KHAZIMULA: LET YOUR COLOURS SHINE, A World Premiere from South Africa

The Sound Café Premiere and Interview with South African Songwriter, Storyteller and Creator Carol-Ann Meltzer

From South Africa comes Khazimula, the creative world of songwriter and storyteller Carol-Ann Meltzer. At a time when music can travel instantly across borders, Khazimula offers something particularly suited to The Sound Cafe's global perspective: a South African story whose deepest subject is the universal human story.

Q: You were born in Johannesburg, and although English is your first language, you have spoken about feeling deeply connected to the spirit, rhythm and heartbeat of Africa. What did South Africa teach you as you were growing up about identity, difference, culture and the ways people connect with one another?

A: South Africa taught me that identity is never just one thing. We are shaped by our language, culture, faith, family and history but beneath all those differences, there is a shared human heartbeat. Growing up in Johannesburg, I became deeply aware of both the richness of our diversity and the painful divisions within our society. I saw how difference could be used to separate people, but I also experienced the extraordinary warmth, humour, music and generosity that could bring us together. In South Africa, connection often happens through rhythm, storytelling, food, laughter and sometimes simply through looking another person in the eyes and recognising their humanity. Although English is my first language, I have always felt connected to the spirit of Africa with its energy, its resilience and its ability to keep singing, dancing and hoping even through hardship. Ubuntu, the understanding that I am because we are, speaks deeply to me. South Africa teaches me that our differences do not have to threaten us. They can enrich us. When we truly listen to one another and make room for every person’s story, something beautiful becomes possible, we begin to recognise that each of us carries a unique colour, sound and light, but that we are all part of the same song.

Q: South Africa has a rich musical and cultural history, with many languages, traditions, communities and influences living alongside one another. What parts of that cultural landscape have found their way into your imagination as a songwriter and storyteller, even when they are not necessarily expressed through a particular musical genre?

A: South Africa’s cultural landscape has found its way into my imagination less as a particular musical genre and more as a way of seeing, feeling and telling stories.

I am inspired by the colours, contrasts and rhythms of everyday life with the many languages spoken around us, the warmth of our humour, the wisdom carried through generations, and the way music, movement and storytelling are woven into ordinary moments. There is something profoundly South African about finding joy in hardship, creating beauty from very little, and continuing to sing even when life is difficult. The spirit of Ubuntu, the I am because we are, is central to my work. I am fascinated by individuality, but never individuality in isolation. Each person carries a unique story, dream, colour and light; yet we only become fully alive when we recognise and celebrate what others carry too. That idea lives deeply within 'Love It Together', 'Celebrate Life' and the wider Khazimula journey.

Johannesburg itself has shaped me through its energy, contradictions, cultural collisions, struggle and extraordinary possibilities. It is a city in which many worlds live side by side, sometimes uncomfortably, but also with the potential to create something entirely new. So even when my songs do not belong to a recognisably South African genre, I believe their emotional heartbeat is rooted here. They carry resilience, longing for connection, the instinct to gather, and stubborn determination to hope. South Africa has taught me that difference need not divide us. When every voice is allowed to bring its own truth, we do not lose ourselves…we create a richer song together.

Q: You studied Zulu at Wits University, although you have said yourself that you do not speak much Zulu. What is it about African language, sound and expression that resonates with you so strongly, and how does that relationship with language inform Khazimula?

A: Studying isiZulu at Wits gave me a glimpse into something far greater than vocabulary. Although I cannot claim to speak much Zulu today, the experience awakened in me a deep appreciation for the sound, rhythm and spirit carried within African languages. There is an energy in the way many African words are spoken. They feel alive. They not only describe but carry movement, emotion and meaning. Language holds a whole way of seeing the world, relationship with community, ancestry, nature and one another. Sometimes a word expresses something that would require an entire sentence in English. Khazimula is one of those words for me. It means “shine,” but I hear much more within it. I hear an invitation: let your light emerge; reveal what is already inside you; allow your unique treasure to be seen. It feels active, joyful and generous, a light that does not shine only for itself, but helps others recognise their own light too. My relationship with isiZulu is one of humility and respect.

I would never pretend to possess a fluency or cultural authority that I do not have. But I do feel profoundly moved by what the language evokes in me and by the generosity of the South African cultural landscape in which I was raised. That understanding informs the whole Khazimula journey. Words are not merely labels, for they can become doorways. A sound can awaken a feeling, a song can cross the boundaries of language, and one beautiful word can carry the seed of an entire vision. For me, Khazimula is that word. It is both deeply rooted in South Africa and universally human, bringing an invitation to every person, in every language, to discover their light and shine.

Q: The word Khazimula came to you while you were looking for an artistic name. Do you remember that moment, and when did you realise that you had perhaps discovered more than a name, that you had discovered the central idea around which the entire project could grow?

A: I remember that moment very clearly. I was at the SAMRO offices, searching for a “stage name”, something that could express who I was and what I wanted my work to represent. I was after the name Shine, but it was universally ‘taken’. Then came the suggestion for the name Shine in Zulu, Khazimula! At first, I was drawn to its sound and its meaning: shine. It felt distinctly South African, yet also universal. But I did not immediately understand the full significance of what I had found. I thought I was looking for a name. In time, I realised that the name had found me.

