The 20 Greatest Zim Hip-Hop Songs of All Time

This list started the way most important things do: with a dumb argument between me and Des from work. Des, whom I reluctantly consider a friend because I don’t have many, insists we disagree on everything: sneakers, DSTV packages, Jade Cargill’s thighs. Eventually, we hit the final frontier: Zim Hip-Hop, specifically the twenty greatest Zim Hip-Hop songs of all time.

Of course, we couldn’t agree on anything. So, in a rare display of maturity and diplomatic genius, we compromised. Des got ten picks. I got ten picks. But we had to meet somewhere in the middle on each one. This was serious. Treaties were signed. Blood was nearly spilled.

Des is from Bulawayo, and the only Ndebele word I know is lomnyaka, so his input turned out to be annoyingly useful. He brought some much-needed context. That’s why he gets a co-writing credit. But just so we’re clear: all the actual words are mine.

If there’s a song on this list that makes you smile, nod, or say “yas!” out loud? That was me. If there's one that makes you violently question human intelligence and contemplate switching to an orangutan, that was probably Des.

Also, because I’m kind and considerate, I’m leaving the #20 slot blank. That’s your pick. Yes, you; the reader who is already halfway to tweeting “Where is [insert great song by your favorite rapper here]”? That’s number 20. You’re welcome.

19. Cal_Vin – Z’khuphan

If I understood Ndebele, this would probably rank higher. But I do not, which is embarrassing for someone who has five albums with Ndebele titles. Five. I might be a culture vulture.

Still, Z’khupan was the first Ndebele rap song I ever knew.  And no, I didn’t need Bulawayo Des to cosign this one. We only disagreed on whether to include the original or the remix with Cassper Nyovest. I floated the remix and Des looked at me like I’d spat on the Joshua Nkomo statue. He said, and I quote, “Cassper added nothing but beef.”

OK, yes, Cass did take the opportunity to sneak in some shots at AKA, which—if we’re being honest—gave the track a bit of a regional boost. But Z’khupan didn’t need it. The original was the moment. For me, this was the song that made it clear Bulawayo wasn’t just watching.

R.I.P. Luveve Boy. Des is still arguing in your honor.

18. Fortune Muparutsa – Wangu Ndega

I once had the honour of booking Bush Baby X to perform at one of my shows. He arrived two hours late because he’d been waiting for his shirt to finish printing. The shirt in question featured the late, great Fortune Muparutsa’s face and the words: “Legends Live Forever.”

I was not impressed. Mostly because my entire female fanbase—Beth, Kuda, Taku, Tariro, and also Tariro (twins, long story)—were freezing. I needed Bush on that stage immediately.

But Bush had other plans. Instead of launching into music, he opened with a twelve-minute tribute (yes, I counted) to Fortune Muparutsa. No instrumental, no nothing. He spoke like he was defending a thesis, detailing Fortune’s influence on sound design, his hidden fingerprints on countless Zimbabwean classics, his literal presence in the cliffnotes of every paper written on Zimbabwean music. We just stood there, frozen, but educated.

After the show, I went down the Fortune rabbit hole. Hours of listening, watching, and reading. Eventually, I landed on Wangu Ndega, easily one of his biggest hits.

“Shandisa condom, condom, condom.”

I loved that part as a kid. That line alone turned living rooms across the country into zones of intense social discomfort during Ezomgido. That’s why I included this song, but also because it’s a jam, and it taught me about safe sex through second-hand embarrassment. Des, if you're reading this: the message still applies.

R.I.P. Wolfman. Bush will carry your name into every venue, no matter how off-schedule.

17. Takura – Zino Irema

Takura and I have a lot in common. We’re both talented black men with A+ beard game and big discographies. The only difference is he’s wildly successful and I’m not. His music is good and mine isn’t. He has hits, I have none. But aside from that, we’re basically twins.

Here’s where it gets controversial: I’m one of the very few people in Zim Hip-Hop who hasn’t drunk the Kool-Aid of Someone Had To Do It, Takura’s debut hip-hop album, which is treated like the Holy Grail in this space. Critics love it. Fans love it. Des has sex to it, I’m told. Me? Eh.

