Let me begin by apologising to the RayKaz fans, all six of you, but this debate is not nearly as open-ended as people like to pretend. This conversation, uncomfortable as it may be, lives between Synik and Holy Ten. I understand that this is a deeply contentious position to take, one that invites long voice notes and unsolicited think-pieces, but the truth is that everyone has a favourite rapper, and most of those favourites are wrong.
At various points in Zim hip-hop history, it has been suggested, confidently, that the greatest rapper of all time is Stunner. Or Ti Gonzi. Or, in a particularly dark chapter of our national discourse, R.Peels, said unironically, by people who looked me in the eyes while saying it. I vividly remember how quickly half the country turned into part-time lawyers during these debates, vigorously defending positions that would not survive a single cross-examination. The confidence was remarkable. The arguments were not.
I have been very public about my issues with R.Peels, so there’s no point pretending neutrality now. His career has been marred by a pathological hunger for attention, a kind of creative restlessness that has repeatedly tipped into outright self-sabotage. At times, I try to convince myself that it is all intentional, that he is knowingly playing the most unbearable version of a rapper imaginable just to see how far he can push public patience. I prefer that explanation. The alternative is that a grown man is genuinely that obsessed with the sound, smell, and mouthfeel of his own farts, and I would rather not live in that reality.
Now, Holy Ten also engages in this kind of chest-thumping behaviour in a similarly loud and self-assured manner, but there is an important distinction: with Holy Ten, you can tell it’s a persona he puts on. I don’t even think he believes he is a better rapper than Synik, which is precisely why I struggle with the most militant wing of the “Holy Ten is the GOAT” army. Their certainty is louder than his. Their belief is more absolute than the man they are defending.
This brings us to today’s proceedings. In the interest of fairness — and because conflict is good for readership — I have invited one of the ranking generals of that army to present his case. Zazise’s very own, Mukudzei Mlambo, has agreed to argue, on the record, why his namesake should be considered greater than the architect of Syn City.
What fascinates me about Holy Ten’s appeal is his success with millennials, considering how vocally snobbish we are about music from this decade. We are not generous listeners. We believe the noughties were better — and morally superior — and most of us are famously unwilling to give new artists a real chance, preferring to complain about “today’s music” as if it personally stole something from us. Which is why it is especially impressive that Mukudzei Mlambo — a man who, statistically speaking, almost certainly thinks 216Whisky is a premium liquor brand — is willing to go out of his way to crown a new-school act as the greatest Zimbabwean rapper of all time. That kind of ideological flexibility alone earns him the right to be heard.
For clarity, and before anyone accuses me of intellectual dishonesty, I should state my position plainly: I am on Team Synik, and I am not pretending otherwise. I’ll own my biases immediately. I am not neutral. I am nearly thirty years old, which means I feel very little for the current generation of Zimbabwean rappers. The emotional connection simply never formed. Take Runna Rulez, for example, often referred to as the President of the New School. Being one of Zimbabwe’s weirdest artists in 2026 takes real effort, but Runna pulls it off with an impressive surplus of weird to spare. To my ears, his music sounds tailor-made for people who know exactly how much cough syrup you’re legally allowed to buy at one time from a pharmacy. That is not my demographic. As you age, you are presented with two choices: you either accept that you are old, or you become that painfully cringe uncle who tries to speak in slang and insists he “gets” the kids. I chose the former. It has been peaceful.
Recently, my nephew — born in 2010 and proudly identifying as a “hip-hop head” — tried to walk me through the entire MMT/Few Kings saga. It felt like listening to an AI-generated YouTube short that had absorbed the information incorrectly but delivered it with absolute enthusiasm and a stunning disregard for factual accuracy. I let him finish, because I believe in manners, and then gently explained to him that I lived through that era, bought every magazine, purchased every CD, and physically cut out newspaper clippings about the whole ordeal. He disputed my version of events anyway. These are the people who think Holy Ten is the GOAT.
I am also aware of the criticism this article will attract, and it is not unfair. Yes, this debate features Mukudzei Mlambo and Malcom Mufunde, two failed rappers, now loudly critiquing successful ones. The name of this column practically dares you to make that observation. My own music career occupied the worst possible lane to exist in as a rapper: the one where old heads tell you that you’re “bringing back the real hip-hop.” That is never a good sign. I was bad. Objectively. So before I say anything reckless about other artists, I want to acknowledge that every rapper mentioned here is still infinitely better than I ever was. Unfortunately for Mukudzei, he will not be making an opening statement, which means he will have to sneak in his disclaimer somewhere mid-argument.
Lastly, most people would try to settle this argument using numbers, sales, or critical acclaim, which would turn this entire exercise into a five-second stalemate followed by everyone storming off to Twitter. That felt dull. So we decided to make it more fun.
