It was MuSalala vs the Nation — and MuSalala Won (The "Rhaka Rhaka" Review- Kinda)

You had to be there.

2002 was the year that I almost died. I have almost died several times since then, but that was the first next-to-the-reaper experience I remember, and still remains the most significant. It was that Easter/Independence first term holiday, and I was riding my bicycle to go meet with my cousins for mission. That’s what we called it then. Today’s mission was the Cottco Rugby Festival at Prince Edward. Now, a quick Google search tells me that the 2025 incarnation of the festival was cancelled, and to be honest, I have not kept up with its ebb and flow over the past twenty years so this may well be foreign to younger leaders; but, in its day, Cottco was THE non-negotiable social event of the season — especially if you were Sala. And boy, did I have a point to prove.

“Sala” (alternatively “Musalala” or  “Salala”) and its parent word “musalad”, are as nebulous to define as most slang descriptors that emerge from urban Zimbabwe. There are, however, at the very least two broad definitions. First, the term is a catch-all for those who live in the middle-upper class neighborhoods (the suburbs): the North Samora denizens, and their associated spaces (schools, churches, malls etc.) By that definition, regardless of how you act or come across, you are Sala by default: sala by circumstance, if you will. An alternative definition, one that is infinitely more interesting and especially relevant to this piece, would be that “MuSalad” was somebody actively pursuing and identifying with Western youth culture in a way beyond the organic reach of hegemonic global forces and turned its nose to all things local. You’re not just always speaking in English, you do it in a way that approximates an American (or British accent.) You’re not just a fan of American hip hop and RnB; it is the absolute real deal in ways that Zimbabwean music can only ever pretend to be. This definition is more interesting because it complicates space, time, and being. By this definition, somebody who lives in Warren Park can be more sala than the Egyptian GOA…(sorry, I couldn’t resist!) somebody from Glen Lorne.

So why did I have a point to prove? Because, at the time, I sort of sat on the nexus of the two definitions. Having lived my whole life in Dangamvura, Mutare, I had recently moved to a fabled private school in Harare.  The switch was as jarring as one may expect but, with time, I was finding my footing. (I know you came here to hear about Mr. Putiti’s new project, not some vainglorious autobiographical sass; but trust me, the payoff is real.) While I would never turn my back on the ghetto, a man’s gotta eat.

And I…got hit by a car. Bad. Knocked out and didn’t wake up until I was fully bandaged in the hospital, scarred across the body, bump on the head looking like an activist lawyer, all that. (I’ve told that tale at a storyteller event a couple years ago here.) After a week or so at the hospital, I spent the next month or so recovering at home and, at the time boasting the one public TV Channel that was available (ZTV), I got…very familiar with the daily programming.

I know, I know…but perhaps more than my personal context, it is essential to provide some sociopolitical context here. By 2002, the government had been rattled by the rise of the opposition and subsequent admirable performance in the polls (and utter dominance in the urban areas. They were also doubling-down on the land reform program, and had now bestowed upon it the historically significant, more militant “Third Chimurenga” name. In a bid to consolidate the propaganda machine on the back of these dynamics, and in reaction to condemnation from the Western nations (where much of our entertainment at the time came from), the powers that be not only then mandated that 75% of the airwaves consist of local content; they were actively promoting party-coded patriotic material, an excess of farming-relation slop—and plenty urban grooves.

Urban Grooves, as a mainstream culture, had risen to the fore at the turn of the millennium. As such, it was fertile ground for the propaganda battle, especially given its appeal to the urban youth. Thus, on a loop, the ZTV line-up included “Murimi WeNhasi”, “Face the Nation,” Hondo Yeminda Commercials, ‘Galas ’, Kidznet—and Urban Grooves-tinged content.

All that (and indeed, all that) to say: incapacitated for weeks in front of ZTV, I got very familiar. One commercial, in particular, still stands out. It was two young men, sitting on the stairs or something, who introduced themselves as artists. The skinnier guy, immediately appearing the more confident, introduced himself as a Rocqui, said something about the crew he was working with at the time; and crooned something. I’m not sure if the other guy said anything before he started rapping; but he introduced himself, timidly, almost uninterestedly, as ExQ. What I do remember is him breaking into a 6-8 bar freestyle that we would soon learn was from the song “Salala.”

I was…underwhelmed. His languid, paint-by-the-dots type flow seemed predictable and uninspired: especially given the high-energy context of global hip-hop (DMX, Eminem, Ludacris, 50 Cent etc) at the time. He wasn’t Maskiri-levels of captivating, and while other local acts like David Chifunyise and Leonard Mapfumo could also be described as laid back, they at least appeared like they were happy and comfortable to be there.

