I meet Vusi “the Voice” Mahlasela at Café Barcelona. On an unassuming corner in Hatfield, Pretoria, I find I have stumbled into a live-music institution.
The small stage — level with the tables — and the posters announcing forthcoming attractions such as Koos Kombuis and Valiant Swart are giving alternative ’90s time travel vibes. We could be in Rockey Street caught up in the joys of recent freedoms.
The waitress tells me she has worked at this clearly beloved, humble, idiosyncratic venue for almost as long as the vibes.
Mahlasela says he has played with all of these guys and was performing here earlier in the month — which is telling, because this is a man who can command huge venues and global audiences and still chooses to make music here.
“I was born here in Pretoria, but my home is Mamelodi,” he says. “I love Mamelodi because it is a place where you do not die of loneliness. People check on each other. They care for one another.”
His family history is threaded through the brutal logic of apartheid. His grandmother was forcibly removed. His grandfather, a skilled worker who had the correct permit to be out after hours, was beaten to death by a white motorbike gang. There was no justice. His grandmother survived by brewing and selling traditional beer.
Before I understood politics, I understood rhythm
— Vusi Mahlasela
“There was pain, but there was also resilience,” he says quietly. “My grandmother kept the family alive. She made a way where there was no way.”
There was also music. “My grandmother played vinyls all the time. People came with guitars. Others sang a cappella. Sometimes there would be drumming and dancing. That is where I fell in love with music. Before I understood politics, I understood rhythm.”
As a boy he and his friends formed an impromptu band and made instruments from tins, mattress springs and tennis balls. They called themselves The Pleasure Invaders.
“We were children making a joyful noise,” he laughs. “We did not know it was training us for the future.”
Then came 1976. Mahlasela was 11. “That was when my political education started. You begin asking questions. What is happening here. Why are people being treated like this. Once you start asking, you cannot go back to sleep.
“I was inspired by the revolutionary Chilean musician, Victor Jara, and his manifesto — he also played guitar, and he sang his poetry. He was an activist, and they [military dictator Augusto Pinochet’s henchmen] crushed his hands so that he couldn’t play.
“I belonged to the Congress of South African Writers at that time, where I met writers like Nadine Gordimer. She was like a mother to me, she paid for my music lessons. She was always saying, ‘One day you’re gonna be famous, but don’t let it go to your head. I want you to keep that accent, which is your voice and the guitar.’ She loved it when it was only me and the acoustic guitar.”
His songs, he says, are diagnostic instruments. “I am the kind of doctor who diagnoses the problems and puts them out there for people to debate. I sing about corruption, injustice, hope, love, healing, memory.”
This is how Mahlasela explains the title of his forthcoming album, Questions & Answers, due for release on May 22, the day before he performs at Bassline Fest 2026 at Constitution Hill. The 20-year celebration of Bassline brings together Ami Faku, Maleh, Mahlasela and Brandon Aura under the theme “Say Africa”.
Sometimes the song comes with no words. Sometimes the words come first. Sometimes I sleep and they tell me that word is wrong, go back and change it. Music comes from a place beyond the mind. From my ancestors. God first, then those who came before us
— Vusi Mahlasela
“There are many questions in the world now,” he says. “If people do not understand the answer, then go back to the question. Sit with it. Listen properly. The truth is always there.”
Two singles from the album have already been released, Questions & Answers and Setšhu Sa Ditamati, which reflects on food, seeds and what industrialised agriculture has severed from nature.
He speaks of songwriting as something channelled. “Sometimes the song comes with no words. Sometimes the words come first. Sometimes I sleep and they tell me that word is wrong, go back and change it. Music comes from a place beyond the mind. From my ancestors. God first, then those who came before us.”
He tells me he had a serious illness before Covid, and was performing in a wheelchair, but the dual effects of of undergoing dialysis three times a week and understanding his purpose means that he radiates vitality and rude health. He laughs, explaining that nobody can believe how well he looks.
“I do not own the sickness,” he says firmly. “I do not say my sickness. I say there is a condition and I am dealing with it. Words matter. The way you speak matters.”
I ask what he would say to his younger self, that 11-year-old entering history too early. “I was growing physically and spiritually,” he says. “There are things I had to learn. There are roads you do not understand while you are walking them. Only later do you see why you had to pass there.”
He is wearing a T-shirt from one of his tours to the US — the back has endless dates across the continent, and the front has a picture of a firefly. “I’m not a star, I’m just a firefly. A creature that makes light in darkness, briefly, beautifully, enough to guide by.”
This article was first published in Sunday Times Lifestyle.
