Football is life. On the African continent, and across the world, the sport has become a common language, a league of nations that connects people across different layers of society. In South Africa, there's a long-established tradition of football commentators who give life to the game — seasoned radio and television stalwarts like Thabo Kofa and Zama Masondo — who've developed a vernacular that speaks to the heart irrespective of the medium. They bring the game to living rooms, to public gatherings, to people at work who can't attend the match; they breathe life into words, give them shape, depth, and meaning.
The broadcasters offer outstanding performances every time, much like rappers over the mic. There's a flair to delivery that both performers rely on, a flair essential to great reception. And while rappers might not be on the field, experiencing the action up-close, there's a level of dedication to craft that both share, an affinity for twisting words that keeps them on their toes.
South African hip-hop's football lexicon now spans two generations of rappers. The current breed, from Touchline and Priddy Ugly to 25K, Focalistic and Mochen, all have bars or aliases that speak to their love for the game, and draw from a legacy of rappers who incorporated football lingo into their music, like Stogie T and Zubz and HHP.
The late ProKid released "Sekele" to a South African hip-hop scene still finding its feet. He had an ideology to preach, and the ballsy attitude to land in no-go zones and leave a trail of kasi-to-the-core skid marks. The song, from his third album Snakes & Ladders, was seen as redemption from the slump that was his sophomore album, DNA. By then, he could've disappeared from rap world headquarters and it'd be okay. His breakthrough single, "Soweto," was an unofficial national anthem, an official radio smash, and an intricately penned love letter to the township.
Stepping into ProKid territory required discipline. He's a pen-flinging punchline emcee with the agency of a striker. His attacks are precise; he anchors his about-turns with the swiftness of a Gusheshe driver engaging his steering in high gear. "Sekele" is a devastating rap tirade littered with football references. The rapper kickstarts the first verse by shouting out the fans, the ones in the stands, cheering him on with sharp whistles, holding up hand-signs and shouting 'Dankie San!'
ProKid is commentator, player and stadium spectator, transitioning seamlessly between all three. He's a man of the match from the opening lines, and gets better as the song progresses. "Ngiyabona bayang'roba mangithi ngi check i-score line/ bang'sabotage'a, bathi 'ngu referee' but it's alright/ sin'ama-lines[...] phakam' i-flag, ba offside," (They stand in my way as I try to check the score line/ they sabotage my play and blame it on the referee, but it’s alright) he spits. His breath control, his flow technique, the imagery he paints, and his delivery throughout the song are smooth as lard. Easygoing.
ProKid creates that Saturday afternoon atmosphere whereby, after watching the pre-match commentary and getting up for the tenth time for a refill, you're now settled and waiting for kick-off. In sixteen clear-cut sentences, he orchestrates fouls ("Baphuma ngestretcher gaming mase khal' i-bathu"), recalls the use of muti in the beautiful game ("ngshay' nge valo mfana, ngikufakele isnyama..."), and references that plastic trumpet that had FIFA up in arms trying to ban it from stadiums ("every throw, bane ras, bathi siyavuvuzela"). What's missing are the first-person reflections of couch coaches bewildered by the skill.
ProKid's inspired an entire generation of rappers, none more obvious than Touchline, whose very name nods to the football pitch. "I also used to play soccer in my hood. My brother still thinks I would have made it big as a soccer star, but then that's him. I act too. I sing, I rap and I think I am a pretty good dancer," he said in an interview.
On "Thabo ke Messi" from last year's Mambisa Golden Boy LP, the emcee draws parallels between himself and Lionel Messi to demonstrate how he dominates the rap game. He extends the metaphor to other footballing legends. There's Doctor Khumalo, whose composure and control enthralled a generation and defined tactical intelligence in South African football; and Scara Ngobese, whose close control and improvisational dribbling made him a cult figure in football. Both plied their trade with the storied Kaizer Chiefs football club.
Focalistic's entire brand is built around him being the ‘Pitori Maradona,’ Pitori being Pretoria, the city he calls home. He earned the nickname while still an active footballer, playing in high school and at the University of Pretoria before turning to rap. "I'm trying to ball like Patrice Motsepe," he sings on "Patrice Motsepe," a Zingah-featuring cut from 2020's Quarantined Tarantino. Besides being one of the richest men in South Africa, Motsepe is the owner and long-time controlling figure behind one of the South African Premier League's most valuable clubs, Mamelodi Sundowns. The Maradona metaphor extends beyond music into fashion: Focalistic's currently a brand ambassador for Adidas, a brand Maradona had a lifelong association with.
Focalistic's sparring partner, 25K, is another rapper whose football references are scattered across his discography. On the intro to his second album, Loyal to the Plug: The Life & Times of Don Kilogram, he gets clinical with the raps, firing off references that might otherwise be obscure to those not tapped into the football scene. "Kilo wa assista, lebella pass/ glock 44 ke nna Dillon Shepherd," (Kilo’s playing assist, check out the pass/ glock 44, I’m Dillon Shepherd) he spits, likening his position to that of a playmaker setting up goals, and referencing the Bafana Bafana winger Dillon Sheppard, who played for teams including Ajax Cape Town and Mamelodi Sundowns. He doesn't leave it there; on "Fake Love" featuring Focalistic, the emcee raps: "If I wasn't doing this, ne ko dlala bolo/.../ as a lil' kid, ne ke dlala topo/ Sunnyside mo pela tropo/" (If I wasn't doing this, I'd be playing football/.../ as a little kid, I used to play ball in Sunnyside).
Rap's competitive nature makes it an ideal testing ground for sports references, and football is no different. Emcees kick, push, dominate and tear apart competition with the strategic precision of a 4-4-2 formation.
Zubz's "Premier MC" is a premium-grade back rub for the rap game. Instead of switching television channels to check the score, he plays hopscotch with the Premier Soccer League and the English Premier League, effectively switching entire leagues and continents.
"A tight emcee is actually no different to a tight football player," begins Zubz, real name Ndabenga Mabunya, Zambia-born, Zimbabwe-raised, SA-residing. He roams, with hands flailing and lips wailing, and with his lyrics comparable to the best midfielders in the game. "I'm watching the [South African] PSL and the English Premiership on TV and I'm seeing a description of me, a premier MC," he says, beaming the third leg, the couch coach, into ProKid's narrative.
"He amazes peeps/ everytime he blazes beats, they say he's deep/ rap's a village, okay he's a chief/ with rhymes that's superfly, they land on iMates, or land on white labels, or land on Pirate CDs/ rated two thumbs up plus one pound, see he's/ always working sun up to sun down/ he leads, on the mic others like to follow/ his songs they like to borrow, bite and swallow."
Kaizer Chiefs, Orlando Pirates, Sundowns, Swallows and Leeds United all rolled up in a devastating rhyme scheme.
Football has given South African hip-hop a vast grammar of competition, embedded within it an appetite for self-mythology, and guided it through a model for how culture gets made in public. Both grew up on the same dusty pitches and street corners, and both depend on a community of witnesses to mean anything at all.
