A decade ago, DJ Speedsta’s “Mayo” hit the airwaves, illegal downloading sites, blogs, mainstream television, and the streets. Every DJ had it in rotation: at clubs, festivals, house parties, small-town gigs and big-city blowouts across South Africa and beyond. Children sang along to its catchy hook — “mayo, mayo, mayo” — while a new generation of rappers, from Shane Eagle to Frank Casino, Yung Swiss and Tellaman, stepped in with verses that made everyone, from refined rap scholars to casual listeners looking for a vibe, stop and pay attention.
“Mayo” resonated because it struck a careful balance. Its Noah “40” Shebib–adjacent production style echoed the sonic minimalism that helped make some of Drake’s songs international smash hits. Its chord progression was simple, its melody catchy, its beat spacious and unhurried; its chorus embedded itself in your psyche without straining for effect. And yet, at just under five minutes long, it ran nearly twice the length of a typical radio single.
The track arrived in the midst of the DJ-as-curator wave, when deejays like Sliqe, Switch and Vigilante had already delivered scene-stealing hits. It was further bolstered by the SoundCloud boom that had gained momentum two years earlier; Speedsta discovered one of the featured artists, Tellaman, through a song Nasty C had posted on the platform. Radio had little choice but to play it.
Speedsta, who had gone from a budding DJ on the regional station YFM to one of its hottest properties, was in his prime in 2016. He had worked his way into the ranks of hip-hop intelligentsia, equally fluent in the language of the streets and the boardroom. Ironically, it was that same position of authority that would later become a point of friction.
When he clashed with K.Keed over her refusal to freestyle over a classic beat by the late rapper ProKid, it felt, at least in the moment, as though the ranks he had diligently ascended no longer held weight, as though no one cared about his credentials. Blxckie was among the many artists who offered an opinion, stating unequivocally that “you’re not playing a ProKid beat for me in big 2025.”
There were many ways to read that statement: as banter, as young artists simply being present in their time, inhabiting their own realities and daily experiences. But to someone invested in a particular idea of what constitutes hip-hop, someone who came of age when there still seemed to be rules in rap — (“don’t bite,” “keep it real,” that type of thing) — Blxckie’s comments struck a nerve.
But now, for the past week or more, the internet has been both observer and documentor in a tiff that feels illegal, unnecessary, a waste of time. Tensions flared up again after DJ Speedsta took a swipe at the rapper on his podcast, claiming Blxckie “didn’t do shit in 2025.” Social media did what it does best: amplify. Blxckie responded with a clever mix of humor and shade, pointing out that Speedsta was probably just mad he hadn’t come freestyle for him, and the back-and-forth quickly spilled over into livestreams, posts, and online banter. “[The] only reason we’re here is ‘cause ung’jwayele indaba yegolo ngaze ngakhathala (you've been involving me in this nonsense bullshit talk for so long that I've gotten tired of it) speedyboy [sic]. [T]he second you stop being a duzu, the chats stop. [T]ry it,” he said in response to one of Speedsta’s tweets. Yung Swiss stepped in to remind him that Speedsta had taken a chance on the Soundcloud wave, but Blxckie did not relent. “[D]oesn’t mean he must be a duzu. [H]e must relax if engafuni nathi sikhulume amasimba ngaye,” (he doesn’t want us to chat shit about him) he emphasized, then took it there with “dont wanna chat w you now, not gonna wanna chat w you in 10 years either speedyboy. go make mayo 2.” [sic]
The Gatekeeper's Discomfort
What started as a casual jab has turned into a mini-generational showdown, with Speedsta representing the old-school gatekeeping voice of South African hip-hop, and Blxckie asserting the relevance of the new wave. The clash has kept fans watching closely, turning every comment from either side into headline material, giving the blogs that aggregate content plenty of material to draw from.
What’s happening isn’t new. Rifts emerge between the old guard, intent on preserving the myths and codes they grew up revering, and the new school, especially breakout acts with no clear-cut lineage, who are less interested in inheritance than they are in disrupting the status quo. The difference now is that gatekeeping has lost its teeth. Past success becomes archival faster than anyone expects. Nas said it best; “I never sleep, ‘cause sleep is the cousin of death,” meaning that you’re only as good as your last outing. Speedsta had music before “Mayo,” and has gone on to release more, but nothing near the eclipsing effect of that record.
Both artists operate in an industry where charts are currency and charting is the holy grail. In that environment, clinging to some semblance of power — something you can control, a narrative you can shape — becomes almost inevitable. What we’re witnessing in the Speedsta–Blxckie saga is the discomfort of older industry figures unsettled by younger ones who challenge their definitions of hip-hop and step on their self-appointed authority. The younger artists hear the rules; they simply refuse to abide by them.
Being called “Speedy Boy” by twenty-somethings may be embarrassing, but Speedsta hasn’t exactly avoided courting embarrassment. He has built a reputation for statements that land like lit matches in a room full of flammable gas. Over the years, he has publicly accused Uncle Waffles and Uncle Vinny for contributing to the pressures surrounding Riky Rick before his death, framing the scene as toxic and complicit. He has taken shots at amapiano, questioning its musicality and longevity at a time when it dominates the charts. He has told artists on air that they are not ready, not lyrical enough, or not built for hip-hop if they cannot freestyle on command. A pattern emerges: Speedsta positioning himself as a gatekeeper, unfiltered, confrontational in a way that makes him obtuse, even when the room, or the timeline, did not ask for it. Speedsta has not consistently demonstrated the kind of leadership that nurtures a scene rather than polices it.
All of this circles back to men caping for other men, especially those in their age bracket. Another deejay from the old guard, ZanD came out in defence of Speedsta. “SA hip hop artists need to understand that criticism isn’t hate. Being a public figure means opinions will always exist,” he tweeted. On Blxckie’s side, his friend and close collaborator K1llbrady did the same. The lines were drawn.
Older people often carry unrealistic expectations about the young, expectations shaped by their own formative realities, realities that can harden into myopia. Right now, Speedsta is standing on the edge of a cliff and telling everyone else to jump, unaware that the ground beneath you is already unstable. The irony is loud.
It’s difficult to imagine the kind of intergenerational mentorship and scene-building that would render moments like this obsolete, because the segment of the music industry they inhabit is, for all intents and purposes, driven by capital. You can’t build permanence in a system that is constantly chasing the next big thing.
