Word had begun to spread through Harare’s creative circles about a young artist shaking up the music scene with an unexpected hit — a raw, unfiltered anthem to the beloved Zimbabwean tradition of Goch-Goch, the communal meat barbecue. The track, rough around the edges but pulsing with undeniable energy, was resonating across divides — from township corners to uptown lounges.
“Intrigued, I followed the buzz into the city to uncover more about the man behind the music: Jah Prayzah.”
By Tawanda Kajawu, earGROUND Correspondent UK
The Encounter:
Upon deeper digging, the name rang a bell — Mukudzeyi. I remembered him not from radio nor press, but from the smokey, dim-lit days of Jazz 105, where he once roamed the stage — the “annoying noisemaker,” as some of the old jazz heads would call him.
“To the youth in Budiriro, he was the ghetto Pied Piper, a barefoot mbira player trailed by a chorus of children echoing his melodies.”
Jazz 105, once a dignified haunt for jazz aficionados, had, by 2012, transformed into a live session hub for artists of all stripes, driven by economic downturns and new management. Yet, this evolution wasn’t welcomed by all. The jazz purists, holding tight to their musical sanctuaries, were known to pay MCs and club managers to keep traditional or experimental acts like Mukudzeyi off the stage — even compensating them not to play. One such artist often on the receiving end of this resistance was none other than JP, as he was casually known then.
Style & Struggle:
His style? A vibrant, unapologetic blend of traditional rhythms, mbira, and oral storytelling. A sound he called kuShamarara — which, to the untrained ear, could easily be mistaken for noise. And while critics scoffed, the streets listened.
The Interview:
It was a chance encounter that finally brought us face to face. I found him in the CBD, just outside a photo shop near the parkade. At first glance, he was nothing like his booming stage presence — reserved, straight-faced, almost shy. I introduced myself and got right to it.
“I’m not really a dancehall artist,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m a traditional artist. I blend everything — from mbira to afrobeat to sungura.”
He spoke of a collaboration with Sulumani Chimbetu, a sungura-infused track that had begun charting locally. When asked about his name, Jah Prayzah, and his forming dreadlocks, he explained it was a cultural identity — “Mhotsi,” he called them. At the time, the military aesthetic hadn’t yet emerged; he was just Jah.
Born and raised in Murehwa, Uzumba, he spoke fondly of a childhood spent hunting and immersed in music. That day, he was at the shop to take passport photos for a possible UK performance. Modest beginnings with international ambitions.
The Moment:
Just as we finished, a wave of recognition swept through the shop. Customers began asking for photos. He obliged, still without a smile, embodying a strange mix of discomfort and grace.
I shook his hand. “You are bold,” I told him. “I wish you the very best.”
I folded my notepad and walked away.
Reflection:
That day, I didn’t meet a superstar. I met a craftsman. A cultural worker. A quiet force. What the city called “noise” may have been the earliest whispers of a generational voice.
Currently captivating global audiences on his Ndini Mukudzeyi tour, Jah Prayzah has already lit up stages in the UK and Germany — with the USA next in line for his signature fusion of tradition and modernity.”
Images – Jah Prayzah
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