I know I’m in the smallest minority possible, and I get it; my taste can be questionable. Des reminds me of this frequently. The thing is, I’m a writer first, and writing has never been Takura’s strongest suit. To be fair, it’s only been five Zimbabwean rappers’ strong suit. Total. In history. So I’m not knocking the man; I’m just allergic to lazy writing.

All that said... I love Takura. I’m a fan. Deep down, I think I resent him because we’d be exactly alike if I had more talent, and followers, and money, and people cared about my music.

I haven’t researched this, but I’m convinced Zino Irema is the moment Takura introduced a new sonic blueprint to Zim Hip-Hop; the melodic, sung-rap vibe that now dominates the genre. I also haven’t researched if MaObama came first, but Des and I agreed (rare moment) Zino Irema was the better track, so that settled it.

Side note: My personal favourite Takura song is Noise, his 2019 banger that served as his victory lap after conquering the pre-COVID rap landscape. There’s a line in there that still haunts me:

“If I didn’t work, I don’t know where would I be / Probably somewhere hating on somebody like me.”

16. MK47 – Chabvondoka

The Manyika accent is one of the most beautiful things to ever happen to the Shona language. There’s something magical about the way anaWasu will use the most complex Shona vocabulary, then immediately follow it with the simplest English word available.

Instead of saying, “My leg hurts,” they’ll go:
“Ndiri kunzwa kudzimbirwa neleg.”

This, ladies and gentlemen, is poetry.

I love talking to anaWasu. Unfortunately, the moment they move to Harare, their tongues get colonised. They start saying “actually” and “like” and pronouncing “literally” like they were born in Greendale.

So sometimes I roam the CBD, hunting anaWasu down like Pokémon, looking for that authentic Manicaland tongue. That’s how I found MK47.

She raps exactly how she speaks: raw and proudly Manyika. Her comeback track Ndadzoka after a near-decade hiatus is my jam. Ndinewe with Decibel is a song I play at the loudest possible decibel. Her verse on Zvachose Remix...OK, we don't talk about that one. That was not good.

It took me embarrassingly long to realise that MK47 was the genius behind Chabvondoka, the early 2000s anthem that had radio in a chokehold. I had no idea, for years. There’s a very real argument that this is the biggest rap song by a female MC in Zim history. I love the song’s subject matter. A dog escapes into a butchery and causes chaos. That’s it. That’s the song. This is what music should be about. Bonus points for being delivered in the best accent in the country.

15. Voltz JT – Mkoma Brian

Voltz JT became one of the biggest voices in Zim Hip-Hop after These Days blew up on YouTube, turning every kid with a smartphone into a hip-hop philosopher.

(Somewhere out there—if you dig carefully—you’ll find a video interview where Voltz says, “Malcom is the best rapper in Zimbabwe.” He was being sarcastic. But I’ve taken that clip, removed all context, and weaponised it as propaganda. It takes some serious effort to convince people it’s not AI, because if I point them to the original video, they’ll hear the sarcasm and the slander. I can’t have that.)

When Des and I were building this list, we both agreed that Voltz had to be on it. No question. But the real debate was: which Voltz song? What’s the most Voltz Voltz song? I pushed for Same Drawer NeGown, a song full of that ambition, hunger, and charmingly laid-back storytelling that defines his best work (Mangwana, Rima, etc.). But Des wasn’t feeling it. He argued that the song got completely stepped on by the release of Delilah, one of the biggest Zim songs of the decade. Delilah was released by Voltz’s sworn enemy. Including a track that got bodied in real time by your op would not be a great look. So we compromised and went with the safest, most widely accepted pick: Mkoma Brian. It checks all the boxes. It’s honest. It’s reflective. It’s Voltz at his most composed and most compelling. Also (and this has nothing to do with anything), Des co-wrote the script for the music video. So I’m sure no bias went into that selection at all.

Anyway, while I have your attention: Voltz JT is the best rapper in the world.

14. Asaph – Mambo

I wasn’t familiar with Voltz JT until These Days, but apparently he had underground buzz way before that, partly off the strength of his freestyle over Asaph’s Mambo beat. There were loads of those freestyles under the #MamboChallenge banner, if memory serves. I listened to none of them.