As the songs, stories and ideas began connecting, Khazimula became far more than an artistic identity. It became an invitation: discover the light within you, uncover your unique treasure, and allow it to shine, not in competition with anybody else’s light, but alongside it. That was when I understood that Khazimula could hold the entire project. It brought together individuality and togetherness, darkness and hope, dreams and action, Africa and the wider world. It expressed something I had perhaps been trying to say throughout my life: every person carries something precious, and the world becomes brighter when we have the courage to reveal it. So yes, I went into the SAMRO offices looking for an artistic stage name. But what I discovered was the central idea around which the music, the book and the whole journey could grow. Khazimula was not simply what I would call the project. It was what the project was asking all of us to do: shine.

Q: “To shine” or “to radiate light” sounds simple, but your interpretation of light is much more nuanced. You have spoken about the idea that light can be hidden within darkness. Where does that philosophy come from, and what does “light” mean to you personally today?

A: For me, light has never meant pretending that darkness does not exist. It is not a permanent state of happiness, and it is not about covering pain with positive words. Light becomes meaningful precisely because darkness is real. This philosophy comes partly from my Jewish spiritual heritage, but also from life itself. I have come to believe that even within our most difficult experiences: loss, fear, disappointment, rejection and uncertainty, something precious may be waiting to be uncovered. We may not recognise it while we are living through the darkness, and I would never want to minimise anyone’s suffering by suggesting that everything happens for an obvious reason. But sometimes, with time, the darkness reveals a strength, truth, compassion or purpose that we could not have discovered any other way.

That is why Khazimula does not simply mean “be bright” to me. It means searching for the light that may have become buried beneath fear, expectation, pain or other people’s ideas of who we should be. It is the courage to uncover the treasure within us and allow it to emerge. Today, light means honesty. It means recognising both my gifts and my imperfections. It means choosing to hope without denying reality and continuing to dream even when I cannot yet see how the dream will unfold. It is also something relational: sometimes we find our own light because another person sees it in us first, and sometimes our light helps someone else remember theirs. I do not believe we shine by eliminating the darkness. I believe we shine by moving through it with enough openness to discover what it may be carrying. Light, for me, is the small but persistent voice that says: there is still meaning here, there is still possibility, and your story is not over.

Q: You once heard the question, “If God wanted to hide the light, where would He hide it?” and the answer was, “In the darkness.” Why has that idea remained with you, and how has it influenced the stories and songs you create?

A: That question has remained with me because it completely changed the way I understood darkness. “If God wanted to hide the light, where would He hide it?” The answer was: “In the darkness.” At first, that sounds like a contradiction. We naturally search for light in places that already feel bright, in happiness, success, certainty and celebration. Yet this idea suggests that the light we most need may be concealed in the places we would rather avoid within disappointment, fear, rejection, grief, confusion and even within the parts of ourselves we have not yet learned to accept. I do not believe that suffering should be romanticised, or that every painful experience arrives with an explanation we can immediately understand. Sometimes darkness is simply dark. But I have discovered that if we are able to remain open, something may eventually reveal itself within it, a truth, a strength, a new direction, a deeper compassion, or a part of ourselves that had been waiting to be found. This understanding has deeply influenced the stories and songs I create. I am not interested in light that denies pain. I am interested in the light that can be uncovered through it. My songs often begin with longing, uncertainty or the feeling that something is missing, but they continue searching for possibility. They ask whether a dream can survive disappointment, whether gratitude can emerge after struggle, and whether we can still celebrate life while acknowledging everything that life contains.

It is also central to Khazimula. To shine is not necessarily to stand in a spotlight or to appear perfect. Sometimes it is simply to reach into the darkness and discover the small, persistent spark that has there all along. Perhaps God hides the light in the darkness because that is where we are most likely to discover that it was never only somewhere outside us. It was also hidden within us waiting to be recognised, nurtured and shared.

Q: At the heart of Khazimula is the invitation “Let Your Colours Shine.” What do you mean by someone’s “colours,” and why is individuality so important to your understanding of human connection?

A: When I speak about someone’s “colours,” I mean everything that makes that person uniquely themselves: their gifts, dreams, memories, culture, personality, vulnerabilities and even their contradictions. Our colours include the parts of ourselves we reveal confidently, but also those we may have hidden because we feared they would not be understood or accepted. “Let your colours shine” is an invitation to stop living only according to what the world expects of us and to discover what is genuinely ours. It is not about being louder, brighter or more successful than anyone else. It is about becoming more fully and honestly who we are. Individuality is so important to me because I do not believe that true connection asks us to become the same. Real togetherness is not sameness. It happens when I can bring my authentic colours into the world, you can bring yours, and neither of us must diminish the other to belong. This is one of the central ideas within Khazimula. Each person carries a unique treasure and a particular light that nobody else can reproduce. When that light remains hidden, the world loses something. But when we feel safe enough to reveal ourselves, our differences can become a source of beauty rather than division.

I often imagine humanity as a great work of art. One colour on its own can be beautiful, but it is through contrast, relationship and combination that the larger picture comes alive. Human connection works in the same way. We do not connect most deeply by erasing what makes us different; we connect by recognising, respecting and celebrating it. So, “let your colours shine” is both a personal and collective invitation: have the courage to become who you truly are, and use that truth not to separate yourself from others, but to help create something more colourful, compassionate and whole together.