Mukudzei, care to announce the first category?
Category 1: Best Album
Mukudzei:
Before we even get into this properly, shout out to Runna Rulez. Malcom, are you aware that, as things stand, Runna has the biggest English Zim hip-hop song out? I have not yet verified his O’Level results slip, so there may still be unanswered questions, but it remains an extraordinary achievement. Convincing the ghetto faithful to chant English lyrics bar for bar is no small feat, especially when those lyrics include lines like:
“Yeah, you prolly dance for a twenty
Dance for some Henny
Please stop Kenny, as well might kill your granny
This wasn’t easy, it’s been a long ass journey”
Come on, man. That’s a true wordsmith right there. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get an English rap song to genuinely move people in Zimbabwe? Actually, you might. After all, you have given us — unprompted, by the way — your own “art.” Synik himself would acknowledge how steep that hill is. I mean, hell, even the late King Pinn’s legacy-defining, cult-classic I Salute You never reached people in this way. I know this because there is not a single human alive who can rap that song bar for bar, even with the lyrics pasted directly onto a karaoke screen in front of them. I am willing to put real money on this. So yes, one more time for the President.
Back to the matter at hand.
I think it is universally accepted — even by people arguing in bad faith — that both Synik and my namesake have era-defining albums. Synik, with his debut, Syn City, marked a new era in Zim hip-hop. Unfortunately, the only way I can properly explain this is by using professional wrestling terminology, and I am not apologising for that, I’m afraid.
In WWE terms, Syn City ushered in Zim hip-hop’s Ruthless Aggression Era. Before that, you had what we might call the Attitude Era, which boomers and some millennials talk about as if they personally shared beers with Bret Hart. In Zim hip-hop terms, that era belongs to names like Mizchif, King Pinn, Mau Mau, and their peers. The Ruthless Aggression Era is when John Cena, Batista and Randy Orton took to the stage, and this is the space Synik occupies. It is the era my father would reference every time he saw me watching wrestling and exclaim, “Ah, John Cena? Achiriko?” It sounds like a dig, but it is actually a testament to Cena’s greatness. Yes, Dad, he’s still here. And so is Synik.
Let me be clear before this gets twisted: I am not an idiot. Syn City is a classic. But in exactly the same way, I would argue that Risky Life is Holy Ten’s magnum opus — an album so great that, despite all his success since, he has not been able to surpass it. We have consciously and subconsciously slipped the album’s lingo into our daily lexicon. How’s that for cultural impact?
My case for Holy Ten in the best album category is simple:
Can Holy Ten make an album like Syn City?Can he tell a story as personal and devastating as Synik’s Muripo?
Can he tactfully articulate the plight of the Zimbabwean with the restraint and clarity of Synik’s Before Dawn?
Can he map the emotional and social architecture of a city the way Synik’s Hamurarwe does?
Maybe…
Can Synik make Risky Life?
Absolutely not.
Malcom:
I think you owe me two apologies, and I would appreciate them in the order they are due.
The first is for making me listen to that Runna Rulez song, a piece of excrement that offers nothing remotely adjacent to artistic value. The only defensible element is the title — Dumb Shit — which, to Runna’s credit, demonstrates an impressive level of self-awareness. It is always refreshing when an artist understands exactly what they are serving the audience. That kind of honesty builds trust.
The second apology is for the archaeological expedition I had to undertake just to understand your professional wrestling references. I was fully prepared to cuss you out over that, but then I realized something important: anyone who watches WWE probably has the precise psychological wiring required to enjoy Holy Ten’s music, so in a roundabout way, the references ended up strengthening your argument.
Here is the part of this conversation that always gets overlooked. As brilliant as Syn City undeniably is, it is not even Synik’s best album — a point I am fairly confident you agree with. His sophomore, A Travel Guide for the Broken, is more disciplined, more mature, and more refined. Which is why the comparison becomes deeply embarrassing once Holy Ten enters the frame, because your guy has exactly one good album. One. And he has spent the better part of five years coasting off that single achievement as though everything he poops is gold. To be fair, if I were the person who made Risky Life, I would probably also walk around convinced that my poop is gold. That is a natural response. But after five straight years of pooping regular poop, at some point self-reflection should kick in.
What truly irritates me about the Syn City versus Risky Life debate is that both albums won the Zim Hip-Hop Award for Best Album, a detail that immediately makes you question what awards actually mean. Syn City won in 2012. Risky Life won nine years later. In that sense, the ZHHAs have perfectly mirrored Holy Ten’s artistic trajectory: they got it right the first time, and everything since has felt increasingly embarrassing.
Now, to your credit, I do agree with you on one important point. Making culture-shifting music in the Queen’s English is almost impossible in Zimbabwe. Holy Ten himself can testify to this. His debut album, Suicide Notes, showcased just how difficult that task can be. If anything, it makes Syn City even more impressive. Hearing Suicide Notes for the first time made me briefly regret being alive. Once again, credit where it’s due — these new-school rappers are exceptional at naming their work accurately.