A few weeks later, I heard the official song, and my opinions didn’t change much. I may have even been more skeptical. The same old lackadaisical flow was now accompanied by what, at the time, could only be described as an elementary repetitive Step-aside beat, with the hook being “Ndiri Musalala” said rhythmically a few times over.

So now you have the Hip-hop purists and other conservative folks who wish the urban grooves era wasn’t happening at all; the all-in on the grooves crowd (myself included) who were just not sold yet. 

More than anything, though, the song represented the very essence of what the rest of the country was worried about regarding the urban youth and their grooves. It represented not just a break from the old-school, conservative norms of yesteryear, its calmness suggested an “it-is-what-it-is” transition that was sure to unnerve the status quo. And indeed; the sonics of the song mirrored the moment—the languid delivery was a departure from the high energy of even other urban genres (let alone Sungura); the simplistic lyrics a shift from the treatises of the 90s, and the repetitive, overly digital beat was an affront to “magitare.”Yet it worked. Going an early 2000s-version of viral on its own defiant merits, the song became a definitive part of the answer to “what do the kids have to say?” away from the sappy love songs and rather tame party anthems. 

Thereafter, ExQ took off. Show-stealing, LL Cool J-esq performance on the title track to Maskiri’s debut album , “Muviri Vese”; a mischievously nonchalant refrain on Stunner’s "Rudo RweMari"—a song that in itself ushered in one of the GOATed careers in the Zimbabwean hip-hop space (more on Stunner later); an absolutely delightful turn on what some dub the greatest song of the Urban Grooves era, Leonard Mapfumo’s “Maidei.”

Even as he was proving to be one of the stars of the scene, I remained skeptical. Those verses seemed…fine. But where was the mmph!? Why does he rap like he has more important things to do? (to be clear, in the ensuing decades, I have since realized that those verses, in their simplicity, were perfect. They often counterbalanced the chaotic energy around them and, importantly, they were true to ExQ.) He was also too..chilled. While his cohortmates like Roki and Maskiri came with some drama both on and off the mic, and other rappers leaned in to more exciting personas, ExQ was just doing his thing quietly somewhere.

Oh, but he continued. By the mid 2000s, ExQ was not only a mainstay on the waves, he had now cemented himself firmly as the suave king lovers’ rap, seemingly got track-for-track with RnB crooners like Sani and Ngoni on joints for the ladies! In 2004, he dropped the video to “Ndichakuteera”, the quintessential love joint from his catalog (at least in that era, if not across the board.) In so doing, he was again, languidly as ever, part of yet another disruption. Ama2000s may not know this, but at the turn of the century, Zim videos overwhelmingly sucked; a difference made ever so palpable by how professional the immediate post-Apartheid South African and early onset Afrobeats West African videos looked compared to ours. Sure, we had the likes of Tuku inching to the clean aesthetics of the era, Major Playaz doing their best Dame Dash impressions, and Innocent Utsiwegota leaning into the digital; but still- we were…still growing, to put it generously. Then Ndichakuteera dropped; a simple, aesthetically-pleasing beach-side lovers’ story that showed us what these videos could look like without necessarily breaking bank or aspiring for an overly Western aesthetic.

Then came the Tuku collaboration. Again, because of how commonplace inter-genre and intergenerational collaborations are now—whether it’s Nicholas Zakaria on a Jah Signal joint or Killer T with Fungisai—it may blow minds that weren’t around before the mid 2000s that this was not a thing. Not only did people generally collaborate within their general scene, attitudes towards Urban Grooves, particularly from the older generation, reeked of condescension and general dismissal. So for ExQ, a few years from timidly declaring himself “musalala” on national TV, to pull quite possibly the GOAT of Zimbabwean music, 30 years into his run and at the absolute peak of his powers, for a heartwarming collabo, was incredible. And it’s not as if Tuku phoned it in or that ExQ was totally sonned; it is a proper, profound collaboration that still resonates today. It also enhanced ExQ’s lore as the rapping king of lovers’ urban grooves.

And then it happened: 2008. Zimbabwe’s Nadir year, at least in the 21st century. There is, indeed, a black mark on the Zimbabwean calendar that covers over that year; politically, culturally, economically. Indeed, the Urban Grooves moment died in this era. To be clear, “urban grooves” itself never died: songs like “Shaina”, “Team Hombe” and “Wenera” were some of the biggest of the dark times, and the likes of Winky D really come to the fore here, and led the ushering in of what would be the defining sound of Urban Zimbabwe in the 2010s- ZimDancehall. Put simply, the sound of the era didn’t die; but the intentionally crafted cultural moment dubbed Urban Grooves did. The government that had appeared to champion the movement was now in full villain mode. Many of the early Urban Groovers had either left the country (Step-Aside, Decibel, Betty Makaya etc), moved on to other more lucrative fields (David Chifunyise etc), or just hit a brick wall.

