They thought the sound had faded into the hills of the Eastern Cape. They were wrong. At 69, Maskandi pioneer Inkunzi Emdaka returns with Ndicela Ukuthetha Nani (“I ask to speak to you”). Backed by a visionary producer and flanked by his own son on the strings, the Brown Bull has survived the industry storms and the long silence.
By Themba Khumalo
Before the applause, the recording studios, or the legendary status, there was simply a young boy in Pondoland learning the language of the land.
Mlindelwa Mralatya did not learn music from sheet notes or formal training. He absorbed it from the wind sweeping through the valleys, the steady rhythm of cattle herders on familiar paths, and the deep voices of elders sharing histories beneath the open sky.
In his world, music was never a performance on a stage; it was a lived experience. It lived in everyday celebrations, in homestead stories, and in the quiet understanding passed between generations.
Somewhere in that vast Eastern Cape landscape, a unique voice was waiting to emerge—one that would eventually travel far beyond Bizana.
South Africa would come to know that voice as Inkunzi Emdaka—the Brown Bull.
Today, at 69 years old, the Brown Bull is still standing, still carrying his guitar, and still bellowing.
After four decades of giving his life to music, he has returned with a new album that refuses to cast its glance backwards. Instead, it pushes the journey forward.
The title of his new album, Ndicela Ukuthetha Nani (“I ask to speak to you”), lands like an urgent invitation from an artist who has spent a lifetime speaking through chords and is now ready for a deeper conversation.
“Music is in my veins. When I am happy, I sing. When I am hurting, I find solace in God and in my guitar. Music takes me into another world and brings me peace and harmony.”
Inkunzi Emdaka
For him, music has never simply been about recording songs. It has been about listening. It has been a conversation between the artist, his instrument and the world around him.
This time, the conversation includes a second voice.
Featuring his son, Phuma Khasi, the album becomes a living bridge between generations. It is a father passing down sacred knowledge, a master storyteller preparing his successor, and a rich tradition flatly refusing to disappear.
For Inkunzi Emdaka, this project is about carrying the weight of the past directly into the future. It matters deeply because a legend who almost slipped through the cracks of public memory has been reminded that his final chapter is still being written.
The Producer Who Refused to Let the Song Die
Every great revival requires someone who refuses to let a national treasure fade into the background. For Inkunzi Emdaka, that person was Wandile Funani.
Funani, a music producer and the Chief Operating Officer of Imba Films, did not approach the veteran musician as a charity case or a forgotten relic.
He approached him as a master, a custodian, and a walking cultural archive.
At a time when the modern music industry has largely moved on, leaving many foundational pioneers to carry the heavy burden of their own legacies alone, Funani saw what others had missed: the Brown Bull was not finished, the guitar had not gone quiet, and the stories were still there.
Funani’s involvement became about far more than just cutting a record; it became an intentional act of preservation and respect. It was a refusal to allow another great South African musical pioneer to be celebrated properly only after his passing.
Funani wanted the country to hear the voice while it was still vibrant, to see the hands while they could still hold the frets, and to honour the icon while he could still command a stage.
That vision birthed Ndicela Ukuthetha Nani, but the ambition does not stop at the studio door.
Funani is building a broader mission to take this distinctive sound to global audiences through an upcoming 13-part heritage television series and a 60-minute concert special.
At the absolute centre of this vision is a groundbreaking idea: “Maskandi University.”
Inkunzi Emdaka stands as its natural Chancellor. He does not need a conventional academic title or a degree stamped by a university senate. His entire life has been the lesson. His guitar is the textbook, his songs are the lectures, and his incredible 40-year journey is the ultimate qualification.
When the Guitar Speaks
For the average musician, an instrument is simply a tool of the trade. For Inkunzi Emdaka, the guitar has always been a living companion.
“The guitar speaks to me,” he once explained.
It has stayed by his side through every shifting season of his life—through the years when the stadiums were packed, and the world was listening, and through the quiet decades when the industry looked away.
The guitar carries the conversations that ordinary language fails to express. Where others hear simple strings, Inkunzi Emdaka hears stories; where others hear melody, he hears deep cultural memory.
This profound relationship explains why he continues to create at 69, long after many artists of his generation have stepped away.
The guitar still has vital things to say, and Inkunzi Emdaka is still listening.
The 1985 Breakthrough That Changed Everything
To fully understand why this current moment matters so much, you have to look back to 1985.
That was the year a young musician from Bizana walked into the legendary Gallo Studios in Johannesburg and recorded Ibhubesi Lihlula Amadoda.
Released by Gallo Records and produced by two absolute giants of South African music, West Nkosi and Joseph Makwela, the album became a turning point in the history of indigenous recording.
Inkunzi Emdaka became the first Xhosa musician to record a prominent Maskandi album in isiXhosa.
Before his arrival, Maskandi had long been shaped by the Zulu migrant worker experience—built on stories of movement, hostel life, hardship, love, and survival away from home. It was a musical language created to preserve identity in a harsh, shifting world.
Then came Inkunzi Emdaka. He proved that Maskandi could also speak isiXhosa, carrying the distinct humour, deep spirituality, and unique daily struggles of the Eastern Cape.
He did not come to replace the foundations of the genre; he came to expand them, showing that a cultural tradition grows vastly stronger when more people can see their own lives reflected inside it.
The Living Archive
For forty years, Inkunzi Emdaka has achieved something rare: he has preserved the history of a people through song. His music has never been mere entertainment. His tracks are historical records of communities, capturing the raw emotions and lived experiences of ordinary people whose names are completely missing from official history books.
He became a historian without writing books, a journalist without a notebook, and an archivist without shelves. His archive lives entirely in sound.
It is why his immense institutional knowledge has been shared at places like Rhodes University. His education was never confined to a classroom. Some people inherit knowledge from established institutions; others become institutions all on their own. Inkunzi Emdaka belongs firmly to the second group.
The Next Chapter
There is a painful irony in South African music: the very people who spend their lives preserving the memories of others are often the first to be forgotten.
Like many musical pioneers in this country, Inkunzi Emdaka experienced the systemic struggles around industry recognition, ownership, and financial security.
The songs remained powerful, and the cultural contribution was undeniable, but the human being behind the music needed to be seen again.
That is exactly why Ndicela Ukuthetha Nani is so critical. It is a loud reminder that great artists should not have to wait for posthumous awards to have their worth validated. They should be celebrated while they are here to tell their own stories, while their voices are still commanding, and while their guitars are still speaking.
At 69, Inkunzi Emdaka is not chasing old ghosts. With his son beside him, his instrument in his hands, and a team ensuring the world finally listens, the Brown Bull has survived the storms and the long silence. He is still standing, and he still has a song to sing.