior; anything that makes you question your value isn’t something you should be pouring your energy into. Instead, your energy should go toward things that celebrate you.
Things that make you feel valuable.
Things that truly see you.
Things that help you recognise the greatness within yourself; and give you the confidence to walk in it.
That, to me, is what ukuwala ngawe means.