Then slowly, from the ashes of a decimated and reeling nation, the scene picked itself up. We stood by to see who would emerge from the rubble. An off-shoot of Urban Grooves, a grittier, self-affirming and irreverent sound came to the fore, dubbed #ZimDancehall, spearheaded by some names that had once been just Urban Groovers (Winky D, for example), but now leading an army of other Dancehall heads into urban dominance. Some crooners from the era, such as Nox and Trevor Dongo, had only grown their profiles in the malaise, with such hits as Ndinonyara and Ndashamisika respectively. Ironically, Stunner—the artist famously put on by ExQ—had gone on to be the bridge between the Urban Grooves and the 2010s (til now) incarnation of Zim Hip-hop, becoming,arguably, the first real superstar thereof.

And ExQ.Representing for an era gone by (at least for the rapping element of the urban grooves era) where the likes of Maskiri and Mapfumo had quite clearly slowed down, ExQ kept popping up - with quintessential showings on tunes like "Hauchambofona" and "Reply me One Day."

Finally, we get to this current incarnation of ExQ

In 2015, the same duo I first encountered on that accident-induced break from the beginning of the tale, ExQ and Roki, were back. And that song was “Alleluyah.” Now, ExQ and Roki had collaborated dozens of times (and do to this day); but this felt different. For over a decade, ExQ had become synonymous with songs about love in its entire spectrum, now he was back with a certified club banger, laced with party references and braggadocio, and Roki pouring sugar all over it. He was back.

Oh, and Alleluya’s most important contribution? It gave us the bar from whence we got the nickname “Mr. Putiti.”

Mr. Putiti

Away from the title track, the album, in many ways, carried the loverboy legacy of yesteryear; punctuated most emphatically by the Ammara Brown assisted “Bhachura Rmx”, which currently sits at five million views on YouTube. That song also ushered in what has been a great collaborative relationship that ExQ boasts, and boasts to exception: there is a case to be made for the man being the best collaborator in 21st century Zimbabwean music. Beyond Ammara, the album also featured collabs with Nutty O, Takura, both of whom he would go on to work with several times over. Oh, and five of the thirteen songs featured Roki. Some things will never change.

From then on, we have seen a consistent ExQ. We are going to get a big bombastic and often didactic single, typically a collaboration (See Nzenza; Wakatemba; Nhema); love songs that are less concerned with the drama of mjolo (though he’s not entirely above those either), focusing instead on that grown folk romance (Msikanzwa;Sweeter, Bvuma,) and the occasional ‘get money’ song: to remind us that this, after all, is still work.

So imagine my surprise when, this year, we got an EDM album from Mr. Puti…No, of course not. In Rhaka Rhaka, we got exactly the ExQ album we’ve come to expect. Roki collab? Check. Nutty O and Takura Collabs? Check. Songs about love in the face of a disapproving public? You know it. A “let’s live stress-free” tune? “Hatichacheme” got you covered. And of course, the get-money joint.

But here’s the thing:Rhaka Rhaka is a good album. Very good even.This is not a case of an artist continuing on when he has run out of ideas; it is one of an artist whose values remain the same, even as his sonic and pragmatic ideas continue to evolve.

(SN: ExQ loves a repeated-word title, doesn’t he? He has albums titled Rhaka Rhaka and Tseu Tseu, and songs including Pore Pore, Paya Paya, Killi Killi!)

The 15-track project has very few definite skips for this author (off the top of my head, only ‘Deya’ at #14 comes to mind.) Among the standout joints are the aforementioned Hatichachema, Nyachide (featuring Skido- hitherto unknown to yours truly), the anthemic Healer (with Nutty O), and the early single ‘Diwawo.’ Shout out goes to “Awe” and “Chiri mu Mari” featuring two contemporary scene darlings, Delroy Shewe and Nisha Ts respectively.

It is the album for those who came of age on Urban Grooves. And for those who believe in love; or don’t anymore. It is an album in tune with the sensibilities of the contemporary scene. It is an album that taps into the wide tapestry of Zimbabwean sounds, whether it’s Dancehall, rap, mbira rhythms (Feli, we see you!), and even hints of Sungura. Even as he has evolved his sound, his refusal to conform to the sub-2 minute song formula definitive of this era shows a man who is indeed evolving, yet staying true to elements of the game that he loved in the beginning.

And in so doing, the timid kid who popped up two decades ago and seemed destined to be a cultural pariah beyond that initial languid freestyle has achieved what would have seemed impossible back then: he has outlasted all his contemporaries and plenty who came after him, and done so while making music that resonates across age groups, gender and class.

It was Musalala versus the Nation. Musalala won. And the nation celebrated with him.