Q: In a world so often focused on possessions, status, power and division, why have people themselves become the treasure at the centre of your creative philosophy?

A: “We are the treasure” grew from my belief that a human being’s value cannot be measured by position, status, wealth, power or public recognition. Those things may describe what someone has achieved or how the world sees them, but they do not tell us who that person truly is. People themselves have become the treasure at the centre of my creative philosophy because every person carries something irreplaceable: a story, a gift, a dream, a wound, a wisdom and a light that no one else can bring into the world in quite the same way. Yet so many people move through life believing they are insignificant because they do not occupy the most visible or powerful positions. I understand that feeling. Like many people, I have sometimes searched outside myself for affirmation, for someone to recognise the value of an idea, a song, a dream or even of me. Khazimula has become a journey of discovering that the treasure is not necessarily something waiting for us at the end of the road. It may already be within us, waiting to be recognised. This does not mean that we shine alone or that individuality should become self-importance. The treasure within us comes alive through relationship. Sometimes another person sees something in us that we cannot yet see in ourselves.

Sometimes our own courage gives someone else permission to believe in their worth. When we recognise the treasure in one another, connection begins to replace competition, and dignity begins to replace division. A world focused on power often asks, “What can this person do for me?” I would like us to ask a different question: “Who is this person, and what precious light might they be carrying?” For me, “we are the treasure” is both an affirmation and a responsibility. It tells every person: you matter, your life has meaning, and what you carry is worthy of discovery. But it also asks us to look beyond appearances, labels and status and to help uncover the treasure in one another.

Perhaps the greatest treasure is not what we possess, achieve or leave behind. Perhaps it is what becomes possible when human beings truly recognise the value in themselves and then use that discovery to uplift the world around them.

Q: Your mother remembers you knowing nursery rhymes by heart at the age of two. Looking back, do you think the songwriter was already there, or did songwriting gradually reveal itself through a lifetime of curiosity and experience?

A: I love the thought that the songwriter may already have been there at two years old.

My mother remembers me knowing nursery rhymes by heart, and perhaps that was the earliest sign of my fascination with words, rhythm, repetition and rhyme. Long before I understood songwriting, I may already have been experiencing the magic of language, how a few carefully placed words can create music, awaken feeling and remain in the memory.

But I also believe the songwriter revealed herself gradually. Life had to give me something to write about. Curiosity, relationships, motherhood, faith, joy, disappointment, longing and the search for meaning all became part of my creative vocabulary. The child may have carried the instinct, but experience gave that instinct depth and purpose. I have always been curious, not only about what happens to us, but about what it means. I notice words, moments, coincidences and emotions, and I often hear a larger story hidden within them.

Songwriting became a way of gathering those fragments and transforming them into something that might speak to another person. So perhaps the songwriter was there from the beginning, listening and remembering. But she needed a lifetime of living to discover her voice. In many ways, that is also the story of Khazimula: something precious may already exist within us long before we recognise it. Our journey is not always about becoming someone entirely new. Sometimes it is about uncovering the person who has quietly been there all along and finally allowing her to shine.

Q: You have described yourself as being less a songwriter and more a detective, someone who collects clues, connects dots and discovers hidden treasures. What are the kinds of things you notice that other people might simply walk past?

A: I notice the small things, the details that may appear ordinary or insignificant, but somehow stay with me. It might be a sentence someone says in passing, a song playing at exactly the right moment, a number that keeps appearing, a dream, a name, a sudden memory, or an unexpected encounter with a stranger. I notice the person standing quietly at the edge of the room, the emotion behind someone’s words, and the extraordinary humanity hidden inside an everyday exchange. That is why I sometimes feel less like a songwriter and more like a detective. I collect these fragments without always knowing what they mean. One clue leads to another; something happening today connects with a memory from many years ago; a word becomes a title; a title becomes a song; and eventually, a larger picture begins to reveal itself. I am especially drawn to what is easily overlooked: the person who does not hold the highest position, the dream that seems impossible, the gift someone has not yet recognised in themselves, or the moment of light concealed inside a difficult experience. Those are often the hidden treasures.

This does not mean that I believe every coincidence has a grand explanation. But I do try to remain curious. I ask, “Why did this touch me? Why did I notice it? Is there something here asking to be understood?” That curiosity is often where my creative process begins. My songs and stories are therefore not always things I feel I have deliberately invented. Often, they feel like discoveries. The clues were already present, in conversations, relationships, music, memories, pain, laughter and ordinary life. My role is to pay attention, connect the dots and listen for the meaning beneath them. Perhaps that is also the invitation at the heart of Khazimula: slow down and look again. The world is full of treasures we walk past every day and very often, the greatest hidden treasure is another human being.

Q: You have written in coffee shops, collected ideas on Dictaphones, found inspiration while running, noticed things in everyday life and even described having a kind of “personal DJ” playing in your head. How important is awareness to your creative process?

