Style: For more than three decades, Trompies have deliberately maintained their signature township boy attire of takkies and sporties. Photo: Supplied
I must have been about seven when I first learnt that South Africa had a musical phenomenon called Trompies.
At the time, I didn’t know the language for it. I didn’t know about legacies, icons or cultural impact. I only knew what I saw and felt.
My family and I were visiting my aunt in Alexandra. She lived in
4th Avenue. That detail matters. In Alex, avenues are more than just directions; they are identity markers. People don’t just say they’re from Alexandra; they tell you which avenue. Space is personal. Geography is pride.
I can’t remember whether we had just arrived or were about to leave, heading back home to Tembisa. Childhood memory edits itself. But one image remains vivid, sharp, unshaken by time — Jairus Jakarumba Nkwe.
He was standing near a food stall, buying what we call “maotwana dust” — chicken feet cooked over an open fire. Nothing fancy. Nothing staged. Just township life doing what it has always done.
I stared at him. Not because I knew who he was, but because of what was happening around him. People were excited, almost animated, smiling and eager. Hands were being shaken. Names were being called out.
There was an energy orbiting this man, and even as a child, I could tell it wasn’t ordinary.
My brother shook his hand and immediately announced that he would never wash it again. I stayed quiet. Still. Watching. Trying to understand how one person could make so many others feel seen.
Maybe Jakarumba noticed my silence. Maybe he thought I was
hungry. He handed me a maotwana dust, smiled, climbed into the car he had emerged from and drove off with a friend he had been with.
That was it. No speech. No performance. Just a gesture.
But that moment followed me home.
For days after the visit, my father played Trompies records on repeat. The house became a soundtrack. I didn’t study the music, I absorbed it. Slowly, naturally, I learnt the words. Sigiya Ngengoma. Fohloza. Sweety Lavo. Magasman. Ke Tswa Hole.
This wasn’t just music filling the room. It was the sound of township confidence. Of people who looked like us, spoke like us, dressed like us and owned space unapologetically.
Years passed. Life happened. And then, one day, I found myself on a Google Meet call, sitting across from Eugene Mthethwa, one of the original members of Trompies.
I told him this story.
He nodded, smiled and said I wasn’t alone.
“There are many stories like that,” he said.
Then he shared one of his own.
They were performing at an event when he noticed a young woman standing close to the stage, staring at them as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Something compelled him to reach out and pull her onto the stage.
The moment she stepped up, she began to cry, uncontrollably.
After the show, he asked her why.
She told him that when she was a girl, her father used to place her on his shoulders so she could watch Trompies perform. Her father was a devoted fan. He had since died. Being pulled onto that stage felt like being pulled back into his arms.
“That’s the impact,” Mthethwa said. “Those are the stories people have about Trompies.”
In that moment, the word “legend” stopped sounding ceremonial and started sounding earned.
“So, when people introduce us as the legendary Trompies,” he continued, “it validates something. You don’t just call yourself a legend. People qualify you.”
For Trompies, that qualification has come from continuity. From transcendence. From being able to move through generations without losing relevance.
They still perform. They still headline shows. They still draw crowds.
“Regardless of amapiano,” Mthethwa said, “we continue performing consistently in South Africa and beyond. Botswana. Lesotho. Eswatini. It’s humbling.”
We know the origin story. Spikiri, Mahoota, Donald Duck, Jakarumba and Mjokes, township boys coming of age during one of South Africa’s most difficult political periods, chose music as a form of expression. Their sound was a protest that made people dance. Resistance that moved hips instead of fists.
Thirty-two years later, that story is still unfolding.
In 2026, the beat does not slow down.
Trompies recently released a single titled Lilizela, featuring Nokwazi, Kwesta and Stoan. It’s a wedding song which is festive, celebratory, unmistakably Trompies. Familiar without being stuck in the past.
“Lilizela is a follow-up to songs like Sweety Lavo,” Mthethwa explained.
The timing was intentional. Released in December, the peak of wedding season, it was designed for unions, beginnings and shared joy. But for Trompies, a single has never been the goal.
“We come from a time of full albums,” he said. “A body of work mattered.”
That philosophy continues to guide them. It’s also what has kept them alive in an industry that constantly demands reinvention.
On 30 January 2026, they are set to release an EP titled Pantsula 4 Life. The project features Vetkuk vs Mahoota, Kabza De Small, TOSS, Reece Madlisa, Dr Lamondro, Nokwazi and others. It is not accidental. It is intergenerational by design.
Their audience reflects this duality.
Some fans are in their fifties, just like them. Others are in their twenties, discovering Trompies for the first time through collaborations and social media. Lilizela was built to hold both worlds.
“We had to balance the equation,” Mthethwa said. “To bring the generations together.”
Which brings us to the title: Pantsula 4 Life.
What does that mean in 2026?
“It’s a confirmation of cultural existence,” he said.
Pantsula is not just dance. It’s language. It’s posture. It’s dress code. It’s attitude. Kwaito is woven into that identity. It’s township culture made audible and visible.
For more than three decades, Trompies have maintained this deliberately. Affordable clothes. Dickies. All Stars. Sporties. Clothing that a township boy can afford.
“That’s why people still identify with us,” Mthethwa explained. “When artists become inaccessible, they lose connection.”
Trompies refused to lose theirs.
They also refused to disappear.
For years, people have declared kwaito dead. Yet Trompies perform nearly every weekend, about three or four shows consistently, year after year.
“I’m still waiting to see the grave of kwaito,” Mthethwa said. “We are still here.”
The numbers support that claim. Their recent releases attract tens of thousands of views online, mostly from young people. They are dancing to Trompies. Remixing Trompies. Creating challenges around Trompies.
The sound, too, has evolved. It sounds like Trompies but carries elements of amapiano not to chase trends but to speak to the moment.
That may be the greatest lesson Trompies offer.
Legacy is not about standing still. It’s about moving forward without forgetting who you are.
I think back to Alexandra. To 4th Avenue. To a quiet child holding a piece of maotwana dust.
At the time, it felt like a small encounter.
Now I understand it was history introducing itself.