What I did listen to was the original Mambo, and I liked it. Infectious hook, bouncy beat, solid verses throughout. Asaph always delivers. I like Asaph.

Still, I had my reservations. Mainly: Mambo, for all its love in hip-hop circles, never quite crossed over to the general public. It didn’t catch fire the way most other songs on this list did. Des didn’t argue too much on that point, but he did insist that if we removed Mambo, we’d have to replace it with another Bulawayo song. Fair. Representation matters.

The whole process ended up being an enlightening deep dive into the Bulawayo rap scene, which I’ve come to deeply respect. Des played me some gems from the City of Kings & Queens and I liked them all. But ultimately, we circled back to Mambo. It’s the safe bet. The gateway track even people in other provinces kind of remember. It just made sense, as opposed to, say, a song by Briza.

My second issue with Mambo is that for a song released in the full-blown digital age, it’s bizarrely hard to find on streaming platforms. Des explained this away as a label issue; some rights dispute, maybe a takedown or two. I believed him, which I probably shouldn’t have. Des lies.

He also told me Mambo was a diss track aimed at the late Cal_Vin. I don’t know if that’s true, but I doubt it. I always assumed it was just a flex anthem with nice trumpet samples. That’s the version I’m sticking with.

13. Mudiwa Hood – Ndaita Mari

If you’re a reasonable person, this is probably the point in the list where you pause and ask,
“Now which one of these two idiots suggested this?”

Valid question.

What people forget—intentionally or otherwise—is that arguably the best rapper to ever grace this godforsaken country, mUnetsi, appears on this song. And he drops not one, but two of his best Shona verses ever.

Now, full disclosure: I don’t like Christian Rap. Any variety. It’s mostly because I have taste. Also, why is “Christian Hip-Hop” its own category at award shows? Who started that? Why don’t we have a dedicated category for “Twerk-Themed Rap,” a subgenre that has actually done more for the culture and for humanity?

I digress.

Despite my usual allergy to gospel raps, Ndaita Mari stands head and shoulders above the rest. It’s not a “Christian Rap” song. It’s a good hip-hop song that happens to mention the Almighty. Girl, that hook… holy sh*t! This song slaps. End of story.

I get it, people have had a lot of negative things to say about Mudiwa Hood. One could argue many of those things are justified. But not me. I’ve thought those things, sure. But I’ve never said them out loud. So imagine my surprise when, while doing research for this piece, I discovered that Mudiwa has me blocked on Twitter. Bro, WTF?

I’ve only ever interacted with the man twice, both times in person. The first was when he bought Slaying, a Christian Rap joint I was originally supposed to be on with Grey Milly, but declined because, again, I have taste. Mudiwa scooped it up. It worked out for everyone. He got a gospel song. We got drinks with his money.

The second was during the COVID years. He walked into the arcade we were posted up at and challenged me to multiple games of FIFA. I ignored him until he offered cash per loss. Again, it worked out. He got to play FIFA. We got drinks with his money.

There’s no way he knows who I am, though. Worse, there’s no way he connected our chance interactions to my Twitter account. So bro, WTF?

Anyway, it was genuinely heartwarming to discover that even way back—like 15 years ago—Mudiwa was already a massive mUnetsi fan, quoting him online and giving him his flowers. Ndaita Mari worked out for everyone involved. Mudiwa got his hit. mUnetsi got drinks with his money.

12. ExQ – Pane Rudo

The late Dr. Oliver “Tuku” Mtukudzi had a long, proud tradition of carrying people on their own songs. I don’t mean that as a dig. It’s Tuku. If you’re going to get outshined by anyone, let it be the greatest we’ve ever had.

Think about it:
Sam Mtukudzi’s Samatenga.
Sulu’s Kwedu.
Winky D’s Panorwadza Moyo.
Gary Tight’s Ndizarurire.

Only Berita ever really stood her ground, and I’d make the case that she handed him his one and only L. That’s kinda wild, considering Tuku worked with Grammy winners like Ladysmith Black Mambazo and Joss Stone. He didn’t just hop on anything. He reserved features for the elite, which makes the ExQ collab a little confusing.