Where your argument completely collapses, however, is in this idea that Synik’s inability to make Risky Life somehow counts against him. Unfortunately, the only way I can properly explain this is by using the poop analogy, and I am not apologising for that, I’m afraid. Using Synik’s discography as the gold standard, Risky Life would be poop. So…
Can Synik make poop?
Absolutely not.
You essentially acknowledged this with your argument, and then celebrated as if that somehow worked in your favour. To conclude this poop analogy properly: that is dumb shit.
Category 2: Best Song
Mukudzei:
First of all, what we're not going to do is disrespect professional wrestling — the greatest and longest-running reality television show of all time. It's incredibly hard to write “soap opera for men.” I'd like to see Shonda Rhimes take a crack at it. This is Bridgerton, except Lord Anthony Bridgerton has to do a Sunset-flip powerbomb. Admit it. Somewhere deep in your chest, you just whispered, “Hell yeah.”
For anyone still tracking the wrestling analogy — Holy Ten, like Roman Reigns, Seth Rollins, and Bianca Belair, represents the New Era — the best era so far. This is the last time I will mention wrestling. I promise. Probably.
Now then. This category should be a clean sweep. Surely. I dare you to put up a fight here, even though I know you will, because arguing is your spiritual gift. Here’s where you might win: despite my allegiances today, I am, at my core, a real hip-hop head — unlike your stupid nephew. So I will not be arguing for the Afro-pop–adjacent, hip-hop-in-name-only, government-mandated songs Holy Ten loves making. You know the ones: Delilah, Pressure, Personal, Ndotokuda. Those are not part of this discussion. We are talking about the best hip-hop song. So where would you like to begin? Gundamwenda? How Far? Sahwira? Who am I kidding? This conversation starts and ends with Ndaremerwa.
Ndaremerwa performed CPR on a dying genre. Your “real hip-hop bars” did not resuscitate Zim hip-hop. Your carefully articulated “substance” and “penmanship for the culture” did not bring it back from the dead. Mukudzei did. This song did. Directly and indirectly, it put real money into the pockets of artists you call your top five, and you are simply going to have to make peace with that.
The irony is that he did this while rapping about the very themes Synik is known for (excluding that one ill-considered line dismissing Form 2 education). So go ahead. Tell me the best song is Synik’s Good Old Days.
Malcom:
Before we go any further, I need to correct the record. My top five rappers are Synik — obviously — Jungle Loco, Bush Baby, Ill Matrix, and M.I.L.E. The single unifying characteristic among these five men is that they are all extremely broke. Spectacularly so. None of them has ever made any meaningful money from music; not a cent. Which means, regrettably for you, that Ndaremerwa did not put any money into the pockets of my top five artists. Joke’s on you.
More importantly, Holy Ten subsequently betrayed an entire movement with the political turn he took later in his career, a pivot whose consequences are still rippling through the industry. I suspect you enjoyed that moment, because it was theatrical and chaotic and felt like the kind of heel turn you would appreciate given your fondness for WWE narratives. But once you step back and examine the picture properly, it becomes difficult to ignore the uncomfortable truth: a lot of this so-called protest music from the new school functions less as conviction and more as commodity — deployed when the audience is large enough, when the timing is profitable enough, or when the career needs some oxygen.
Now contrast that with Synik, an actual political refugee, who has not stepped foot in the “land of the free” since Holy Ten was in Form 2 — which, incidentally, truly were the good old days. Synik has made countless Ndaremerwas in his career, except he did so with sincerity. Nowhere is this clearer than on Muripo, his finest song, off Syn City, where he addresses the country’s socioeconomic collapse through the intimate, brutal lens of fractured family relationships. I do not believe it’s possible to hear Muripo for the first time and remain intact. People cry. And that, to me, is the highest function of music — the ability to touch something inside.
Breaking down the production on Muripo almost feels like overkill — like you said, this is a clean sweep — but let’s do it anyway. The restrained guitar lines, the mbira pattern sitting gently beneath the vocals, the deliberate use of a traditional Zimbabwean instrument — all of it reinforces the homesickness and grief at the centre of the song. Nothing is accidental. Now compare that to Ndaremerwa, whose production is essentially a beat Holy Ten found on the internet.
This is not an abstract criticism, by the way. When Synik and I were searching for a sonic direction while working on our own album, we stumbled across at least ten instrumentals available for lease that had already been used by dozens of artists — Holy Ten included. When I raised this on Twitter, in good faith, Mr. Instagram Live abandoned his usual antics and convened an angry digital press conference to explain to the nation how stupid I was for questioning his originality. Leasing beats, he reminded us gravely, is standard practice in commercial music — something a failed rapper like myself could never possibly comprehend.
