CTIJF | The Jazz Was a Prayer, and We Were the Amen

By Faiez Jacobs

It’s been a full week since we stood shoulder to shoulder beneath red lights and ancestral drumbeats at the Cape Town International Jazz Festival 2025.

And still, it lingers.

Not the hype.

Not the Instagram stories.

The feeling. The texture. The truth.

It lives in our bones, in our softened chests and quiet thoughts.

Because what we experienced at CTIJF wasn’t just a festival.It was a collective remembrance.

A necessary cleansing.

A deeply Cape Town communion.

Where We Began

On Thursday, I attended the People’s Concert the perfect prelude. It was warm, easy, full of hugs and long-overdue greetings. It felt like a homecoming. I hadn’t seen many of my comrades and old friends in years. To reconnect, to feel, to breathe in that atmosphere it meant everything.

Friday night, April 25, began not just with the last rays of sun but with a shared energy, a readiness.

Inside the CTICC, Lira gave us more than melody.

She gave us light. She gave us affirmation.

"Feel Good" wasn’t just a hit it was a permission slip to hold joy again.

"Let There Be Light" became an invocation. And when she smiled, we saw our own resilience reflected back.

At Manenberg, Ramon Alexander Trio delivered a tight, rooted, unapologetically Cape set.

He didn’t perform for us; he played with us.

Ghoema rhythms echoed stories from the Flats, vinyls spinning on Sunday afternoons, laughter around mosques and kitchens. Ramon is familiar, a brother. I say this with deep respect and gratitude.

Then the energy shifted.

Nubya Garcia took the Kippies stage like a spiritual warrior.

Red backdrop. Braids. Sunglasses. Saxophone in hand.

Yoh! Wow. She’s young, fearless, and emotional —bringing power, technique, and ancestral echo into every note.

She opened with “Source”, and within minutes the room was spellbound.

Her set wasn’t smooth.

It was alive diaspora longing and ancestral defiance braided into sound.

You don’t dance to Nubya.

You surrender.

Malcolm Jiyane Tree-O followed and I need to speak honestly here.

He didn’t entertain.

He made us uncomfortable in the most necessary way.

He reminded me of my post-'94 time at Yeoville.

A trombonist, pianist, composer, and bandleader from Katlehong, he represents a new wave of South African jazz deeply rooted in Soweto’s revolutionary music traditions.

He played grief. He moaned rage.He put his left hand inside the piano and pulled out ghosts.

"No More" wasn’t a song.

It was a scream from a man who’s survived addiction, poverty, betrayal.

It was a spiritual protest:

• No more injustice.
• No more pain without healing.
• No more forgotten voices.
• No more suffering without recognition.

I closed my eyes — not to escape, but to carry the weight of it.

This wasn’t “Friday night out.”

This was the gut of the thing.

Then came Kyle Shepherd Trio.

He reached into the belly of the piano literally and plucked the strings with his bare hands.

Not for show.

For truth.

In that moment, I witnessed:

• The world above and below seen and unseen.
• Control and surrender key and string.
• Rationality and intuition mind and soul.
• Cape Town’s past and future tradition and freedom.

His playing was a prayer. Sparse. Tender. Profound.

“Silence is music too,” it seemed to whisper. “Trust the space. Let it hold you.”

His fingers painted landscapes: rivers, deserts, streets, memories.

I didn’t overthink. I felt.

Kyle once said:“I come from a place where silence was dangerous. You had to find a way to speak without words.”

He isn’t just a pianist.

He’s a healer. A memory-keeper. A spiritual architect.

A dreamer of freedom.

After that, I needed DJ Masoodah.

Our own soulful selector. Beloved curator. Fierce. Soft. Duidelik.

She reclaimed space — for Black, Brown, Woman, Queer energy.

She healed — by mixing sounds carrying ancestral memory.

She connected jazz to the streets — reminding us that jazz is life, not just stage.

I danced. I let go of needing to “understand.”

I felt.

And I connected to everyone around me.

All of us vibrating together.

Because dancing together in this city, in this moment, is an act of radical joy.

Masoodah is a healer.

A rebel.

A celebrant of spirit through sound.

Then I went inside.

Thandiswa Mazwai was calling.

She is not an artist.

She is a movement. A mother. A priestess of the people.

She didn't headline. She claimed the space.

Unapologetically African. Politically militant. Spiritually rooted. Feminist and fierce.

From the moment she called “Nizalwa Ngobani?!”,we were not at a concert; we were inside a ritual.

Beadwork like battle armour.

And truth on her tongue.

She called out the AmaSellout; those who drank the revolution and pissed on its roots.

I felt ashamed. But I also felt the power of the people to remember, correct, and love again.

"Amanz’ Amanzi" was mourning for stolen futures, poisoned water, and broken promises.

She chanted “Hela Hé”

“Call upon! Strengthen us! Witness us, ancestors!”

And “Dinekè” spiritual endowments, divine gifts.

And we answered her, as congregation.

"Jiki Jela" transported me back to my own political detention.

Was I still in prison? Had I given up?

She triggered us.

Ambushed us.

And we surrendered gratefully.

Then Came Bongisiwe Mabandla

Under the bridge. Quiet space. Sacred air.

Bongisiwe Mabandla, the African soul mystic.

His voice holds veld loneliness, spiritual yearning, and quiet hope.

He sang:

• "Mangaliso" — a prayer for small miracles.
• "Yaka" — calling to the absent father, or spirit.
• "Zange" — mourning lost innocence.
• "Ndiyakuthanda" — I love you. Simply. Deeply.
• "Masiziyekelele" — Let us surrender.

He didn’t shout. He whispered us whole again.

Not Just a Line-Up. A Lifeline.

This was more than music.

It was a map:

• Of what we’ve lost.
• Of what we still carry.
• Of what we dream.

From ghoema to gospel-infused jazz, from sweat to tears —we held joy and rage.

Memory and movement.

Pain and purpose.

Thank You, Dr. Iqbal Survé

To Dr. Iqbal Survé and the Survé family: thank you.

You didn’t just fund a festival.

You helped midwife a return — to ourselves, to each other, to sound as healing.

You trusted our stories. Our voices. Our rhythms.

Thank you for seeding March 2026.

We are still here.

And we’re not done.

I left the Cape Town International Jazz Festival with more than a wristband or a playlist.

I left with a soul stirred.

A heart reawakened.

A hope reset.

And I’ll be back.

Not just to listen.

But to remember, to rise, and to sing ourselves whole again.

* Faiez Jacobs is a Capetonian, political activist, jazz lover, and lifelong witness to music as memory. This is not a concert review. This is an ancestral thank you.

** The views expressed do not necessarily reflect the views of IOL or Independent Media.