To be clear: I like ExQ, a lot. I’ve probably listened to every single song he’s ever released. Which is why I can say this confidently: if it’s not a solo track, ExQ is getting outshined. You can bet money on that, ten out of ten times.

I think ExQ is like Chamisa in that way. One of the greatest politicians Zimbabwe has ever had, but he has never really won. Still a better profile than Decibel’s though, who, if we’re doing the analogy properly, is more of a Learnmore Jongwe.

Before the full pivot to Afropop, ExQ was one of the biggest rappers in Zimbabwe. He was never a lyricist’s lyricist, but he was a vibes guy. You knew an ExQ verse meant the party was inbound. Pane Rudo is that in full effect. ExQ gets the full Tuku treatment; vocals, guitar, production, all of it. And somehow, his laid-back approach doesn’t get swallowed. He floats and lets the song breathe without trying too hard. This would’ve never worked with, say, Briza.

I like ExQ, a lot.

11. MMT – Zvidhori

I absolutely hate conflict. I hate the thought of people I care about not liking me because I called them out on something. It’s something I seriously need to work on. So I’m going to start right here, with MMT.

Rap has always been a contradiction: one of the most sonically inventive, creatively progressive genres in music, made by some of the most socially regressive voices imaginable. Homophobia is one example. Sexism is another. Zvidhori is the perfect case study. It’s one of those “How did we let this get big?” type songs. For a while, I tried to write it off as a product of its time. But then I asked myself: What time, exactly, was it ever OK to call women that? The song wasn’t subtle or clever. It wasn’t satire. It was just mean, stupid, and loud, and it got rewarded for being all three.

I was reading an article the other day about a teenage girl who had survived a brutal crime. One of the top comments said, “She was such a pretty girl. What a shame.” That really stuck with me. It rubbed me the wrong way in that deep, queasy way. Like her pain would’ve somehow mattered less if she’d been deemed “ugly.” Like the tragedy was somehow made worse by her looks.

I’m not sure where I was going with that, but it brings me back to Zvidhori. I don’t know why we, as a society, have normalized the objectification of women to such dehumanizing standards. We trap, define, judge, and rank Beth, Kuda, Taku, Tariro, and also Tariro (twins, long story), and punish them whether they meet these standards or not.

And the worst part is I liked MMT. They were incredibly talented. With Young Nash’s production, they could’ve made a song about anything—literally anything—and it would’ve rocked the club. It just sucks that this is what they chose. Hindsight is 20/20, but the fact that Zvidhori was so widely loved and celebrated was probably the clearest early sign that someone like Shadaya would flourish in this cultural soil.

Zvidhori is an important song. Its success cracked a door open and marked a shift in hip-hop’s visibility in Zimbabwe. It helped break the mold, and without its success, hip-hop’s mainstream breakthrough might have taken a little longer.

But still.
Fuck this song.

10. Ti Gonzi – Zvenyu

I got my first real job a year after graduating, but less than a month in, I was already over it. I didn’t know how I was going to survive another 40-something years doing this every day. I still don’t.

Part of the problem is probably how I see the world. I’ve always had a bit of an existential outlook. I tend to believe I’m just some floating, mostly useless piece of caca, and that life doesn’t have a grand purpose.

Lately though, I’ve been leaning into something softer and more positive. Like, maybe it’s okay to just zoom through life doing the things you love. You don’t need to change the world or be the main character in this motion picture. You were here, and that’s enough.

There’s a phrase I’ve come to adore: “You existed.”

Sometimes I used to stay up at night thinking about entropy, the last electrons, the heat death of the universe, and how none of this will matter. Now I tell myself, “Sure, but I was here for the cool part. And nothing can undo that.”

We put way too much pressure on ourselves to matter in a big way. I’m not special. The most remarkable thing about me is that, for one brief moment after I was born, I was the youngest person on Earth. I’m not trying to be a hero. I just want to do my job, make enough to enjoy the stuff I like, and be around good people. If I can just do my part in those ripples, I’m fine with that. If you are going to ask what fuels me these days, I guess it’s hoping there’s still more good to come. That, and Ti Gonzi bars.

