“For me, music is a calling, like a deep, spiritual thing.” — Blu Pappi
Written by Anastatia Nkhuna
Stepping into greener pastures of his career Blue Pappi’s music often reflects personal storytelling, cultural roots, and a youthful but introspective energy. He’s part of the new wave of South African musicians redefining what local sound looks like, melding traditional influences with a global sonic palette.
In conversation with Blue Pappi we discuss his upbringing, influenced by rural life, urban experiences, and cultural exposure. How he ended choosing music as a career, handling pressure and industry expectations and his personal goals ahead of his album release titled EMADLELWENI ALUHLAZA.
“Hlaza” is a word that holds colour and character, green in isiZulu, but also symbolic of newness, life, and rootedness. Where were you first watered? Tell me about the soil that raised you, your upbringing, your culture, and how it shaped the artist you’ve become.
I grew up in three very different environments, each of which shaped who I am especially as an artist.
My earliest years were spent in KwaZulu-Natal, in a deeply rural village. When I say rural, I mean we only got electricity around 2014, that’s how untouched it was. I did my entire primary schooling there, and that space grounded me in tradition. It’s where my connection to cultural music, rhythm, and storytelling was born.
When my mom met my stepdad, we started spending a lot of time in Elokshin. That space showed me another side of life. It’s where I started learning about coolness, style, and new music, it felt like a cultural awakening.
Later, when my mom got a job, we moved to town. Kind of like being ‘air-dropped’ into a different world. That’s where I got exposed to the more urban side of life: what it means to join in, to explore, to ask questions about identity. Each of those places left something in me like different threads that now make up my sound.
The traditional and authentic tones in my music? That’s from KZN.
The boldness, the part of me that’s unfiltered, that’s not afraid to say “f**k” in a song? That’s from the freedom I found in Elokshin.
And the soulful, choral layers? That came later, from singing in choirs, from moments where music was about harmony and expression, like singing ‘Prophesy’ in a school assembly in town.
So yeah, my upbringing wasn’t linear but it’s layered. And every layer shows up in my music.
So many of us are told the blueprint: get the degree, land the job, stay in the lines. But you didn’t follow that script. What pushed you to choose music as your calling instead of the ‘safe’ route we’re often taught to pursue?
For me, music is a calling, like a deep, spiritual thing.
You can try to run from it, try to take another path, but it always finds its way back to you. That’s what happened to me.
I tried to ignore it, and tried to take the ‘safe’ route. But deep down I knew: if I didn’t give music a real shot, I’d regret it forever.
I didn’t want to wake up one day, stuck in a job I didn’t care about, like doing engineering I had no real passion for. So I took the risk. And to be honest, I didn’t choose music, music chose me. I just followed my heart. If I didn’t, I honestly don’t know if I’d still be here. That’s how heavy it is. That’s how deep it runs.
I had the pleasure of producing and writing your music video for “Take Me for a Nai Remix” and spending time with you and Ma-E on set, I sensed something deeper than just collaboration. It felt like you were in conversation across generations. He’s been where you are now, and I imagine that’s mirrored in your relationship with Sjava too. What does mentorship look like in your world, and how has it guided the choices you make in your journey?
I’m a scholar at heart, I genuinely love learning.
It’s not always about sitting in a classroom. For me, it’s about listening, absorbing, and constantly being open to new knowledge. I think that’s one of the biggest reasons I’ve been able to achieve so much in such a short amount of time.
Yes, I’ve got the talent, the ease, and having someone like Sjava in my corner has been powerful, he’s always been about the craft. But more than that, I’ve been surrounded by mentors who genuinely want the best for me. That kind of guidance has played a massive role in shaping who I am.
Mentorship is everything to me. And now, when I find myself in a position where I can pass something on, even if it’s just one or two lessons. I don’t hold back. I will go all out. Because that’s how we grow. That’s how we stay sharp.
I value information. I value the process of learning. So, if there’s something new to be taught, I’m wide open.
Your sound doesn’t sit in one place, there’s the pulse of isiZulu, the grit of hip-hop, the emotion of R&B. It feels like genre is more of a moodboard than a box for you. How would you describe your sound not just musically, but spiritually? Who are the sonic ancestors and references that echo in your work?
I’ve got quite a few influences, it’s actually wild. Umculo Angikubandlululi
I listen to a lot of music, and I move through genres depending on how I’m feeling. You could walk in on me vibing to Maskhandi, then the next minute I’m playing old-school R&B. Sometimes I’ll be deep in gospel, and the next I’m bumping hip hop. I’m really tapped in, and I love that about myself, it keeps my ear fresh and my sound dynamic.
When it comes to artists who’ve truly shaped my sound and direction, the list is special. Sjava, definitely. He’s had a huge influence on how I approach storytelling and emotion in music. Then there’s Ma-E, someone whose presence and attitude I’ve always admired. Spirit of Praise has been major too, gospel music taught me about depth and spiritual conviction in sound.
And then there’s Luther Vandross, that soul, that smoothness, that feeling, he’s a big one for me. I can’t leave out A-Reece either. Reece is someone I’ve listened to religiously. He’s sharp, intentional, and just real with it. He definitely helped shape my lyrical approach and tone.
