A fusion of South African folk rock, hip hop and soul.
2025
Album title
Love Loud
The inspiration
Between September and November 2025, I found myself sitting with a collection of songs that refused to stay quiet. Some I’d written years ago, others poured out in the moment—but they all demanded to be heard together.
“Love Loud” became the container for everything I was grappling with: family trauma that cuts deep and doesn’t heal on anyone else’s timeline, the ache of distance from my son, anxiety that shows up uninvited, and the particular kind of homesickness that comes from living between two worlds. But also—the stubborn belief that tomorrow brings new strength, that kindness is contagious, that we’re capable of looking after each other and this breathing earth beneath our feet.
These aren’t tidy songs with neat resolutions. They’re messy and honest, the way life actually is. The Zulu phrases woven throughout aren’t decoration—they’re my bridge back across the ocean to South Africa, the warmth of those harmonies reminding me of where I come from even as I build a life in Australia.
I created this album because I needed to. Because some mornings are heavy and some fights are lonely and some hope is hard-won. Because love—the loud, intentional, revolutionary kind—is the only thing I’ve found that actually works. Not the easy platitudes, but the daily practice of showing up, standing firm, and choosing connection even when it costs you something.
This is for anyone who’s ever felt caught between worlds, weighed down by yesterday, or uncertain about tomorrow. For the ones who choose optimism as practice, not naivety. For those who believe that small acts of care can change everything.
Tracklist
1
Home has not left me
The album opens with the most honest thing I know: I'm living between two suns, carrying two worlds in one chest. This is about the immigrant experience—blessed and broken, here and there, never fully settled. It's about being the bridge no one crosses, about safety that feels like betrayal, about learning that duality isn't division—it's multiplication.
2
Love loud
The title track and the heart of everything. We build walls between us, teach our children fear, and wonder why the world feels fractured. But love comes naturally—hatred is learned. This is a call to break down the barriers we've built, to rise up together, to remember that we're stronger unified than divided. It's urgent and unapologetic because the time for quiet love has passed.
3
Would you live for me
My partner asked me a question that broke me open: "You'd die for me—but would you actually live for me?" This song is about the difference between martyrdom and presence, between enduring and truly showing up. It's about the terrifying courage it takes to be fully alive instead of just surviving. Some days I'm still learning the answer.
4
Africa's daughter
A love song wrapped in landscape. She moves like the grassland, burns bright as desert stars—this is about love that's inseparable from the earth itself. The rivers, mountains, and ancient trees bear witness. It's personal and universal all at once, rooted in Ubuntu: I am because we are.
5
Smile for a smile
What if kindness was currency? What if one small act could ripple outward and change everything? This song follows the thread of compassion as it multiplies—from holding a door to feeding the hungry to lighting up the world. It's simple truth: love for love, we rise.
6
Storm within
Anxiety doesn't ask permission before it shows up. This is what it feels like when your chest tightens, when morning breaks like shattered glass, when you're fighting battles no one else can see. But it's also about the hand that finds you on the floor, the love that refuses to abandon you, the slow learning that peace isn't the absence of storms—it's who stands with you in the rain.
7
We cry for you our mother
A lament and a battle cry for the earth. We're tearing at our mother's dress, trading tomorrow's breath for today's profit, sleepwalking into catastrophe. But this isn't a song of despair—it's a call to action. One person, one choice, one small act of care. We still have time if we choose love over greed, connection over consumption. Ubuntu: we live because the earth lives.
8
Not lost to me
The hardest song I've ever written. About my son, who I haven't seen in years. About choosing my own survival and the cost of that choice. About carrying someone in every breath even when they don't know your voice. About the hope that maybe, one day, across all this distance and silence, he'll know he was never truly lost to me.
9
Every sun that sets
After the heaviness, a reminder: every burden can be laid down when the sun goes down. Tomorrow waits with open arms. This is about resilience—not the flashy kind, but the quiet daily practice of getting back up. The scars are stories, the tears are earned, and every sun that sets will rise again.
10
We're golden
Pure joy. Sometimes you need to remember what it feels like to be fully alive—bare feet on the dashboard, radio up, cold drink in hand, surrounded by people you love. This is permission to be present, to laugh loud, to live like you mean it. We're golden, and we don't need permission to feel it.
11
Ain't easy
Standing alone for what's right never is. When everyone's walking one direction and you turn away, you feel the weight of their eyes. This is about choosing truth over comfort, integrity over approval, the lonely fire of conviction. But here's what I've learned: the right road might be the loneliest, but you're not walking it alone.
12
We were free
Nostalgia hits different when you realize what we've lost. Summer '89, riding bikes till dark, no screens to find us, just dirt under our nails and stories we'd never tell. This isn't just about the past—it's about what we've traded for convenience. A reminder that real connection, real freedom, real childhood happened face to face, outside, alive.
13
Quicksand
When you're stuck—really stuck—in the paralysis of depression, anxiety, and overwhelm. Standing in quicksand where one foot is caught by anything and the other by everything. This is the slow suffocation of inaction, the comfortable chaos, the fear of change. But it's also about the moment you decide: something's gotta give. Today. Right now. I'm rising from this quicksand one breath at a time.
14
Seed from a different tree
The album closes with the rawest wound: maternal trauma, family betrayal, the question of belonging. Am I a seed plucked from a different tree? Lies as ancient as my existence, boundaries disregarded, love that drains instead of fills. But also—the resolve to stitch myself together, to be someone going somewhere, to survive the deceit and emerge unashamed of the scarring. It's not a happy ending. It's an honest one.