There are a lot of “I feel old” moments in life, but girl... Zvenyu turns ten this year. Ten! What the actual f**k? Zvenyu is the song that properly introduced Ti Gonzi to the public consciousness. He arrived at a time when Zim Dancehall had a firm monopoly on the local music scene. Instead of trying to sound different, Gonzi leaned in, rapping with the same kind of everyday relatability and offbeat humour that made Zim Dancehall so dominant. He reminded me of Maskiri. Not just because of the offbeat flows, but because the beat didn’t really matter. He could take a verse anywhere. Like Maskiri, Gonzi’s songs don’t work unless the bars carry them.

Yes, some of his bars are questionable. Some are flat-out violations. But Ti Gonzi is a volume shooter, and volume shooters are allowed to miss. What matters is that when he’s hot, he’s hot. Zvenyu is Ti Gonzi with a hot hand. The track still holds up. It was different then, and it still feels fresh now. A classic.

9. Few Kings – Happy

Des was ridiculously passionate about this song. If he had even a fraction of literary talent, he probably would’ve insisted on writing this entry himself. He would’ve written something deplorable like, “No pun intended, but this song made me happy.”

Happy spoke to the luxurious, fast-life crowd of Zimbabwe’s better suburbs, the ones who felt a little alienated by Ti Gonzi’s struggle raps, which were grounded in a life they didn’t live and couldn’t relate to. Happy was for rich people, and for Des.

But Happy wasn’t the first of its kind. Luxury rap has existed north of Samora for over two decades now. The problem is we’ve just never really liked it. By “we,” I mean those of us who grew up in homes where English wasn’t the first language. In our house, English came third. It went Shona, Ndebele, then English. And no one in the house spoke Ndebele. So English rap always felt distant. Coupling that with bourgeois accents and lyrics about champagne and overseas summer breaks just made it worse.

Tehn Diamond was the first North Samora rapper to really understand this. He’s probably the best rapper to come out of that side, mainly because he realised something most of his peers didn’t: to matter, his music had to connect with the common folk first. That’s where Jnr Brown came in.

I don’t know where Breezy is from, but I’m willing to bet it’s not a place where people grow up calling their parents “Mom” and “Dad.” His voice grounded everything Tehn did. Together, as two-thirds of Few Kings, they gave us some of the best music Zim Hip-Hop has ever produced.

Rappers like Tehn and Breezy come once every twenty years, and they release music at roughly the same pace. The Zim Hip-Hop community talks about Few Kings the same way my parents talk about me: so much potential, never quite realised.

They dropped two albums. One is a certified classic. The other is also considered a classic, depending on how the person you ask feels about the song Bum Bum, where Jnr Brown sings, “Shake up your, shake up your bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum.”

I got married six months ago. People often ask how it happened; how I landed someone clearly ten leagues above me. I tell them the truth. I just found an amazing girl who, for reasons I still don’t understand, thought I was great, and I settled down with her immediately. Once that happened, I felt like I’d achieved everything, which is a very reasonable belief if you’ve ever seen my wife. I stopped making music and started spending that time with her instead. Which, again, is a very reasonable move if you’ve ever seen my wife.

So I kind of get it. I get why Tehn stopped making music. I don’t know what the hell Jnr Brown’s problem is though.

8. Maskiri – Wenera

I had a friend in primary school in the 2000s who I used to listen to hip-hop with. He was one of those kids who always seemed to be moving schools. He was from Glen View or Glen Norah or Glendale—some Glen, I forget which. He loved Maskiri just as much as I did, so naturally, we became instant best friends.

I don’t remember his surname, or his face, to be honest. For the sake of this write-up, let’s just call him Emmerson. The number of hours Emmerson and I spent listening to Maskiri’s music was obscene. My parents were convinced we were corrupting each other. Emmerson moved away after fifth grade. He said he was going on holiday and just never came back. I assume his family moved again.

