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When I was approached to write about Abdullah Ibrahim, the first question that came to mind was: where do I begin?
There will never be enough words to describe the true essence of who Abdullah was, and there will never be enough words to express the way I feel since hearing of his passing on June 15, 2026. I was comforted by the unpleasant truth, though, which he often expressed: “Death can never be timely. From God we come and to God we shall return, irrespective of who we are.”
Abdullah was a towering figure. A giant both musically and in stature. He was the embodiment of truth, love and expression — a revolutionary in the true sense of the word. Forever evolving, revolving and changing, as in life itself that’s always in concert with the eternal universe. Abdullah may be physically gone from our presence, but he will continue to live in us through the beautiful music he sang while playing the black and white notes of his pianoforte. He was a great teacher, a healer. I’ll miss the endless telephone conversations we had on many subjects. His signature line was, “Mweli, may I ask you a question? What’s happening in our beloved country?”
Abdullah faced many trials and tribulations in his life’s journey seeking peace. He never felt defeated. He kept true to himself until the end. He was a teacher, a mentor and a father figure. The world recognised his excellence and was in awe of his genius.
He was born in Cape Town on October 9, 1934. His grandmother named him Adolph Johannes Brand to protect him from racism. He later changed his name to Dollar Brand, and today we know him as Abdullah Ibrahim. From an early age Abdullah encountered hardship, the harsh realities of rejection and homelessness.
On her deathbed, his grandmother revealed his father’s identity to him, Senzo, a Mosotho who was murdered. Abdullah didn’t have an identity crisis — he was African and he was human. He quoted Rumi to make the point: “There is only one sound, and all the rest is echo.”
It may surprise many to hear that in the 1950s he walked from Cape Town to Johannesburg in search of peace. His first port of call was the Jazz Maniacs, coincidentally the music group that performed at my father’s wedding in 1944. Abdullah met and performed with many talented musicians, among them maestro saxophonist Kippie Moeketsi, who played Beethoven classics on clarinet from memory. Kippie and Abdullah recorded and played in George Goch, KwaDukathole (Germiston/Katlehong), and in many townships around the country.
Abdullah was born a singer, a storyteller, a griot — as they’re referred to in West Africa, Senegal, where he once lived. Through him I learned about brilliant South African musicians like Caleb Ndimande and Gideon Nxumalo.
At age 20, Abdullah witnessed the historic adoption of The Freedom Charter in Kliptown, Johannesburg, in 1955.
Determined to master his own destiny, he honed his craft and walked away from unsavoury situations. His music was rooted in his voice. He possessed the gift of understanding anatomy, and knew which notes to play to evoke emotions. When his music was considered not commercial enough, he stood his ground and sold his records and CDs at venues where he performed, like Sweet Basil Jazz Club in New York City.
He was an artist and a businessman who charted his own destiny. He didn’t compromise on excellence nor international standards. Abdullah was on lockdown all his life, practising for most of the day. The 1% we witnessed on stage took 99% of practice.
He was a proponent of the Japanese philosophy of Ikigai, that translates to “a reason for being”. Meaning, “What’s your plan when you wake up in the morning?” Even in his elderly years, he defied gravity, continuing to sit at the piano for six hours on end.
I was only ten years old in 1971 when I first heard Dollar Brand’s mesmerising piano brilliance thanks to my brother Linda, who played Abdullah’s Peace album repeatedly at our home in Katlehong. Abdullah’s ageless, timeless sound was music to our ears. Hearing his fingers glide up and down the keys with lightning speed kept us on our toes. My family loved piano music. We had an upright piano, played by my father and brother, in our living room.
Abdullah had a way of getting his point across. Artist friends of mine, Hugh Nolutshungu, Fikile Magadlela and Winston Saoli (who did the artwork on the Peace album cover) once visited Abdullah in Fordsburg in a tipsy state. He welcomed them in and offered them lunch — Purity baby food — to cleanse themselves. They left and never returned.
Abdullah lived a healthy lifestyle. His M7 Project — a music and holistic wellness academy (movement, music, medicine) — is testimony to that. It is a project located on his farm in the Northern Cape. Like his mentor, African American maestro Duke Ellington, Abdullah was an elder wise man in a global village.