A: Awareness is everything to my creative process. I do not think inspiration arrives only when we sit down and deliberately try to create. It is moving around us all the time, in conversations, music, movement, silence, memories and the smallest moments of everyday life. The challenge is to be awake enough to notice it. Coffee shops have always fascinated me because they are filled with fragments of human stories. While running, my body finds its own rhythm and my mind becomes free to wander. A phrase may suddenly arrive, an old memory may connect with something happening now, or a song may begin playing in my head as though a personal DJ has selected exactly what I need to hear at that moment. The dictaphone became important because inspiration does not politely wait until I am sitting at a desk. Awareness, for me, is more than observation. It is listening with my ears, certainly, but also with my emotions, intuition and imagination. It means noticing what touches me, what keeps returning, what feels strangely connected, and what seems to carry more meaning than is immediately visible. Sometimes the personal DJ in my head supplies a soundtrack to life. A particular song appears, and suddenly an ordinary moment feels like part of a larger story. The song might reveal an emotion I had not yet named, connect me to another time, or point me towards the words I need to write. Music often knows what I am feeling before I do.

Of course, being highly aware can sometimes feel overwhelming because I notice so much and want to hold onto every clue. Part of my creative journey has therefore been learning not only to collect, but also to trust … to record what arrives, give it space, and allow its meaning to reveal itself in time. I believe creativity begins with presence. When we rush through life, we may overlook the very material our souls are offering us. But when we pause, listen and look again, the ordinary becomes extraordinary. A coffee shop becomes a theatre, a run becomes a conversation, a passing remark becomes a lyric, and a seemingly random song becomes a messenger. For me, awareness is the bridge between living and creating. The songs and stories are already moving through life. My task is to remain curious, keep listening and be ready when they ask to be found.

Q: Where does the boundary disappear between songwriter and storyteller, and listener and participant?

A: Very often, I feel that a song exists before I have written it. I may hear only a phrase, a rhythm or a few words, but there is a sense that something larger is already present, almost as though I have discovered the first piece of a hidden treasure and must follow the clues to uncover the rest. In those moments, I am not consciously deciding what the song should say. I am listening. A line arrives, then another. A memory connects with something happening in the present. The personal DJ in my head may introduce a song or feeling that opens another door. Gradually, the pieces begin to recognise one another, and the song reveals its direction. That is where the boundary between songwriter and storyteller begins to disappear. A song is never only melody and lyrics; it carries characters, emotions, questions and journeys. Sometimes I begin by telling my own story, but as the song develops, it becomes spacious enough to hold other people’s stories too. What began as something deeply personal can suddenly express a feeling that belongs to many of us.

The boundary between listener and participant disappears in a similar way. A listener does not merely receive a finished song. They bring their own memories, losses, hopes and dreams into it. They may hear something entirely different from what I originally intended and that does not diminish the song. It completes it. Once someone recognises part of their own life within the music, they are no longer standing outside it. They have entered the story.

I experience this myself while writing. I may technically be the songwriter, but I am also the first listener, surprised by what arrives, affected by what it reveals and sometimes changed by it. The song can tell me something about myself that I did not know before I began.

Perhaps that is why I speak of discovery rather than invention. I do not feel that I manufacture a song and then hand it to an audience. I uncover something, invite others into it, then watch as their experiences give it new meanings that I could never have created alone. At that point, there is no longer simply a songwriter telling a story to a listener. We are all participating in the same unfolding discovery with each of us bringing our own colour, our own meaning and our own light to the song.

Stream 'On a Dream' hypeddit.com/onadream

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SBrCqPdjHXk

Q: 'On a Dream' seems to capture a central Khazimula tension, dreaming about what could be while still standing firmly in the here and now. What did you want to say about the relationship between imagination and action?

A: 'On a Dream' holds a tension that is central to Khazimula: the ability to imagine what could be while remaining fully present to what is. For me, imagination is not an escape from reality. It is the place where a new reality first becomes visible. Before we can create something, change something or become something, we must be able to see beyond the limits of the present moment. A dream allows us to glimpse a possibility that does not yet exist but might. Yet a dream cannot live through imagination alone. At some point, it asks something of us. It asks us to begin, to risk disappointment, to make choices, to find the right people, and to take the next step even when we cannot see the whole road. That is what I wanted to express in 'On a Dream'. Dreams can lift us beyond our present circumstances, but they must eventually meet our hands and feet. Imagination gives us the vision; action gives the vision a life. I know personally how easy it is to live in the beauty of possibility. I am a natural dreamer. I can see the music, the stories, the colours and the extraordinary ways people might come together. But my journey has also taught me that dreaming carries a responsibility.

If I truly believe in what I have seen, I must be willing to do something with it even imperfectly, even slowly and even without any guarantee of success. At the same time, action without imagination can become mechanical. We may become so focused on surviving the present that we forget to ask what else might be possible. We need both: roots in the reality of today and wings capable of carrying us towards tomorrow. A dream is therefore neither a fantasy nor a finished plan. It is a beginning, a glimpse, an invitation and sometimes a quiet insistence that life could become more than it presently appears to be. 'On a Dream' asks us to honour that glimpse but not merely admire it from a distance. Dream boldly, stand firmly in the here and now, and then take whatever honest step you can towards bringing the two together. That is when a dream begins to move from imagination into life.

Watch 'Celebrate Life' Music Video

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CahG1ATmT3g

Q: 'Celebrate Life' develops the Khazimula philosophy in a different direction, toward gratitude, beauty, human dignity and the miracle of being alive. What changed between 'On a Dream' and 'Celebrate Life', and what remained at the heart of both songs?

A: 'On a Dream' and 'Celebrate Life' are connected, but they stand at different points in the journey. 'On a Dream' looks towards possibility. It asks us to imagine what might be: a time when the world lights up in colour, people reach out to one another, and our dreams begin to move from imagination into reality. It carries the energy of hope, vision and becoming.