But after listening to those same instrumentals repurposed by artists from countries whose names I cannot pronounce confidently, I arrived at a very simple conclusion: Ndaremerwa cannot be the best Zim hip-hop song of all time. It is not even the best hip-hop song on that beat.
Mukudzei:
Actually, M.I.L.E once picked up a very expensive bottle for me at Shebeen Fest, which immediately disqualifies him from the “broke” category. Humble? Yes. Broke? Definitely not. I’m inclined to agree with you on the other three, though.
Category 3: Best Line
Malcom:
I’m going to make my argument for this category first, because I am tired of reacting to your nonsense and would like, just once, to speak uninterrupted. Before we go any further, though, we need to agree on a small administrative detail. Do you acknowledge that I am the greatest punchline wordsmith Zim hip-hop has ever produced?
…
…
Mukudzei, I need verbal confirmation.
Mukudzei:
Sure.
Malcom:
Thank you. That will be entered into the record.
Now, as the greatest punchline wordsmith Zim hip-hop has ever had — something you confirmed without hesitation — I think it is only fair that I lead this discussion. On matters of punchlines, my word is law.
Hip-hop, historically, has been blessed with some of the sharpest writers to ever touch language. Mobb Deep is a perfect example. For anyone unfamiliar — including my stupid nephew — Mobb Deep were an American duo made up of Prodigy and Havoc, whose defining album The Infamous is widely considered one of hip-hop’s great classics. The record paints a portrait of Queens, New York in the early 1990s — a time and place best understood as a hellhole, where violence was ordinary and crime was routine.
Almost thirty years after The Infamous, Synik and I would make Gold Rush, a song which tackles the same themes, but placing them firmly in our own Zimbabwean context. Synik — who is, quite genuinely, probably the closest thing this country has ever had to a rap prodigy — wrote his verse in under five minutes. That detail on its own is not impressive. Lots of bad verses are written quickly. What is impressive is that those five minutes produced one of the most efficient punchlines Zim hip-hop has ever heard:
Zimbabwean-made; hustler’s pedigree
Prodigy bringing havoc; I’ll be going down in infamy
Mukudzei:
That is actually a great pull. Well done to you, and well done to Syn.
As I was listening to you speak, I realised something hilarious about this entire exercise. We’re engaged in this whole back-and-forth over two artists, who, despite their contrasting personalities, rarely, if ever, brag about how great their raps are. There’s a strong impression that this entire discussion means very little to them.
But back to the matter at hand.
Listen, man… how can I put this? See, this is, without question, my most hear-me-out take. The Bible says the most unforgivable sin is blasphemy against the Holy Spirit. I have a strong feeling that what I am about to say will rank either comfortably second or, with some effort, first. There’s a non-zero chance this opinion ends with you tracking me down in the streets of Barbourfields, aiming a gun at my crotch, and making an irreversible decision about my ability to reproduce.
But hear me out.
On the 30th of October, 2021, at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame ceremony, Dave Chappelle was tasked with introducing Shawn “Jay-Z” Carter. During his monologue, the comedian went on a brief tangent about how Jay somehow manages to “say cool shit all the time.” To which Jay shrugged off, “It ain’t no pressure; I just do it.” I feel like that response sums up Jay-Z’s legacy. Forget the record sales, the champagne brands, the business ventures, and the Beyoncé of it all — it’s how he has been able to consistently say cool shit for over three decades. There is literally a Hov lyric for every conceivable life scenario. Girl problems? Covered. Family feud? Covered. Coming of age? Covered. Feeling rich? Especially covered. You get the point.
So it is with a level of confidence that makes me uncomfortable that I make this claim: Holy Ten belongs in that same category. There, I said it. Mukudzei Mlambo of Zazise – in case there’s another one – believes Jay-Z’s influence is akin to Holy Ten’s. I have even started referring to myself in the third person, which is usually a sign that I am either very wrong or very confident.
So what’s Holy Ten’s best line?
“Hoyoooo!!!”
Category 4: Worst Album
Mukudzei:
Oh, you’re still here?
I was hoping you’d go, because this is the category where my entire case starts falling apart, largely because there are certain things that even the most ardent Holy Ten stans simply cannot defend (I am looking at you, Dennis Shoko). One of those things is Holy Ten’s 2024 release, Proud Father. Seriously, what the hack was that?
The album felt like a corporate quarterly requirement rather than an inspired body of work; like it was only made because someone kept asking when the album was coming. It exists because it had to, not because it wanted to – and after my first listen, neither did I. Excuse the pun, but one is forced to ask how he could possibly be proud of this. At no point did the project feel considered or cared for, which is never a great sign. Everything about the album’s release was a mess. The cover had to be reworked midstream to fend off “deadbeat dad” accusations, which is not a phrase you ever want associated with your rollout. The release party was equally chaotic.