Sometimes I genuinely wonder if I imagined Emmerson; if he was just something my brain came up with so I’d have someone to talk to about Blue Movie. He was my only dirty friend. Real or not, shoutout to Emmerson.

Wenera came out years after Emmerson had disappeared. I know he would’ve loved it. It was the first official music video in Maskiri’s long, audio-only career. Until then, everything lived in our heads, and with Blue Movie, that was probably for the best. I’m not proud of the visuals I cooked up for Madam Mombeshora, but if I could invent a whole Emmerson, a few X-rated daydreams were child’s play.

In a perfect world, Wenera would rank higher on this list. But in a perfect world, Chagwa Black wouldn’t have made it onto that song. You’ve got a Hall-of-Fame hook from Nox Guni. Hall-of-Fame verses from Maskiri. And then… Chagwa Black. His verse sticks out like a sore thumb the same way his name does. You’ve got Maskiri. Nox Guni. And Chagwa Black. My research tells me he directed the video, so maybe adding a verse was in his contract. I don’t know. I’m sure Chagwa is a lovely guy. He seems like one. But I do wish his verse could pull an Emmerson and vanish from existence entirely.

Still, Wenera is a beautiful song.

7. Xtra Large – Uri Roja

As I’m writing this, a notification just popped up on my screen: professional wrestling legend Hulk Hogan has died.

I don’t know what to do with this information. I also don’t know how to segue from it into this write-up, but it felt too big to ignore. So I asked Des if he had a clever line to bridge the gap.

After what I can only describe as a moment of deep thought, Des proudly offered this:
“No pun intended, but Hulk Hogan’s impact on wrestling was… extra large.”

This is what I deal with.

Uri Roja is, in my opinion, Xtra Large’s biggest song, or at least the one I remember dominating radio the most. The duo, made up of Swagga Jim and Likkle N, likely got their names from the same rap name generator as Chagwa Black. They’ve had other hits, like Kushamula Newe and Small House, but we settled on Uri Roja because Des found it more relatable as someone who rents. Sometimes, critical decisions between him and I come down to details like this.

While researching Fortune Muparutsa, I came across a paper by Rekopantswe Mate titled “Youth Lyrics, Street Language and the Politics of Age: Contextualising the Youth Question in the Third Chimurenga in Zimbabwe.” The paper explores the problematic lyrics from the Urban Grooves era. Small House by Xtra Large is cited specifically for its sexism. I genuinely wish they’d waited a few months longer before publishing so they could’ve added Zvidhori to the list.

Credit where it’s due: without Xtra Large, we probably don’t get acts like the Shebeen Rap Movement. Not because they share a sound; they don’t. Dough Major and Dingo Duke can actually rap. But Uri Roja and songs like it paved the way for a style of Zimbabwean hip-hop where humour, silliness and irreverence are central to the writing. Yes, it’s a goofy song. Yes, it comes from an era full of lyrical side-eyes. But the song made people laugh, made people sing along, and gave rappers permission to not take themselves so seriously.

For that, at least, thanks for the laughs.

6. Holy Ten – Ndaremerwa

Okay, but real talk; why did Mudiwa Hood block me?

I thought I was fine with it, but I’ve been spiraling for hours. I’ve never tweeted about the man. I’ve never subtweeted him. I’ve never even liked a tweet that vaguely implies he’s not good at rapping. So what did I do? Was it a thread about movies? Was it something I said about my wife? Because that’s 90% of my tweets.

What bothers me most is the logistics. Did a tweet randomly land on his timeline, and he said, “Nope”? Or did he search my name, go to my profile, hover over the three dots, and press “Block” with intention? I’ve been scrolling through my posts trying to find a smoking gun. Maybe I accidentally misgendered someone? That’s usually grounds. But I doubt it. I refer to everyone as “dude.” It’s my linguistic comfort zone.

For the record, I hate transphobes. I’m not friends with any. If I am, they’ve hidden it well. Transphobes wouldn’t know what to do with themselves if transgender people didn’t exist. Their obsession has nothing to do with gender; it’s unresolved self-hatred being channeled into a scapegoat. Like, your life is falling apart, and you think the problem is someone else’s pronouns? Be serious. It's all unprocessed self-hatred dressed up as moral panic.

