Saintfloew: The Tea Chronicles

It’s a Tuesday night in The Brooke, an enclave of affluence, but we’re keeping it real. No pretenses, just vibes. I’m with Saintfloew and as the night gains momentum, so does the conversation.

It’s not just us, though. The circle is solid. Award-nominated hip hop club DJ RSK, who’s about to shake things up with War Games: Dancehall vs. Hip Hop DJ Clash on the 23rd, is here. Dennis Shoko, a podcaster with an ear for culture, is taking it all in. Karizma is in the cut, plotting a grand comeback. He’s the reason this link-up even happened. Then there’s Tha Bees, a promising name in the game and none other than Voltz JT’s brother, adding to the energy. The night is young, the stories are plenty.

I remind Saint of how I became a fan—way before the fame, before the industry caught up to his brilliance. Back in the Hip Hop Broke My Heart days, when his music was raw, experimental, and yet oddly prophetic—Trap Addicts, Trap Mabizela, Trap for My Mama—all leading up to my correct guess last year that his album would be called Trap Yevafundisi. The signs were always there.

This is not our first conversation about his music, nor about the industry’s occasional confusion about his genre. Many exaggerate his affiliation with dancehall, but the truth? Saintfloew is hip hop through and through—so much so that he boasts dancehall awards for his versatility. That’s not genre confusion; that’s just extreme talent.

Then, as the tea in my cup cools, I bring up what everyone wants to know. “Ndenge ndanwa tea saka ndovhunduka chii?” I ask. The tagline has become folklore, a street hymn, a catchphrase that carries weight. But what does it really mean?

For the longest time, people assumed it was code for something stronger—perhaps BronCleer, perhaps something even more illicit. He’s danced around the question before, reluctant, evasive. But this time, in the comfort of good company, he decides to let the story brew.

"On some days, I would be chased away from home," he begins. And just like that we are transported to another time, another place—a phase in his life where mornings weren’t about leisurely breakfasts but about survival. Tea wasn’t a metaphor for indulgence; it was a symbol of sustenance.

He’d wake up and start making rounds, checking with friends, hoping for a cup of tea to start his day. Evenings weren’t guaranteed meals either—his partner (because ‘girlfriend’ sounds too casual for someone who held him down in those times) would do what she could to find him food.

Then there’s the part that stings. He recalls one particular night, one of those nights, when exhaustion and hunger won the battle. He collapsed, right by the corner of KFC at Joina City, a moment that could have been a turning point in the worst possible way.

But here he is now, sitting comfortably in The Brooke, surrounded by good company, sipping on whatever is in his cup, and asking, ndovhunduka chii? What is there to fear, really, when he’s seen the bottom and climbed his way up?

So no, Saintfloew’s tea is not some absurd, coded substance. It’s just tea. The kind you drink in the morning when you’re trying to push through. The kind that kept him grounded when he had nothing else. And now, it’s the tea that reminds him—he made it.

It's the month of love and catch Mamonya eTea at Pakare Paye this Valentine's