This was also the album that advanced the long-whispered allegations that Michael Magz was the real brain behind a significant chunk of Holy Ten’s work. I will admit, with no embarrassment, that for a brief moment I believed it. That is how little confidence Proud Father inspired. Serious question: Has anyone ever seen Holy Ten perform songs from this album live?
I hate this album.
Malcom:
Synik’s worst album is Syn City. Just take a second and sit with that.
Mukudzei:
OK. But since my GOAT made the worse album, that technically means I win this round, right?
……
Right?
Malcom:
Can we move on?
Mukudzei: Fine.
Category 5: Worst Song
Malcom:
Synik is no stranger to the posse cut. For anyone who needs a refresher, a posse cut is a hip-hop song that features four or more rappers. It is one of the riskiest formats in the genre because it only works when every single person involved understands the assignment. One weak verse does not merely lower the quality of the song; it pulls the entire thing apart.
Synik has survived this format more times than most. He appears on Modern Day Classics alongside Savage, J. Nova, Cashbid, R.Peels, and MC Chita. He features on This Is It with Enqore, Aura, and Outspoken. He anchors Gold Rush with Tulkmunny, Jungle Loco, and myself – which I mention purely for factual completeness, not as a flex. These songs work because everyone arrives prepared, focused, and respectful of the moment.
That was not the case with Power Cut.
Power Cut, which appears on Syn City, is wedged between Before Dawn and Marching As One, two of Synik’s strongest tracks. That placement alone makes the problem impossible to ignore because it sticks out like a sore thumb, breaking the mood of the album. It is not a good song. It is bad. It is so bad, in fact, that it won a Zim Hip-Hop Award for Best Collaboration. The song is so out of step with the rest of Syn City that it feels like it wandered in from a different project entirely, perhaps Proud Father. It is the most Holy Ten–sounding song Synik has ever made. That realisation genuinely rattled me and forced me to reconsider my argument. Maybe Synik can actually make Risky Life after all.
The central theme of the song is exactly what the title suggests: power cuts. The twist is that it is delivered as a party anthem, which is an artistic decision that deserves to be studied and then never repeated. If you listen closely, the song even features Eminem at the end, or MC Chita, depending on how charitable you are feeling that day. The whole thing sounds aggressively of its time, built around the kind of radio-friendly gimmicky storytelling that dominated the early 2010s, popularised by the undisputed pioneers of that lane: Kapfupi and Xtra Large.
From an industry perspective, I understand why this record exists. Syn City needed a hit, and Power Cut delivered one. It remains the biggest song of Synik’s career. In that sense, it occupies the same territory as J. Cole’s Work Out, a song he has openly admitted was engineered because Cole World: The Sideline Story needed a single for radio. But whenever Power Cut plays on the radio, I find myself looking forward to an actual power cut.
I do not like Power Cut. I did not like it then, and I do not like it now. And yet, despite all of this, something deep in my spirit tells me that Holy Ten has made something far worse.
Mukudzei:
Your spirit would be correct, my friend.
We know Holy Ten for many things – the larger-than-life personality, the humour, the sporadic rants that mutate into viral memes, and, above all else, the music. Watching his career unfold since his breakout in 2020 has been quite the journey. In the same way people talk about Zim hip-hop as existing in a before-and-after-Holy-Ten timeline, I would argue that his own catalogue has a similar dividing line. The difference is not even stylistic or technical. It’s the size of the misogyny-shaped crater that appeared in the music once the money showed up.
After the breakout success of Ndaremerwa, Holy Ten crowned himself “The Leader of the Youth” and “Speaker of the Truth” – decent trade names, by all marketing metrics. He seemed determined to occupy a space that had felt empty since Jnr Brown’s Tongogara: the beacon of hope, the social commentator, the moral mirror. It’s a familiar hip-hop tradition after all. After the death of Tupac Shakur, DMX stepped in and became both a high priest and a spiritual therapist for the culture. Someone had to fill that vacuum, and DMX did, whether he planned to or not.
Holy Ten stepped into a similar role for Zim hip-hop’s Gen Z audience. He became the self-appointed voice of the voiceless, and, for a while, the music supported that claim. First came Bho Zvangu, a song that very successfully duped me into thinking Holy Ten was an introvert. Then came Amai. Then Mwana Ndakubirai. He kept this gimmick going right up until RISKY LIFE (Blue Room Session Freestyle), which marked the beginning of the rollout for his sophomore album of the same name. In the freestyle, he raps:
“Handidi kunyeperwa maya; Holy mujaya
I’m only 22, please; handidi kutevera mvana”
That was the moment, at least for me, when the mask began to slip, and he hasn't put it back on since. Not long after that, he released what I consider his worst song, Ma Chills, which addresses substance abuse, alcoholism and womanizing. I’ve hated that song since the first listen. My issue is not necessarily the message; the subject matter itself is not the problem. I just couldn’t bear the messenger. I’m aware this may sound unfair but I hate inconsistent messaging in music.