'Celebrate Life' turns our attention towards what is already here. It says: while you are dreaming about tomorrow, do not miss the miracle of today. Notice the beauty around you, recognise the dignity in every human being, and appreciate the extraordinary gift of simply being alive. Perhaps what changed between the two songs was my own understanding. I began to realise that life cannot only be valued when a dream comes true. If our happiness depends entirely on reaching a future destination, we may overlook the people, moments and quiet blessings accompanying us along the way. The dream matters but so does the life we are living while we pursue it. Gratitude therefore became more central. Not gratitude that ignores pain or pretends everything is perfect, but gratitude spacious enough to hold the whole of life: joy and sorrow, success and disappointment, light and darkness. 'Celebrate Life' is an invitation to recognise beauty even within an imperfect world. Human dignity is essential to that celebration. To celebrate life is not merely to enjoy our own existence; it is to honour the value of life in every person. It means looking beyond status, position, appearance and achievement, and recognising the treasure standing before us. Every person has a story. Every person carries a light. Every person deserves to be seen.

What remained at the heart of both songs was hope and the belief that we are active participants in life. 'On a Dream' asks us to imagine what could become possible and take steps towards it. 'Celebrate Life' asks us to open our eyes to what is already precious and respond with gratitude, connection and love. One reaches towards the future; the other embraces the present. But both belong to the same Khazimula philosophy: discover the light, recognise the treasure, reach out to one another, and allow your life exactly where you are to become part of something more beautiful. Perhaps 'On a Dream' says, “Believe in what life could become.” And 'Celebrate Life' answers, “Yes, but while you are building that dream, remember to celebrate the miracle that you are already here.”

Q: In 'Celebrate Life', you deliberately move away from speaking for one cultural, religious, generational or social group and instead speak from what you describe as our “shared humanity.” Why was that important to you, particularly as a South African artist creating in a world that can feel increasingly divided?

A: It was important to me that 'Celebrate Life' should belong to everyone. I am deeply shaped by my own identity, as a South African, a Jewish woman, a wife, a mother and a person with my own history. I do not believe we need to remove those identities to connect. They give our lives texture, meaning and colour. But beneath them lies something even more fundamental: our shared humanity. We all know what it is to hope, to struggle, to love, to lose, to dream and longing to be seen. We all enter this world vulnerable, and every one of us carries a story that cannot be measured by status, culture, religion, age or social position. I wanted the song to speak from that common ground. Growing up in South Africa made this especially important to me. Ours is a country of extraordinary cultural richness, but also one whose history demonstrates the terrible consequences of turning human differences into systems of separation and unequal worth.

We know both the pain of division and the remarkable possibility of people reaching across it. That does not mean ignoring history or pretending that our differences are unimportant. Unity cannot be built by silencing the experiences that distinguish us. For me, shared humanity means creating a space large enough for every person’s identity, pain, dignity and colour to be recognised. The world increasingly encourages us to choose sides, defend our categories and see one another first through labels. 'Celebrate Life' tries to pause before those labels and ask: can we first recognise the living human being standing before us? The song does not belong to one religion, generation, nationality or community because the miracle of being alive belongs to all of us. Gratitude, beauty, dignity and love are not the property of any single group. They are languages of the human spirit. As a South African artist, I wanted to offer something born from this country’s complexity but capable of travelling beyond it: an invitation to celebrate not only our own lives, but life itself and therefore to honour the life within every other person. Perhaps that is where healing begins: not when we become identical, but when we recognise that beneath our many beautiful differences, every one of us is precious. Every one of us is the treasure. And every one of us carries a light worthy of being seen.

Q: The Sound Cafe's Global Roots philosophy treats roots not as a fixed genre but as a conversation between cultures, histories and people. Where do you believe Khazimula belongs within that conversation?

A: The introductory quote from my forthcoming book, Khazimula, expresses something central to where I believe the project belongs within the Global Roots conversation:

As a garden grows with rain,

No two trees are exactly the same.

Each tree grows at its own pace,

For being a tree is not a race.

Carol-Ann Shapiro (Meltzer)

For me, that is the essence of roots. Every tree is grounded in its own soil, shaped by its own conditions and growing according to its own rhythm. Yet all the trees belong to the same garden. I believe Khazimula belongs within the Global Roots conversation as a distinctly South African voice reaching towards the world. Its roots are not expressed through one fixed musical genre. They lie in the place that shaped me in Johannesburg, in South Africa’s extraordinary diversity, in the rhythms and languages surrounding me, and in our history of both profound division and courageous connection. They also lie in my Jewish heritage, my family, my relationships and the many musical influences that have accompanied my life.

Roots are not only where we come from. They are what nourish us and allow us to grow. A tree is grounded soil, but its branches reach outward. Khazimula grows from South African soil while carrying a universal invitation: discover your light, let your colours shine, recognise the treasure in another person and celebrate the miracle of being alive. I would never claim to speak for every South African culture or tradition. My place within this conversation is to speak honestly from my own experience while remaining deeply curious about the experiences of others. That humility is important because cultural exchange becomes meaningful when it is based on listening, respect and relationship.

