A brilliant gathering went mad 10 years ago, remembers Therese Owen. Even Zola collapsed
The year was 2006. It was supposed to be one of the happiest days in our beautiful country.
Director Gavin Hood was on stage at the Sandton International Convention Centre raising our first Oscar. This amazing director, along with Presley Chweneyagae and Terry Pheto and the brilliant cast of Tsotsi, had won Best Foreign Film.
Everyone who was anyone in the South African entertainment industry was there to celebrate this historic achievement.
Looking around, I could see Bongani Fassie, Da L.E.S, DJ Cleo and Zola, all of whom had contributed to the iconic soundtrack of the award-winning film.
Everyone was happy except for Amu. The groundbreaking rapper arrived late and came straight up to me looking extremely upset.
“Why are you so late?” I hissed. His eyes were brimming with tears. “Mandoza is dead.” I shook my head in disbelief. What? How? Why? He wiped his eyes: “I was driving here listening to YFM and they announced that Mandoza was dead. He was knocked over while driving a bicycle.”
What? How? Why?
“I don’t know what to do. How do I tell these people that Mandoza is dead? I don’t think I should tell them now. Or should I? Therese, please help me.”
I looked straight at Bongani. He was smiling, so proud. His career as a musician had just begun. The forever naughty Da L.E.S was giggling beside him. Young artists whose careers had just begun, artists who loved and respected the kwaito genre, a genre that had helped win an Oscar. And Mandoza was at the forefront of this unique, rebellious music.
So now what? A music icon is dead yet we are celebrating the Oscar. Do we tell them right now?
In the days before Twitter, those choices could be made. But nothing spreads faster than death. Suddenly, everyone in the audience knew. One of our great artists was dead.
The result was cataclysmic. People were traumatised, sobbing, holding each other. Not Mandoza! Surely not. He was such a strong, crazy man.
That gravel voice, that gangsta attitude, that sweet naivety, that bravado, that rock star!
A distraught Kenneth Nkosi was held by Stoan Seate. When fellow kwaito star Zola was informed, he simply collapsed. Zola and Mandoza were always close.
Poor Presley and Terry stood on the Sandton Convention Centre stage looking bewildered. It felt like the world had ended. Oscar? What Oscar and who cares? When it comes down to it, we South Africans love our stars so much more than an American accolade.
Then the real news broke. Mandoza was very much alive. YFM had got it wrong.
A Spanish cyclist, Mendoza, was knocked over and died. The relief was palpable. And it was in that moment that I realised how much Mandoza was loved, not just by his fans but by his colleagues. His supposed death had overshadowed the winning of an Oscar. His supposed death had reduced men like Nkosi and Zola to tears and fits of fainting.
Ten years later, the man who gave us Let's go 50-50 and the ultimate song you have to play at all white weddings – Nkalakatha– has passed on.
Like all human beings, he was no saint. Like most kwaito artists, he was prone to the wild life. Like most kwaito artists, he was real.
Yes, he was astonished when he blew up. He never, ever thought that he would make a track that the entire country – black, coloured, white and Indian – would fall in love with. He never planned on uniting a nation with just one song. He knew and loved his kwaito brethren. He knew and loved kwaito and the freedom it gave him to be who he was and still is.
When it comes to music, we are a blessed nation. We have our national anthem. We have Lucky Dube. We have Johnny Clegg. We have Hugh Masekela. We have Arno Carstens. We have Brenda Fassie. We have Mandoza.
* Therese Owen is a music writer