This is the same reason I have a love-hate relationship with J. Cole, especially on Love Yourz from his third studio album, 2014 Forest Hills Drive. Yes, I know there will always be someone with more money, more success, and more everything than me. But I do not necessarily need to hear that sermon from you, Jermaine Cole the multimillionaire.
Category 6: Worst Line
Malcom:
My gorgeous wife, who is a behavioural psychologist, once told me that the more we train ourselves to notice the good in other people, the easier it becomes to recognise the good in ourselves. It turned out to be remarkably effective advice. Since then, I have made a conscious effort to find at least one kind thing to say about everyone I encounter, and I must admit that it has done wonders for my general outlook. The only real complication, however, is that Power Cut exists. I sat down, as a husband committed to emotional growth, and asked my gorgeous wife a very difficult question: “Is there anything positive I can say about the rappers on this song?”
I suppose I was happy to hear Metaphysics rap again. By that point in his career, though, it felt like watching Air Jordan dunk again, but for the Washington Wizards. The passion was still there, but the moment had already passed, and everyone in the room could feel it.
I have nothing personal against MC Chita, but I will say that his name has rarely felt more accurate than it does on this song, because I genuinely felt cheated after sitting through that verse. It has the strange quality of sounding busy without actually saying anything.
Jnr Brown’s verse offers a different kind of disappointment. It is so forgettable that every time it comes on, it feels like a first listen, and I experience the same embarrassment all over again. The verse does not grow on you, because it never stays in your head long enough to grow. It resets itself with each listen, like a bad memory that refuses to stick.
All of this leaves Synik with the responsibility of saving the song, and for a brief moment, it seems like he might manage it. The verse begins with promise, the tone is right, the delivery is steady, and then we arrive at the lines:
“Generator riri tii asi hapana dhiziri
Tatuma Timmy tamuudza kuti dzoka kwikili”
Now, to be fair, we have heard terrible lines from great artists before. It is part of the job. Even legends have their off days. Winky D, for instance, gifted us the unforgettable:
“Handisi soft kunge drink”
Ti Gonzi has enough questionable bars to stock a small municipal library, including the unjustifiable:
“Rudo hapachina, rudo hapaThursday”
Freeman HKD pushed the limits even further with:
“I wanna just in kunge Bieber”
Just an hour ago, I heard my nephew enthusiastically rapping along to Runna Rulez:
“Yeah, you prolly dance for a twenty
Dance for some Henny
Please stop Kenny, as well might kill your granny
This wasn’t easy, it’s been a long ass journey”
At this point, I have accepted that every rapper will eventually say something unfortunate. It is part of the process. Even the best writers occasionally trip over their own metaphors. The difference with Synik is that I do not expect it from him. I treat his wisdom the way you treat Jay-Z’s coolness: as a given. I believe everything he says will carry some weight, a lesson, or at least some perspective. I hold him in such saintly regard that hearing him on Power Cut felt deeply unsettling, like watching Mai Chisamba start an OnlyFans account. You would not even know where to begin asking questions.
Mukudzei:
Well, that confirms my suspicions. You simply hate fun. You probably hate cocktails. I bet you only eat your steak well done. Personally, I love that line from Power Cut. It has always been one of the highlights of the song for me. I do admit that the line, and perhaps the entire song, sticks out like a sore thumb in Synik’s catalogue. I would argue, however, that it helped humanise Synik. Okay, maybe “humanise” isn’t exactly the right word here, but it at least made him sound more approachable. He immediately shifted from the hyper-lyrical, ultra-conscious “I am Hip-Hop” archetype into something softer, friendlier, and far more likeable.
…
…
…
48 hours later…
Alright. Confession time.
I ran into a bit of a snag while writing this section. A small case of writer’s block, so to speak, and like most things, it was J. Cole’s fault. Last Friday, the North Carolina native dropped his long-awaited “retirement album” – aptly titled The Fall-Off – and the ensuing online discourse couldn’t be more chaotic. The debates were largely split between failed rappers who now work nine-to-fives and millennials whose lives peaked in college, and they all seemed equally convinced that their opinions carried historical weight. The arguments ranged from who possessed the sharpest pen in hip-hop to whether this twenty-four-track double-disc album was worth the decade-long wait. Quoted in defense of the “sharpest lyrical performance of our generation” were lines like:
“Subsconsciously protecting these niggas, think I’m lesser for my complexion
Before I’m done, they all gon’ respect the mulatto
Yeah, said they all gon respect the mulatto”
He said it twice, just in case we failed to grasp the poetry the first time.