I think Khazimula also belongs in the spaces between categories. It brings together music and storytelling, African language and universal themes, personal discovery and social hope. It asks what might happen when our different histories and identities meet without any one of them having to disappear. That is what Sound Cafe’s Global Roots philosophy means to me: not asking artists to fit into a predetermined idea of what roots music should sound like but recognising that roots are living things. They travel through people, memories, languages and encounters. They intertwine, influence one another and create new possibilities.

Within that conversation, Khazimula offers the idea that our deepest connection does not require sameness. Like the trees in a garden, we do not need to grow at the same pace, follow the same path or become identical to belong together. Perhaps that is where Khazimula belongs: rooted in South Africa, open to the world, and growing within the shared human garden where different colours, histories and voices do not compete but illuminate one another.

Q: You are not attempting to recreate one traditional South African sound, yet the project comes unmistakably from a South African storyteller with a deeply South African cultural and emotional context. What does it mean to you to carry that origin into an international music landscape?

A: To carry my South African origin into an international music landscape means bringing the truth of where I come from without pretending that I represent every South African voice or tradition. Khazimula is not an attempt to recreate one traditional South African sound. My music has been influenced by many genres, artists and experiences. But the person telling these stories was formed here in Johannesburg, within South Africa’s extraordinary mixture of cultures, languages, histories, contradictions and possibilities. South Africa has taught me that difference can be both beautiful and difficult. We carry the wounds of separation, but we have also witnessed the courage of people who continue reaching towards one another. That tension lives within my creative work: individuality and togetherness, darkness and light, pain and celebration, the reality of what divides us and the dream of what might connect us.

Even the word Khazimula carries that origin. It is an isiZulu word meaning “shine” or “radiate light.” I use it with humility, aware that I am not a fluent isiZulu speaker and cannot claim cultural authority that is not mine. Yet the word arose from the South African landscape that shaped me, and its invitation to uncover your light and allow it to shine became the heart of the project. Entering an international landscape, I do not want to dilute that origin to sound universally acceptable. I believe the universal is often reached through the deeply particular. When an artist speaks honestly from her own soil, other people may recognise something of their own humanity within it. At the same time, carrying South Africa with me brings responsibility. I want to be curious, respectful and open to collaboration. I want to acknowledge the people, languages and cultural richness that have nourished my imagination without claiming ownership of experiences that are not mine.

Perhaps my role is not to present the sound or story of South Africa, but to contribute one South African story to a much larger global conversation. I carry Johannesburg’s energy, South Africa’s complexity, my Jewish heritage, my family history and my own unconventional creative journey into that conversation. These are my roots. They do not prevent the music from travelling; they give it somewhere meaningful from which to begin. So Khazimula enters the international music landscape rooted but open: unmistakably shaped by South Africa yet reaching towards something shared by people everywhere: the longing to be seen, to discover what is precious within us, to recognise it in one another and to let our different colours shine together.

Q: You have said that you are increasingly interested in what connects people rather than what separates them, while still recognising that differences matter. How can music create that space without becoming simplistic or sentimental?

A: Music can create a space of connection because it reaches us before we have fully organised ourselves into categories. A melody, a voice or a lyric can move us emotionally before we ask where the other person comes from, what they believe or whether their life resembles our own. But meaningful connection cannot be created by pretending that our differences do not exist. Race, religion, culture, history, generation and social circumstance shape how we experience the world. If music ignores those realities and simply says, “We are all the same,” it can become simplistic or sentimental. We are not all the same and we do not need to be. For me, the deeper truth is that we can be profoundly different and still recognise something human in one another. Music makes that possible because it can hold more than one emotion at the same time. A song can contain sorrow and gratitude, darkness and light, individuality and belonging. It does not always have to resolve every contradiction or provide an easy answer. Sometimes its greatest gift is simply to create a space in which complexity can be felt without immediately being judged. That is important within Khazimula. When I speak about light, colour, dreams or celebrating life, I am not suggesting that pain disappears if we think positively. I do not want to create music that places a beautiful melody over suffering and asks people to forget what they have lived through. The celebration must be honest enough to acknowledge the struggle. The hope must be strong enough to look at reality rather than escape from it.

Music also allows us to enter another person’s experience without claiming it as our own. I may not share your history, but a song can help me feel the longing, joy, fear or hope within it. That emotional recognition does not erase the distance between us; it gives us a reason to cross it with humility and curiosity. Perhaps that is how music avoids sentimentality: it does not insist that we are already united. It invites us to participate in the work of reaching one another. A song cannot solve every division, but it can interrupt indifference. It can make us pause, listen and recognise that behind every identity or label is a living person carrying memories, wounds, dreams and colours of their own. That is the space I increasingly want my music to create, not a world in which difference has vanished, but one in which difference no longer prevents recognition. A space where we can bring the fullness of who we are, listen for the humanity in someone else and discover that connection does not require sameness. It requires presence, honesty and the courage to reach out.

Q: Mark Beling's role has also gone beyond simply recording and mixing. You have described him as someone who listens for the emotional centre of a song and knows when to add and when to hold back. What does a great producer contribute to a storyteller's work?

