Eight years ago Soshanguve-born pianist, composer and singer Thandi Ntuli released her debut album, The Offering. Having been in front of the keys for more than two decades she contended with whether she qualified as an expert.
In 2015, in a conversation with this writer and while ruminating about her debut, Ntuli, proffered that her idea of craft mastery was someone who “has a complete grasp of their personal style coupled with great technique. It’s an artist who has found their voice and is working on growing it.”
And so The Offering was an unfurling. A yawn. A stretch. A leaning on the strictures of years spent at the South African College of Music at the University of Cape Town as the foundation for exploration.
Three years later, referencing her sophomore album, Exiled, she said: “As an artist, one of the biggest things I’m always sort of concerned about is: Will I be misunderstood?
“There were ideas I was playing around with, exploring, which were intermingled. Questioning how black love exists … My perception was that there’s some sense of exile, still. Even though we’ve passed political emancipation there are a lot of things which still feel displaced, even though we can’t put our finger on it.”
Exiled was a blend; part eerie, part longing, part breaking and part conjuring.
The everyday of things
From 17 to 20 February this year Ntuli settled at Dyertribe Studios in Centurion, near Pretoria, to record her fourth album and third studio release, Black Elijah and Children of Meroë.
The studio, run by father-and-son musicians Steve and Bokani Dyer, is on an off-grid plot.
“I connect to a space also based on the energy it carries in terms of who has recorded there [Busi Mhlongo, Vusi Mahlasela, Oliver Mtukudzi and many other familiars] … Except for Indaba Is, where I played a different role, I’d never recorded my own full project there.
“I’m a huge fan of bra’ Steve. He’s mentored me unwittingly through conversation,” says Ntuli.
“Thursday, 17 February: I wake and say my morning prayers. Get ready, check my phone. Everyone is late. The people I work with are not late comers and always communicate if there’s a problem. But every single one was late.
“I have a moment of humour with myself.
“I know that this process will happen. This is going to work out. I’m not here by mistake.
“Friday, 18 February: I wake earlier than usual, go to the loo. I check my cell for the time, 3am.
“Message alert. One of the musicians who wasn’t available yesterday can’t make today — a situation beyond his control. We’re supposed to record the parts that need the band playing together. Time running out is a concern. Slight panic.
“I remind myself to return to yesterday’s calm: this is going to work out. I’m not here by mistake. My spirit brought me here.
“At 09:30 I make a call to a friend I’ve always wanted to work with, invite him to the 10 o’clock session. He shifts things around and
comes through. I’m deeply grateful. For the most part we record the necessary songs.
“Later. After. We’re chilling, enjoying some snacks and drinks — chatting. I love being at Dyertribe because there’re always great conversations among the musicians and with the family.
“It’s that Friday night energy so I don’t go to sleep early. Bad idea, the last day is always hardest.
“Saturday 19 February: Waking is brutal. I message the band asking that we move our start time back an hour. Everyone is having a low energy, slow morning. As much as it’s enjoyable, recording is an intense process. I invite the band into the control room and play some Malian music for mood-setting, inspiration; Oumou Sangaré, Mamou Sidibe. Thomas Chauke is on the list.
“Engineer Tshepo Mothwa sets up four mics to record simultaneously. He wants to capture the voice differently — pick up certain textures and give me options and freedom when mixing. Your voice sounds different on different mics. These textures are beneficial in Inkululeko. Layering the vocals — coating nuance, is amazing.
“The band departs, leaving Tshepo and I to finish the last bits of recording and make sure we have everything we need for the next phase.
“We’re exhausted. My voice is struggling. Even though it’s his last day Tshepo offers wrapping up on Sunday.
“Although grateful, I know that in the morning, when I’m groggy and my voice hasn’t warmed up from being used, it’ll be worse.
“I plead with my voice: ‘I know you’re tired. I’m going to sing in the most nurturing way possible for you. Stay with me.’
“We finish at 3:30, Sunday morning. I get to bed finished — but we are done.”
‘Black Elijah’ initially represents a feminine destructive energy that then turns to become nurturing. Photos: Tseliso Monaheng & Ndumiso Sibanda
The prelude
“What am I doing, why am I saying this this way? What am I trying to articulate — am I doing it properly? Who am I speaking to? Who am I really? What do I truly believe in — stand for?” Ntuli asks.
It’s hard to pinpoint the start of the creation of a project like this, considering the coalescing factors; cascading moments that led Ntuli here from memory to lineage, to closure, to joy.
Journeying through music
The album launches with Izibongo, taken from the Ntuli Family Praises, diarised by her great-grandfather, Reverend Gedlana Ntuli, who died in 1936. As told to him by his father. Eventually diffused to Ntuli’s father’s tongue. Recited by him at family ceremonies and celebrations. A lineage-trace. A call to the blood collective who path-walked before.
She explains: “Going back into my history was the point of departure in terms of my healing. It’s not the only thing but it is a reference point in terms of understanding myself … It’s given me a sense of knowing how to engage the uncertainty of this world. And to try and learn as much as I can from my ancestors.
“For me, the optimism starts in this place.”
In the album synopsis Ntuli describes the work as a story about the mystery of awakening, re-birth or re-membering. For her, the latter “broken down like that, is about putting yourself, you, the pieces back together. I really wanted it to stand out — that it’s about memory which pieces you back together.”
Elijah and Meroë
Black Elijah emerged from various things. Ntuli being intrigued by the name of pianist, Black Moses, part of Soul Brothers. A conversation with her friend, where she joked about her aspirations to have a rap moniker. In this conversation she learned about musician Black Jesus, and so landed on her own Black Elijah. A kismet confirmed when she bought a keyboard with black keys.
Black Elijah “represents a higher version of myself. It is initially a feminine, destructive energy who comes and breaks everything down, dismantles, burns it to the ground — because it’s a mess here. In this place. At first she’s fire — until there’s nothing left. And then she’s intuition — nurturing, loving, caring — guiding us forward.”
The Children of Meroë represent the archetypes that live in Ntuli, in the people of Africa, the world, regardless of their character, the journey they’re on, whether asleep or negotiating the difficulty of being awake.
“It’s the people who ideologically see the importance of embracing the feminine in the realm of spirit. Who recognise the feminine as the foundation of all things. Who recognise the importance of the feminine within themselves.”
Then and now
Exiled addressed realities and tangible experiences, both personal and communal. The album ended in a place she wasn’t comfortable with — in despair. Sitting in an inability to conclude, she was adamant this would not be the end of her story. After the album, she went deeper into her journey of figuring out: how does one heal this state of exile?
An excavation into her lineage is where she landed.
Inkululeko is the last of the eight tracks on the album. “It doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s complete. It means I’ve found the way to this elusive freedom I’ve been seeking my whole life, without even knowing. The way is to go back into the past and get to know yourself from that perspective. Engage with the world with an understanding of who it is you are.”
Ntuli intentioned joy into this process — creating from joy and not pain or darkness. A process affirmed for her by American jazz singer, songwriter, actress and activist Abbey Lincoln in a clip where she acknowledged that performance meant singing her songs repeatedly, especially if they became popular, that repetition alchemising them into prayer.
In supplication Ntuli offers a bold piano introduction to her ancestors in Izibongo. She invokes play and mirth in Amazing Grace. She confirms her compass in No Wrong Turn. And ululates her joy in finding Inkululeko.
Discovery: Thandi Ntuli’s album is about the journey from self-exile, with its uncertainty and joys, to home. Artwork: Morenike Ajayi
Listen to Black Elijah and The Children of Meroë here:
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