They need someone to dehumanize, and the more vulnerable the target, the more frenzied the hate. Have transphobes seen the suicide stats for trans youth? Has that ever crossed their minds? I just can’t imagine being the reason someone takes their life because I couldn’t bring myself to use the right pronouns. So I’ll use them, always. If that’s what someone needs to stay alive, it’s not hard.

So why did Mudiwa block me? It’s definitely not pronouns. Is it because I once said Holy Ten is the most successful rapper Zimbabwe has ever had? Is that what did it? Because honestly, am I wrong? Zim Hip-Hop’s golden age started the moment Ndaremerwa dropped. That was the point where everything changed. It was a seismic event, and all of a sudden, being a rapper was a career path again.

True, I hate that one line where he says, “To anybody still in Form Two, everything you learn is not true.” What the hell does that even mean? Kids, please learn your integers. Holy Ten doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

That line aside, Ndaremerwa made it possible for a whole generation to believe that rap wasn’t just something you did for kicks. You could get paid. You could get booked. You could win.

I genuinely don’t know why Mudiwa Hood blocked me.

5. Leo Magozz – Fire Emoji

During lockdown, I dated a white girl. I won’t say her real name for privacy reasons, so for this write-up, let’s just call her Emmerson.

One night, Emmerson and I went to a fancy Chinese restaurant; proper linen tablecloths, koi pond by the door, good soy sauce, the whole nine yards. We sat down, ordered, and then she launched into her entire life story, year by year, birth to present day. Every minor trauma, every major betrayal, every teacher who didn’t believe in her. I just sat there nodding like an overworked therapist, sipping green tea and occasionally blinking to confirm I was still alive. I remember thinking, “Okay, she’s reached primary school. If we’re lucky, this wraps up by dessert.”

It did not.

She talked for three straight hours. I said maybe four words total. It started off sweet. Then it got dark. Then darker. By 8 o’clock, I was exhausted, and she was only on Year 9. I remember thinking, “Oh God, she’s just reached high school. That means there’s at least ten more years to go.” The only thing keeping me tethered to the mortal realm, looping in the background the entire time, was Fire Emoji on repeat.

I think about that night often. If you ever find yourself doubting the virality and cultural impact of Fire Emoji, remember there’s a dimly lit Chinese restaurant in Avondale where they played it on loop.

4. King Pinn – I Salute You

I want to briefly return to my favourite analogy device: politicians. It’s only right, this being a political song after all. If ExQ is Chamisa and Decibel is Learnmore Jongwe, then who’s King Pinn? It has to be someone cerebral. Someone who makes sense to intellectuals, even if the masses don’t always get it. So let’s go with Simba Makoni. Also—true story—that’s King Pinn’s dad. So this analogy is bulletproof and legally binding.

I have no confusion about King Pinn’s place in the game. He’s a giant. I love I Salute You. It’s beautifully written, simply produced, and manages to be direct without dumbing anything down. It’s still the only all-English Zim hip-hop song I’ve ever heard dominate national radio for more than a week. It deserves every replay.

But here’s my beef: Ask the average Zim hip-hop fan who their favourite rapper is, and fifty percent of them will blurt out, “King Pinn!” with the sweaty conviction of someone who’s just been asked to name a book they’ve read. And when you probe why, it’s crickets.

“He’s deep!” Cool, but that’s not an answer.

It’s like on Twitter, when you ask someone what their favourite movie is and they panic-Google “Greatest Films of All Time” and say Citizen Kane. Not because they like it, but because they think they’re supposed to. Because that’s what smart people say, right? It’s safe. No one’s going to argue with you at brunch. Say Friday. Say The Dark Knight. Say Titanic. At least I’ll believe you.

But then there’s the opposite camp. The ones who want to be contrarian. The ones who go, “Nah, King Pinn is overrated.” And now I have to suit up and explain to them that the reason their fave can even spell multisyllabic is because King Pinn taught the syllabus. Because King Pinn did change things. He proved that English rap didn’t have to be cringe or overly American. That it could sound Zimbabwean and still carry weight.