A: A great producer contributes something far deeper than technical expertise. He becomes a listener, an interpreter and, in many ways, a guardian of the story. Mark Beling’s role has gone far beyond recording, arranging and mixing the music. He listens for the emotional centre of a song, the essential feeling or truth that must remain alive beneath everything else. Once he has found that centre, every musical decision can serve it. That requires sensitivity because more is not always better. A great producer knows when a song needs another instrument, a stronger rhythm or a moment of expansion but he also knows when to hold back, create space and allow a voice, a lyric or even a silence to carry the emotion. Restraint can be as powerful as addition. As a storyteller, I often arrive with many ideas, connections, colours and possibilities. Mark helps determine which of those elements strengthens the song and which might distract from what it is really trying to say. He does not remove the heart of my story; he helps reveal it more clearly. There is also an important element of trust. A song can be deeply personal and vulnerable. To place it in someone else’s hands requires confidence that they will not simply impose their own sound upon it.

The finest producers bring their own creativity and musical intelligence while continuing to listen respectfully to the identity already present within the work. Mark also hears possibilities that I may not yet be able to hear. He can recognise where a song wants to grow, where it needs grounding and how the arrangement can carry the listener through an emotional journey. In that sense, production becomes another form of storytelling. The instruments become characters, dynamics create tension and release, and silence becomes part of the language. The producer also helps build the bridge between the songwriter’s private experience and the listener’s experience. The original feeling may begin within me, but the production gives it shape, atmosphere and movement so that another person can enter it and find something of their own life there. For me, a great producer does not ask, “How much can we add to this song?” He asks, “What is this song trying to become and what does it need from us?” That is what Mark brings to my work. He listens beneath the notes, respects the story and knows when to illuminate it and when to step back so that its own light can shine.

Q: Khazimula deliberately extends beyond recorded music into poetry, playlists, reflection, storytelling, publishing and a forthcoming book. When did you realise that the songs were part of a much larger story?

A: I do not think there was one dramatic moment when I suddenly realised the songs belonged to a much larger story. It revealed itself gradually, almost in the same way that the songs themselves seem to reveal themselves to me. At first, they were individual songs, written at different times and arising from different experiences. But when I began returning to them, I noticed that the same ideas kept appearing, like dreams, light, colour, gratitude, courage, human dignity, individuality and our longing to connect with one another. Then those themes began appearing beyond the music, in poems I had written, stories from my life, reflections recorded on my dictaphone, songs chosen for playlists, memories, chance encounters and the little clues I had collected over many years. They were not separate creative fragments. They seemed to be speaking to one another. That was when I began to understand that the songs were not simply a collection. They were chapters in an unfolding story. Khazimula became the thread connecting them.

The word means “shine” or “radiate light,” but the project gradually came to represent an entire journey of discovery: uncovering the treasure within us, recognising the light in others and asking how our individual stories might contribute to something larger. The playlists are part of that story because music by other artists has always accompanied and illuminated my life. The poetry captures what sometimes cannot fit inside a song. The reflections reveal the lived experiences beneath the lyrics. Storytelling creates the bridge between the personal and the universal. And the forthcoming book gathers these different forms together, allowing readers to follow the clues and enter the journey more deeply. I began to see that I was not only writing songs. I was creating a conversation between music, memory, meaning and life. Perhaps that is also why I have never felt entirely comfortable describing myself only as a songwriter. The song may be where a particular idea first finds its voice, but it does not necessarily end there. It may become a poem, a chapter, a visual image, a conversation or an invitation for someone else to recognise something within their own life. The larger story was there all along. I simply had to step back far enough to see how the pieces belonged together. And that, in many ways, is Khazimula: not one song, one book or one artistic form, but a living tapestry of clues, each one pointing towards the same discovery: The treasure is not somewhere outside us. We are the treasure. And when we bring our songs, stories and colours together, we help one another shine.

Q: You have described the music as giving the stories a voice and the stories as giving the music a home. What is the relationship between those two worlds for you?

A: For me, music and storytelling are not separate worlds. They are two ways of entering the same human experience. Music gives the stories a voice because it carries emotion beyond the literal meaning of words. A melody can express longing, joy, tenderness or hope before the listener fully understands the story. It allows the story to be felt, not only heard.

The stories, in turn, give the music a home. They reveal where a song came from: the people, memories, questions, encounters and dreams that live beneath it. A listener may first be moved by the melody, but the story offers a doorway into the deeper landscape of the song. Sometimes the music arrives first and leads me towards a story I did not know I needed to tell. At other times, a lived experience, poem or reflection seems to search for music because ordinary language cannot contain everything it carries. The two forms continually illuminate one another. That relationship is central to Khazimula. The songs carry its emotional heartbeat, while the stories gather the clues and connect them into a larger journey. The book does not merely explain the music, and the music does not simply decorate the book. Each reveal something the other cannot reveal alone.

I also believe they meet different people in different ways. One person may enter Khazimula through a song and discover the stories later. Another may recognise themselves in a reflection and then hear the music differently. There is no single correct doorway into the journey. Together, music and storytelling create a space where the personal can become universal. A story may begin with something that happened specifically to me, but music opens it so that another person can bring their own memories and emotions into it. The song then becomes more than my story; it becomes a meeting place. So, when I say that the music gives the stories a voice and the stories give the music a home, I mean that one allows the experience to travel and the other gives it somewhere meaningful to belong. The music says, “Feel this with me.” The story says, “This is where it began.” And Khazimula brings them together to ask, “What might it awaken in you?”

Q: What is the story that cannot be told in a three-minute song, that you hope the Khazimula book and wider creative project will allow you to explore?