Or my personal favourite:
“Is on the mic to ignite the Ville’s first at flight; I’m a Wright brother
The hardest nigga on the mic got a white mother”
Alright, Jermaine.
That entire discourse left me genuinely confused about my taste. It got me wondering whether I even understand what bad writing is anymore, because some very respected voices – some I would hypothetically consider taking a bullet in the crotch for – keep insisting that these lines represent elite penmanship. Even more disheartening is the fact that the lines I just quoted are from the few songs I actually enjoyed on The Fall-Off. That was particularly disturbing, because it forced me to confront the uncomfortable truth that some of my favourite rap songs contain questionable writing, and Holy Ten has built an entire cottage industry around this exact phenomenon.
While doing research for this article, I spent days rinsing Risky Life from start to finish. I needed to know the album inside out because it was the anchor of my entire argument. Proud Father was not going to be of any help here. My case for Holy Ten as the GOAT hinged almost entirely on how much goodwill I could milk from his sophomore album. This is where track three, Time (ft. Dhadza D), enters the conversation. Ten had previewed the song during one of his Instagram Live sessions, back when they were actually about the music and not marital grievances. By the time I got to the official album version, the song was already one of my favourites. Everything was going perfectly until he decided to close out the first verse with this:
“Wangu, ndine mabars kunge paden pane ZOL
Wangu, ndine magunnerz nema jazzman on hold
Vanonditi Samanyanga kunge paden pane nzou”
Just awful, awful writing. And infuriatingly lazy. He even punctuates the final three words with a cartoonish ad-lib, as though, like with J. Cole’s mulatto, there was real danger that we might fail to grasp the poetry.
That is not why we call you Samanyanga, Samanyanga.
Category 7: Collaborative Album
Malcom:
In keeping with proper sporting tradition, I’ve decided to stretch this debate into a full seven-game series. Nobody wants a tie, especially in an argument where both sides are already convinced they have won.
I chose this category because both artists have experience with collaborative projects, and we would be doing a disservice by ignoring how they function when forced to share creative space with someone else. Synik, for instance, teamed up with Phil Chronics on 2019’s The Soulsteez EP, and two years later, he linked up with TheBboyWannaBeDj for Best Served Chilled EP, another collaborative effort that understood the value of keeping it short and sweet. That same year, Holy Ten joined forces with Saintfloew for Juta Pipo EP, a cult classic. Up to this point, everything looked neat, symmetrical, and easy to compare. Both artists had collaborative EPs, and both had worked with credible partners, so the comparison felt fair.
Then I looked at their collaborative albums.
Once again, both projects arrived in the same year. Holy Ten partnered with Michael Magz for The New Bhundu Boyz, an album I must confess I have never listened to. Synik, on the other hand, worked with none other than failed rapper Malcom Mufunde on the 2023 album, Treasure. This presents a very real journalistic problem for me, because I cannot, in good conscience, critique my own work. So, for the sake of fairness, we will have to switch sides for this category. I will temporarily argue on behalf of Holy Ten, and you will take up the defence of Malcom Mufunde and Synik’s Treasure.
If you don’t mind, please lay out your argument while I go and listen to The New Bhundu Boyz. I will return shortly, ideally more informed, and hopefully converted.
Mukudzei:
What a ride this debate has been, and what a dramatic face turn from you at the last second. It’s the stuff of WWE dreams! I know I promised to stop with the wrestling references, but look at the situation we have been handed. The material is simply too good to ignore. So, in honour of what I hope will be a generous defence of Holy Ten from your side, allow me to return the favour and say a few nice things about what I still believe is your best album to date.
For those who have made it this far and still have no idea who I am, allow me to reintroduce myself. My name is Mukudzei Mlambo, aka the fourth most important Mukudzei in the country. For anyone who only knows me from Twitter arguments and YouTube thumbnails, I spent the better part of the pandemic years trying to make a name for myself as the Charlamagne Tha God of Zim hip-hop (even though my true inspiration has always been Justin Hunt). It worked for a while, and I picked up a few small accolades along the way. My opinions travelled further than I expected, and my coverage of Zim hip-hop somehow caught Malcom’s attention, even prompting him to write some kind words about me on Facebook.
Eventually, we connected on WhatsApp, and, like every aspiring rapper with a Wi-Fi connection, he could not resist sending me his album, Emcee FM. I sent him a half-arsed review filled with the usual clichés and word salad you use when you want to be polite and leave the conversation quickly. Malcom did not accept that. He confronted my lack of effort immediately, and I found myself apologising before I had even finished typing my defence. From then on, I started choosing my words more carefully and taking more responsibility for what I published on my YouTube channel.