Those artists? They molded me. They’re the ones I study, the ones I return to. They helped me realise the kind of artist I want to be.
I scrolled all the way back to your first TikTok post in 2022 and now, just a few years later, you’ve built a discography for yourself. What was the moment or the mindset that gave you the push to start showing up for your talent publicly?
I started believing in myself early on. So many of the things I once spoke into existence started unfolding, working with artists like A-Reece and Sjava, even creating music connected to Riky, without ever meeting him.
Once I truly heard myself and recognized the power of what I was making, everything shifted. I stopped chasing people’s approval and focused on letting the music speak. I wasn’t trying to blow up. I was just committed to the work.
And I’ve learned this: when something is real, it’ll reach who it needs to. That’s exactly what happened.
Let’s talk about the pressure that comes with being in the game. The algorithm, the comparisons, the need to stay “hot.” Do you ever feel fear creeping in and if so, how do you quiet that noise?
I pour myself into music to manage the pressure that comes with life. I’ve got a family to support, dreams to reach, and I want to achieve it all through doing what I love. That’s where the real pressure lies, not in the industry. The industry politics don’t faze me. I move independently with my team, on my own terms. I don’t chase validation or timelines. I measure success by my own standard. If I win, I’m grateful. If I fall, I learn. I’m content with where I am, even as I strive for more because joy and purpose come first, not burnout.
As a Qweller, you’re part of a movement, a collective reshaping genre and energy. Talk to me about the bond you share with the group: how you met, how you move in sync on stage, and how you manage to hold space for your solo work and your collective work. What does that balance mean to you?
There’s a saying: abafowenu uzo ba thola emazweni, you’ll find your brothers out in the world.
That’s what the Qwellers are to me: chosen family. When I met LaCabra and Lowfeye at a Rising Star competition hosted by TuneCore at Flame Studios that Amira was also involved in, the connection was instant. Same hood, same hunger, same heart, it felt like home. They believed in me deeply, not out of duty, but because they saw the vision. That kind of love is rare.
From day one, they welcomed me with no ego, just real brotherhood. And once we hit the studio, I knew I belonged. This wasn’t part of the plan, but it quickly became the purpose.
Even with ten of us, we keep the bond alive by pouring into ourselves first because you can’t build a legacy from an empty cup. Qwellers isn’t just a crew or a brand. It’s a legacy and South African Hip Hop history being written. And no matter how the scene shifts, the love stays. We’ll always be brothers. And that’s what really matters.
Your album is coming. This is a timestamp moment. Walk me through the world you’re building with this body of work. What did you pour into this project, and what do you hope people take from it, whether they’ve been with you from the start or are just arriving now?
This isn’t just an album. It’s a destination. The idea for it began in late 2022, moving into 2023. It’s always been something I saw as a place I had to reach. Not just a project I wanted to drop but a moment I had to live through. Once I arrived there emotionally, spiritually I knew it would be time.
This body of work isn’t about being commercial or giving people what they expect. It’s about giving them what I feel. Every track was created from a very real place of pain, joy, loss, survival, love, even chaos. Nothing was made just for vibes. Even the songs that sound like they’re vibey? There’s something deeper underneath them. Always.
Take “Took Me for a Nai” , one of my most emotional releases. It might sound like a trap anthem on the surface, but at its core, it’s heavy. It carries meaning. And that’s true for every song on the album.
The tape has 21 tracks, including a skit from Sweet Guluva, a close friend and brother who we walked with through his journey until the end. That skit opens the album with a song called “Ungangithwesi Umthwalo Ongaka” which translates to “Don’t Place This Heavy Burden On Me.” It’s a Hustler’s Prayer. It’s me asking for the weight to be lifted, because sometimes it really does feel like too much.
Then there’s a track like “add track title” with LaCobra, Geppetto. It’s one of the earliest songs we recorded, and it talks about getting mugged, real talk. Not in a cinematic way, but in a South African reality way. You can take what you want from me, but just let me get home safe. It’s the kind of story so many of us know. I’ve seen people lose their lives over R1,500. I’ve seen my own sister suffer for something that senseless. That’s the country we live in.
And then there’s “uSiya jola,” featuring Drago and K.Keed. That one speaks to lost love, the kind of connection that could’ve been something powerful, but your lifestyle got in the way.
I could go on for days about this album. It’s not just music, it’s my life.
It’s the grief, the growth, the longing, the hustle, the heartbreak, the survival. Every track is a chapter. Every verse is a scar or a prayer or a memory. This is me, fully. No filters. No masks.
I love ending on a dream note. No pressure, just imagination. Where do you see umfana ohlaza in the next 5 to 15 years? Speak it into the world.
Honestly? Doing an NPR Tiny Desk session, some live instrumentation, just soaking it all in. That’s the one that really has my heart.
By then, I’ll have ticked off everything: The BET shows, the Grammys, the Coachellas, the wild ride. But I’m not chasing all that for clout. Lowkey, I’m on my Frank Ocean vibe, I want to get what I need from the game, leave my mark, and bow out gracefully.
I’m not trying to be here forever. I just want to do it beautifully while I’m here.