A: The story that cannot be told fully in a three-minute song is the story of how a human being discovers her own light and how many years, people, memories, mistakes, coincidences, losses, songs and acts of courage may be hidden inside that discovery.

A song can capture the emotional truth of a moment. It can say, 'On a Dream' 'Celebrate Life' 'Thanks' or 'Possibility' but it cannot tell you where those words came from, what they cost, or how difficult they may have been to live. The Khazimula book allows me to enter those deeper places. It can explore the woman behind the songs: the child who was already watching and listening; the wife and mother still learning how to love; the dreamer who sometimes doubted herself; the person collecting clues in coffee shops, on runs, through conversations and through the personal DJ playing inside her head. It can hold the moments of joy, but also the uncertainty, contradiction and vulnerability that a celebratory song may only suggest. It can also tell the story of timing, of songs written years ago that appeared to go quite yet continued waiting for the right people and circumstances. It can explore how five minutes on a treadmill became five kilometres; how David’s words, “I can if I want to, I can,” became both a physical rhythm and a philosophy; and how an apparently ordinary experience can become a lyric, a reflection or a doorway into something much larger.

Most importantly, the wider project allows me to ask questions that cannot be resolved neatly before the music ends. How do we celebrate life without denying suffering? How do we honour our differences while recognising our shared humanity? How do we remain rooted in our own identity while reaching towards people whose histories are different from ours? How do we pursue an extraordinary dream while still valuing the life unfolding today? I do not want Khazimula to offer simple answers. I want it to create a space in which music, poetry, storytelling, playlists and reflection can speak to one another. The songs provide the emotional heartbeat, but the book can reveal the paths, people and discoveries that gave that heartbeat meaning. It can also invite the reader or listener to become part of the story. My memories may begin the conversation, but they are intended to awaken other people’s memories, questions and dreams. The project becomes larger than my own journey when someone recognises a hidden treasure within their life. Perhaps that is the story I most want to explore: we spend so much of our lives searching outside ourselves for proof that we matter, without recognising the light that has been quietly growing within us all along. A three-minute song can whisper, “You are the treasure.” The Khazimula book and wider creative project can take your hand, follow the clues with you and ask: “What might change if you truly began to believe it?”

Q: You have spoken about wanting people to pause rather than simply consume. In an age of scrolling, algorithms and increasingly short attention spans, why do you think reflection has become important again?

A: I think reflection has become important again precisely because so much of modern life is designed to prevent it. We scroll rapidly from one image, opinion, tragedy, celebration or advertisement to the next. Algorithms learn how to keep us moving, reacting and consuming but not necessarily how to help us understand what we have seen or how it has affected us. We absorb an enormous amount, yet we may have very little time to digest any of it.

Reflection creates a pause between experience and reaction. It allows us to ask: What moved me? What disturbed me? What do I genuinely believe? What is this moment asking of me? Without that pause, it is easy for the loudest or most repeated message to become our own before we have consciously chosen it. For me, reflection is not withdrawal from life. It is a way of returning to life more fully awake. A song may last only three minutes, but if it causes someone to stop, remember, question, feel grateful or see another person differently, its life extends far beyond those three minutes. That is part of what I hope Khazimula offers. I do not simply want people to consume a song, a story or a poem and immediately move to the next thing. I hope they will recognise a clue from their own lives within it. Perhaps a lyric awakens a forgotten memory. Perhaps a story makes them reconsider a relationship. Perhaps a moment of stillness helps them recognise a dream or a light that has been quietly waiting for their attention.

Reflection also protects us from becoming emotionally numb. When joy, suffering, beauty and conflict all pass through the same endless stream, everything can begin to feel strangely equal and temporary. Pausing restores weight and meaning. It allows beauty to become gratitude, pain to become compassion and inspiration to become action. I do not believe we need to reject technology or romanticise a slower past. The question is whether we are using these tools consciously or allowing them to determine the rhythm of our inner lives. Perhaps reflection has become important again because people are hungry not only for more content, but for meaning. We want something that stays with us after the screen has changed. Khazimula is an invitation to pause long enough to notice what is shining in a song, in a stranger, in an ordinary moment and within us. Because sometimes the treasure is already there. We have simply been scrolling too quickly to see it.

Q: And finally, Carol-Ann, when someone encounters Khazimula for the first time, whether through a song, a story, a book, a playlist or a conversation, what invitation would you like to leave with them?

A: My invitation would be simple: Pause. Listen…not only to the song or the story, but to whatever it awakens within you. Follow the clues in your own life: the memories that return, the dreams that persist, the words that stay with you and the small treasures you may once have overlooked. Do not rush to become someone else or measure your journey against another person’s. Remember: You are the treasure. Your light may not look like anyone else’s. Your song may not sound like theirs. You may grow at a different pace or take an unexpected path. But something within you is worthy of being discovered, expressed and shared. Khazimula means “shine.” Yet its invitation is not to stand in the spotlight alone. It is to recognise your own light so that you can also recognise, and help illuminate, the light in others. So come as you are. Bring your story, your questions, your colours, your wounds, your hopes and the song only you can sing. Discover what is shining within you. Let it shine. And then, perhaps, we can begin to 'Love It Together'.

Listen to Khazimula, discover the stories behind the songs, and let your colours shine.

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