Fast forward to 2023, and Malcom releases his long-awaited “retirement album,” Treasure, which was positioned as the sequel to 2021’s Trash. He was working with Synik, and that alone felt like insurance. As long as Synik handled the beats and nudged Malcom into a few uncomfortable sonic pathways, the project was always going to land somewhere near classic. The production was versatile, the beats sounded paid for, and the features included some of the best rappers in the country.
To Malcom’s credit, he had spent the previous year insisting this would be his best work, and, as much as it pains me to admit, he delivered exactly what he promised. (Take notes, J. Cole.) I was so impressed by Treasure that I made sure he knew it, and I also reminded him that he should now honour the retirement part of the announcement. He did not, of course, because rappers do not retire.
So I guess this only strengthens Synik’s case as the greatest to ever do it. He managed to push a not-so-talented Malcom Mufunde into making an award-winning body of work that now sits comfortably in the pantheon of Zim hip-hop’s greatest albums, all while maintaining his legacy as one of only three rappers in the country to win Zim Hip-Hop Album of the Year twice.
Malcom:
That is very kind of you to say, Mukudzei, but Treasure is a horrible album. It may stand out as a triumph within the middling ecosystem of Malcom Mufunde’s discography, but it wilts instantly when placed next to the glorious classic that is The New Bhundu Boyz. “Uri sirivha Mai Ju, uri sirivha Mai Ju 🎶” My goodness. What a masterpiece.
I approached this category with a bit of anxiety, because I was convinced that Madhafela lived somewhere on this album. Thankfully, it does not, because that song remains one of the most unpleasant listening experiences of my life. I was honestly surprised you did not nominate it in the Worst Song category, because it belongs in the same medical conversation as blocked sinuses and prolonged exposure to vuvuzelas.
Instead, I was welcomed by the opening track, Mututsva, which arrives with confident, energetic raps that immediately give the album a sense of fun. The energy is then softened by the gentle Afro-Pop textures of Mai Ju, which then slide neatly into Ucharamba Uchipisa, a reggae-tinged morceau. In the space of three songs, Holy Ten shapeshifts from Jay-Z to Davido to Lucky Dube, which is a level of versatility that must leave actual chameleons feeling professionally threatened.
Unlike Synik and Malcom, who tend to stay in one lane like the one-trick ponies they are, Holy Ten roams across multiple sonic territories on this album. He tries his hand at R&B, flirts with Afro-pop, and even steps into rhumba without shame. One of the clearest highlights is Dzokorodzo, led by MrCandy, a smooth, late-night fusion that my gorgeous wife added to her playlist immediately after the first listen. For context, my gorgeous wife has never once added a Synik song to her playlist. I believe that settles the matter.
Much like the original Bhundu Boys, who blended chimurenga, rock, disco, country, and pop into one restless but coherent sound, The New Bhundu Boyz operates as a colourful collage of urban contemporary styles. It moves freely between genres, but it never feels scattered or uncertain. Holy Ten relies on Michael Magz’s vocal dexterity to support his own less polished singing, and together they find a balance that feels natural. It’s a collaboration that understands both its strengths and its limitations.
Treasure, on the other hand, is an album filled almost exclusively with what we call scare-the-baddies raps. Old heads might prefer the more respectful phrase “bringing back the real hip-hop.” But that is never a good sign. The album was bad. Objectively.
Final Thoughts
Malcom:
Now that everything has been said, and I have carefully stepped out of character and returned to my default setting of not enjoying Holy Ten’s music, I will admit one thing without hesitation: what a ride this has been!
I was quite nervous about doing this with you at the beginning. From the early podcast idea to finally settling on this format, there was a small part of me that was too scared, kani, Muku. I’m glad we followed through anyway, and I appreciate you taking time out of your unbusy schedule, because I ended up enjoying this far more than I expected. You have climbed a respectable number of spots on my list of favourite people. You are now ranked somewhere in the top 3,652.
I also wanted to give you a small token of appreciation. I could have gone with something predictable, like a gift card or a heartfelt compliment, but I decided instead to offer you something far more valuable: knowledge. While working on this article, I realised that you are not particularly well informed about M.I.L.E’s financial situation, so I took it upon myself to correct that gap in your education. What you see below is a screenshot from my most recent chat with him.
You are welcome.
I also like you just enough to let you promote your various small and adorable creative ventures here. Do you have anything you would like to plug? Where can the people find you?
Mukudzei:
This is easily the most writing I have done in a very long time, and most of the credit, or blame, goes to your camera-shyness.
Anyway, if y’all would like to hear more from me, catch me over on YouTube at Zazise Media and @zazisemedia across all social media platforms in case you are curious enough to put a face to my opinions. Above all else, make sure your speakers are playing Zim hip-hop — and if it happens to be RayKaz, even better. That’s the actual GOAT.
Till next time.
