“The Lord will fight for you, and you have only to be silent,” reads the Bible verse that informs the title of Mandisi Dyantyis’ sophomore album, Cwaka. With a hymnal approach to his compositions, the vocalist and trumpeter infuses his jazz with traditional isiXhosa rhythms, timely social commentary, and messages of communal healing. Treating his art form as both a pulpit and confession booth, he addresses themes such as love, loss, and perseverance. “Faith is everything for me and the beginning of how I create,” he tells Apple Music. “I believe I’m a creature and what I seek to do is listen to the messages of my creator.” There’s a palpable sense of freedom to these 15 tracks, which the Eastern Cape native made with saxophonist Buddy Wells, double bassist Steve De Sousa, drummer Kevin Gibson, and pianists Lonwabo Mafani, Blake Hellaby, and Andrew Lilley. “I believe that songs give birth to songs,” Dyantyis reveals. “Sometimes we like to inform the art, but it becomes a very liberating process when all you need to do is be honest to what has been sent to you.” Here, he talks us through the album, track by track.
“Umbuliso”
“I start the album by greeting the people.”
“Impumelelo”
“‘Impumelelo’ is just about a person searching for success. They’re saying, ‘I’ve looked everywhere.’ They try this and that, and it doesn’t work. They sing this song in despair, asking, ‘Where is the road that leads to success? Can someone please show me the light?’ There’s a need for that—the search for what gives us joy and meaning to our lives.”
“Ndibonis’indlela”
“I’ve always had this thing in my head of wondering where it is that things go bad for me. All I want to be in life is a person that helps someone when they’re in need. I always believe I’m where I am because, at any given point, there was someone who held my hand and pulled me forward. I want to be that someone, too. The song says, ‘Ndibonis’indlela’, or ‘Show me the way. I’ve been lost for so long, but can you please show me the way?’ It’s sort of a prayer, but it’s also a conversation with yourself.”
“Zamile”
“Very early in the lockdown, I lost a friend of mine, whose name is Zamile. He had lost his mother the week before. He called me and told me the story of how she was sick and how he’d taken her in his car. A few days later, he went to the hospital, and days after that, he passed on. I remember running one day and just thought, ‘God, he was in the car with someone with COVID.’ It just hit me and that was one of the lowest moments of my life. I remember the feeling very vividly, being so confused and not knowing what to do. I sat at the piano and played this song over and over. Whenever I’d hear that someone had died afterwards, I’d hear this song. It feels like a chant to me—a song of loss that acted like a bandage.”
“Isikhalo”
“I believe that sometimes we live so much through the eyes of other people that we don’t show our true feelings. We don’t cry, laugh, or get angry enough. This is a song where I said, ‘I’m just going to cry.’ I needed an avenue to just let everything out without explaining myself. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear very haunting vocals. That’s me letting out the grief, confusion, and pain.”
“Mabaphile”
“After you’ve cried, you need to heal. I’m saying, ‘Whatever you’re going through, it's going to be fine.’ The reason for our singing is to be medicine for people.”
“NguMama”
“I’ve always wanted to write a song for my mother. There are traditional isiXhosa songs that best describe that feeling. This one says, ‘This is my mother who gave birth to me,’ where you’re just showcasing your mother and paying tribute. For me, it’s always important to remember the people who were here with us.”
“Isigidimi”
“‘Isigidimi’ is an event, and simply tells of the day I got the call that my mother had passed. I wanted to narrate the story for anyone who’s ever gotten a message like that. I was in Rondebosch, in Cape Town, when that call came. I remember coming out of the house and by the time I noticed where I was, I was in Wynberg—I was just walking and walking. This is basically the picture of that day, told in song. It’s a very eventful song that’s bare in its message. It says, ‘I thought I was going to work for you/I thought I was going to make you proud/I thought you’d be there to see the works of your hands.’ It then closes by saying, ‘Farewell, mother/We’ll see each other in the next life’.”
“Cwaka”
“‘Cwaka,’ for me, is the theme song for life in this day and age. It says, ‘When there’s a lot of noise about you, don’t retaliate. When things are being said about you, don’t retaliate. They’re saying all these bad things about me. They’re taking away my power and don’t want me to move forward.’ Being able to be silent is the greatest skill that you can have. It takes a lot of discipline and strength to know when and how to address things. ‘Give me the strength to be quiet.’”
“Ndixolele”
“When they started, ‘Ndixolele,’ ‘Isithandwa Sam,’ and ‘Xola Ntliziyo’ were all sort of relationship songs. I remember walking in Rondebosch and just exploring in my head why we don’t ever say sorry. I thought to myself, ‘Whatever happened to just saying the words ‘I’m sorry.’ When we apologize, we become better people, bigger people. I want us to get back to that, so this song only has two lyrics: ‘I did you wrong/Forgive me.’”
“Isithandwa Sam”
“Have you ever missed someone you’re not supposed to miss? Sometimes, you might have a breakup and pretend it’s fine, but there’s that moment when you’re by yourself in bed going, ‘I miss my lover.’ This song was written then, in those moments. It’s just you and them, and they strangle you because there’s nowhere you can go. When all of this is happening, you can’t tell anyone ’cause you don’t wanna be weak. So, you carry this thing—and it’s that sentiment.”
“Xola Ntliziyo”
“‘Xola Ntliziyo’ was written after ‘Isithandwa Sam’ and means ‘heal my heart.’ The song changed in the studio, and instead of being about breaking up with a loved one, it became about healing from all that’s happening. Sometimes we’re our worst nightmares and hurt ourselves by wallowing in what we’ve gone through. Whenever she’s trying to comfort someone, my aunt normally says, ‘Help yourself.’ So, this song is you talking with and dealing with yourself. If you work hard at dealing with something, when we come and show our support, you’ve got some direction. This song is that self-medication.”
“Ziyafana”
“I love people and, to be quite honest, I love Black people. I sit and ponder all the issues affecting Black people. I wonder about how Black people can be liberated and take up their rightful place. For a very long time, we have not seen the power we have. All I’m saying is that in the reform, in where we’re trying to go, we need to understand that we have the power. When we unite, we can achieve. I’m talking to the personification of freedom, asking, ‘Why is it that our leaders don’t care about us?’ In response, freedom says to me, ‘Ziyafana zonke—they’re all the same, but one day people will unite, rise, and claim the power that is theirs.’ Unifying has to be a recurring message.”
“Ndiyakholwa”
“There’s a verse in the Bible that says, ‘The dark has never defeated the light.’ I guess that was the sentiment I was trying to express here. We cannot be in pain and despair for so long. We might be going through all of these things, but I believe something good is about to happen.”
“Ungancami”
“I love a good groove and this song is in odd time. It’s like a hymn built on a bassline. I’m saying, ‘Have you been beaten up? Do you have scars, scratches, and marks? Have you fallen on hard times? Whatever the case might be, stand up, dust yourself off, and don’t give up.’ If we give up now, what are we giving those who are coming behind us?”