Verbal Vitamin set a new bar. It’s not even up for debate. Even Des understands this. “Yeah, King Pinn was a genius, but I like Sane Wav more. On a bad day, I want vibes. Because sometimes, joy wins. It doesn’t have to be deep.” I was ready to fight him, but I respected it. Honest taste will always beat pretentious pandering.

I Salute You is one of the few songs in Zim hip-hop history that managed to be smart, sharp, political, and still catchy enough to get radio rotation without sounding like a civics lecture. It’s a once-in-a-generation track that opened the door for English rap in Zim to stop sounding like a bad impersonation of Eminem’s angry cousin. It’s the Citizen Kane of Zim hip-hop. You don’t have to love it. But you do have to acknowledge that everything changed after it.

So no, I won’t accept lazy Pinn praise or hollow contrarianism. I will always defend this song and the man who made it. Unless I’m at a party. In which case, yeah… throw on Sane Wav.

R.I.P. King Pinn. I will always salute you.

3. Leonard Mapfumo – Seiko, Two Chete, Maidei

Early on, we had to set some ground rules for this list. The biggest one was this: only one song per artist. Otherwise, this would’ve just been ten Malcom Mufunde songs and ten Sane Wav songs. The goal was to keep things diverse and inclusive, to make sure the list had range; something for the boomers, the vibers, the bedroom DJs, the TikTokers, and Des.

That rule solved a lot of problems, but it also created two very big ones. One: which SaintFloew and Bagga songs to include. Spoiler alert: we didn’t. I know. I can hear the pitchforks sharpening. Look, I love SaintFloew. He has my favourite Zim hip-hop discography of all time. Bagga is cool too. But the challenge was this: their best songs aren’t really hip-hop. They transcend genre. You don’t “rap” Silas Mavende. The more we tried to make the case, the more we realized their brilliance exists slightly outside the borders of what we were doing here. It hurt. We cried. We moved.

The second problem was Leonard Mapfumo.

We narrowed the shortlist down to Seiko (with Roki), Two Chete (with Trevor Dongo), and Maidei (with ExQ and Kevie). We then argued about it for five hours straight. Full peer-reviewed dissertations were submitted. At one point, we had documents longer than Rekopantswe Mate’s Youth Lyrics, Street Language and the Politics of Age: Contextualising the Youth Question in the Third Chimurenga in Zimbabwe. We tried to eliminate one. We failed. We pulled out of the Sophie’s Choice and walked away with all three babies. This is a triple entry. Sue us.

But seriously, how could we not? Leonard Mapfumo is one of the few artists who broke Sungura’s unchallenged grip on Zimbabwe’s music scene in the early 2000s. He kicked the door open, rewired the sound system, and threw his own party. Yesterday, I was driving my mom, and we caught Star FM’s “Classic or Not?” (I’m not sure that’s what it’s called, but my mom loves it, so we love it.) They played some Urban Grooves throwback—I forget which one—and a caller phoned in and said, “We thank God for Urban Grooves, yakatisunungura kubva kuSungura.” My mom and I burst out laughing.

Leonard Mapfumo’s catalogue is a cheat code. Picking one song is impossible. We had to leave out Miss Makadini. We had to leave out Chiuyaka. Even Ndoita Manyemwe could’ve snuck in here if it tried hard enough and wore a fake moustache.

So here we are: Seiko, Two Chete, and Maidei. All heat; I’ve got nothing more to say.

Des, anything to add?

“Haaa, Leonard andikandisa mapfumo pasi.”

2. Stunner – Godo

Did you know that when a frog vomits, its entire stomach ejects from its body, dangles in the wind, gets scrubbed clean, then slurped right back in?

Also, did you know that male echidnas have a four-headed penis? They only use two heads at a time though. They alternate.

Lastly, did you know that the human anus can stretch up to 7 inches before tearing, and that raccoons can squeeze into holes as small as 4 inches? But don’t get bright ideas.

I figured using this space to share some helpful zoological trivia would be more productive than explaining why Godo deserves to be here. It’s a waste of both our time. You know. I know. Everyone knows.

1. Major Playaz – Came 2 Party