In the 1970s he opened a school in Eswatini where his son Tsakwe was born. In my conversations with him he related the following: “During my high school days in Cape Town I was intrigued by the ‘hidden tradition’ narrative. King Mzilikazi was one such — but the trails evaporated in settler medicine. But my Blues for a Hip King was my fervent footsteps to study Eswatini traditional medicine, Incwala — alas! The praying mantis. Kalahari and Japanese succulents sustain my song.”
‘Timing’ is the word, not ‘coincidence’. In 1981, a decade after I’d first listened to Abdullah’s music, his wife Sathima Bea Benjamin, also a musician, walked up to me to enquire if I was from South Africa. It was on Seventh Avenue, downtown New York City, across the street from the Sweet Basil. She’d caught a glimpse of the bold words on my T-shirt: ‘SOWETO THE PEOPLE RISING’. I said, “Yes, indeed. I’m in exile and miss my mother dearly, especially because it’s my 20th birthday.” She reached into her purse and handed me $60. I thanked her immensely as she strode away with her daughter Tsidi (a Sesotho name), who today goes by the name Jean Grae. The rest is history. Later, I met Abdullah and his son Tsakwe at their family apartment inside the Chelsea Hotel. As we sat in conversation, I noticed a prominent samurai sword on the living-room wall, a constant reminder that I’d entered the shrine of a Budō practitioner.
In 2020, due to his disciplined and dedicated training under grandmaster Yukio Tonegawa, Abdullah was conferred full mastership of Yakami-ryū Taijutsu, becoming the first non-Japanese to receive the honour. He also became the first African-born musician to be named Jazz Master, the most prestigious honour of this art form in the US. Abdullah put South Africa on the map. He wasn’t interested in fame and glory, nor did he sell his soul for silver and gold.
From the early 1980s onwards, I house-sat for the Ibrahim family, and Abdullah would ask me for a second opinion on certain matters. A spiritual bond developed. I filmed his fundraiser concert for New York City mayor David Dinkins’ delegation to meet Nelson Mandela after his release from prison. I also filmed his concert at the Johannesburg City Hall in 1992 when we returned home from exile. We worked on other initiatives, including the establishment of a music restaurant, ‘SENZO’. Abdullah was gracious. He made time to attend my mother’s funeral in 2011. She’d sung his composition Mannenberg back to him in the past. It’s a song that will remain in our hearts.
Our anti-apartheid group, Sechaba Singers, recorded and performed with him on special occasions, notably, when Archbishop Desmond Tutu gave an address at the Cathedral of St John the Divine in New York City in 1986.
Abdullah was a singer from childhood, which some don’t know. Many of his songs have lyrics that he hummed while performing, like Anthem for a New Nation. He sings, “Fight for Liberation! Sing in jubilation, now!" The maestro found his unmistakable voice, expressed with impeccable precision and style. Abdullah preferred journalists to write about his music rather than focus on the clothes and shoes he was wearing.
He was laid to rest on Monday, June 22, in Germany in accordance with Islamic burial tradition. He’ll be remembered for his selfless and relentless fight against apartheid injustices in South Africa and other parts of the world. He’ll also be remembered for the humble and dignified way he carried himself and the charitable contributions he made to nursing institutions, a shining example to future generations. Abdullah wished more people would invest in loss, not gain to make this world a better place. He kept his eyes on the prize — to find peace — reflected in his body of work Peace, Solotude, Kalahari, Blues for a Hip King, Water from an Ancient Well. He believed in an ancient well of wisdom that he encouraged us to sip from.
It was a blessing to get a call from him days before he transitioned into one of the ancestors. For the first time in the past 45 years of knowing him, he said: “Mweli, I’ve been touring since the age of 14. I need a rest.” I agreed, “Yes Abdullah, you deserve a rest.” He didn’t mention that he was calling me from his hospital bed. He had asked for a private moment to talk to me.
I cherish that moment. My spiritual connection with Abdullah is beyond words.
Mweli Mzizi is an independent filmmaker, musician, activist, and member of the Zulu royal family. He is best known in music history for contributing background vocals to Little Steven’s (Steven Van Zandt) acclaimed 1987 anti-apartheid protest album Freedom - No Compromise.
• This is a tribute to a friend, written from memory.
