The genesis of modern South African hip-hop can be traced back to kwaito, a style of house music that emanated from the township of Soweto in the mid-1990s, just as the structures of apartheid were being dissolved and Mandela took office as the first democratically elected president of South Africa. Blending elements of mbaqanga, kwela, eighties bubblegum pop, and traditional praise music, kwaito was different from the straightforward rap of South Africa in the 1980s. Groups like Prophets of Da City (P.O.C.) and Black Noise pioneered hip-hop in Cape Town and Johannesburg, and have been credited with ushering in a new wave of black consciousness. P.O.C. was the first rap group in the country to record and release an album; the crew was able to build a fan base overseas and even performed at Mandela’s inauguration in 1994. Black Noise signed a deal with Tusk Music—a subsidiary of Warner-Elektra-Atlantic—and released its own album in 1992. That group, led by rapper Emile YX?, harkened back to the foundation of U.S. hip-hop, when break dancing and graffiti were equally essential to the rhymes being said over the music. Kwaito became the voice of disenfranchised youth who had grown tired of white minority rule and wanted apartheid to be abolished once and for all. Rap groups like P.O.C. and Black Noise were chastised for emulating the sound of hip-hop coming from the States.
Conversely, kwaito was celebrated as an authentic sound for South Africa. In 1995, Arthur Mafokate scored kwaito’s first commercial hit with “Kaffir,” a brash tune with pointed lyrics about white oppressors in South Africa. The song title refers to a derogatory term used in the country against black people, and on the track, Mafokate demands that his boss (or “baas”) not call him by it. The song draws immediate comparisons to Sly and the Family Stone’s 1969 track “Don’t Call Me Nigger, Whitey” for its reclaiming of a word meant to insult a race of people. (To that end, Kendrick would do the same toward the end of To Pimp a Butterfly, on a song called “i,” in which he subbed the derogatory N-word with the Ethiopian word meaning “king.”) The song “Kaffir” passed muster with the youth, some of whom were influenced by Mafokate’s music and went on to create their own resonant art. Mafokate was dubbed the King of Kwaito, and from there the music thrived as a bold alternative to the political—albeit, more palpable—songs of yesteryear. In 1998, kwaito group Boom Shaka caught flack for a house music version of the South African national anthem that it created and performed. It was thought by some to be a commercial subversion of the original hymn; the group, in defending its version, said their version was meant to attract younger listeners.
South African hip-hop is still fairly corporate, and rappers who aren’t tied to major sponsors have a tough time sustaining themselves in the country. That leaves little to no room for MCs who prioritize the art of making music over the demands of making money. “Black artists here aren’t really afforded that luxury of making art for art’s sake,” Blakrok says. In recent years, members of the African National Congress have used hip-hop to secure votes while trying to rebuild confidence in their mission. As a result, a big-name rapper like Kiernan “AKA” Forbes has been criticized for not speaking truth to power, much as his predecessors would’ve done decades ago. “The people are questioning him,” says journalist Mkhabela. “They’re like, ‘You, as a young person, how are you campaigning for a party that is failing a lot of young black people?’ ” Above all, Kendrick served as motivation to traditional lyricists in South Africa who identified with groups like P.O.C. and Black Noise, and who longed for a time when thoughtful lyricism took precedence over glossy, pop-focused hybrids. He represented the roots of hip-hop and all the spoken-word poetry, 1970s funk, and R&B that preceded it. Kendrick was allowed to create authentic music without conforming to what was hot on the radio, and in South Africa, he was a guiding light for unheralded MCs who wanted to succeed on their own terms. In him, they had an example of someone who could have fun without sacrificing content, who could discuss serious issues—like his family’s history of alcoholism—over booming bass drums that resonate in nightclubs. By and large, rappers haven’t been able to do both, yet Kendrick was breaking the mold for his generation.
Four years after he visited the country, Kendrick would once again cast his eye to South Africa by selecting four of its rappers to appear on Black Panther: The Album. Not only was it a soundtrack to a major film, but it was meant to depict Kendrick’s broad musical vision of the
