LUYANDA MSTHALI: THE QUIRKY TAKES

An Opinion on the Intersection of Pop Culture, Historical Erasure, and the South African Reality

By Indälo.Blue

At its heart, this project conceptualizes Beyoncé's Cowboy Carter not merely as a musical composition, but as a methodological framework—a "universal template" for dismantling historical erasure.

In the vast expanse of cultural criticism, it is rare to encounter a moment where a piece of popular culture transcends its medium to become a diagnostic tool for a nation's soul. Yet, that is precisely the opportunity presented by Beyoncé’s Cowboy Carter. To view this album merely as a collection of songs or a genre experiment is to miss its most potent utility. It is, fundamentally, a methodological framework—a "universal template" for dismantling historical erasure. When we apply this template to the South African context, we are not simply engaging in music review; we are operationalizing art as an "instrument of protest and joy" to interrogate the complex, often sanitized, history of a nation defined by its struggle for identity.

This analysis posits that the album’s central mission—reclaiming Black artistry and disrupting rigid boundaries—serves as a perfect mirror for South Africa's own profound struggles with systemic oppression and the "whitewashing" of history. Just as the album confronts the exclusion of Black lineage from American country music, we must use that narrative arc to illuminate the systematic "cultural stripping" of indigenous South Africa. This is not an exercise in commercial critique; it is a strict educational ethos, a non-commercial engagement that leverages "fair use" to deepen our understanding of the intersection between art, history, and social justice.

The most striking parallel between the source material and the South African condition lies in the concept of "cultural stripping". Colonialism was never merely a conquest of land; it was a metaphysical assault. The European powers did not just steal territory; they actively undermined and erased indigenous value systems, beliefs, languages, and religious structures. This mirrors the reclamation work central to Cowboy Carter. Just as the artist excavates the Black roots of a genre that rejected her, this analytical framework demands that we excavate the indigenous identities that colonialism attempted to bury.

We must confront a specific, pervasive mechanism of this erasure: the "visual lie" of history. There is a "powerful observation" to be made regarding the aesthetic choices used to document South Africa's past. We are inundated with black-and-white photography when depicting the atrocities of Apartheid. This is not a neutral archival preference; it is a form of manipulation.

By rendering these events in monochrome, we subconsciously relegate them to the distant past, making them seem ancient and resolved. This distances the modern viewer from the reality of the trauma, sanitizing the brutality of a system that is, in historical terms, incredibly recent. To counteract this, we must disrupt the visual language of history, making the past feel immediate, visceral, and urgent. We must reject this sanitization and acknowledge that the legacy of these "ancient" events is woven into the very fabric of our current reality.

This framework refuses to treat history as a static artifact. Instead, it aggressively engages with the "divisive narratives" currently circulating in South African society, seeking to dismantle specific, harmful myths.

• The Myth of Victimhood: We must critically assess the narrative of "white genocide," identifying it not as a legitimate discourse but as a "far-fetched lie" designed to obscure the true dynamics of power and violence.
• The Myth of Competence: There is a dangerous revisionist nostalgia taking root—a suggestion that Apartheid was "corruption-free" or offered a "better refuge" than the current democratic dispensation. This is a fallacy that relies on the erasure of the majority's suffering to function.
• The Policing of Culture: We see a direct parallel to the minimization of Black artistry in the way South African protest songs are currently mischaracterized as "anti-white". This framing is a tactic to delegitimize Black political expression, stripping it of its revolutionary context and dismissing it as mere hate speech.

By linking these contemporary political discourses to the themes of exclusion explored in Cowboy Carter, we expose the continuity of oppression. The policing of genre is the policing of culture; the denial of artistic contribution is the denial of political validity.

Perhaps the most nuanced application of this "universal template" is in the realm of sexuality. We must frame homophobia not as an African tradition, but as a colonial import. This analysis challenges the prevailing dogma by highlighting that pre-colonial societies often held fluid understandings of sexuality.

We can cite specific indigenous terms to prove this: the Khoikhoi concepts of koetsire and soregus, and the Bantu traditions of inkotshane ("boy-wives") among Tswana and Ndebele peoples. These terms are evidence of a history that accommodated difference. The demonization of diverse sexualities arrived with European biblical contexts and cultural norms.

Therefore, the current struggle for LGBTQIA+ rights in South Africa is arguably a struggle for decolonization. We face a "constitutional gap": while South Africa was the first country globally to constitutionally outlaw discrimination based on sexual orientation, there is a stark contradiction between this legal protection and the "lived experience" of violence and prejudice, particularly in provinces like KwaZulu-Natal. Using the album’s spirit of challenging norms and celebrating authentic self-expression allows us to explore this fragile state of queer rights, juxtaposing constitutional promises against the harsh reality of societal rejection

To truly "operationalize" this album, we must draw direct lines between its sonic architecture and South African historical realities. The songs serve as "narrative triggers," linking an artistic struggle to a political one.

This track, with its themes of challenging expectations and demanding recognition, serves as the sonic anchor for South African youth resistance.

• The 1976 Soweto Uprising: The students' rejection of Afrikaans as a medium of instruction parallels the song's rejection of genre confinement. Both are fundamental challenges to white supremacy and racial oppression.
• #FeesMustFall (2015-2017): The demand for change echoes the student-led protests against exorbitant fees and systemic barriers. It highlights the continued struggle for dignity and the failure of institutions like NSFAS to support the youth.

The narrative of enduring struggle and carrying a heavy load is recontextualized to honor the resilience of South African women.

• The 1956 Women’s March: The "16 carriages" metaphorically represent the burden carried by the 20,000 women who marched to the Union Buildings. It frames their protest against pass laws as an act of defying both patriarchal and racial oppression.
• The Invisible Laborer: The song powerfully illustrates the life of the South African domestic worker—the unseen labor of Black women who maintained wealthy homes while living in poverty. It shines a light on intergenerational burdens and quiet resilience.

To convey these complex themes effectively, we must abandon linear documentary tropes in favor of a dynamic, "immersive experience". The structure itself must mirror the sonic density and emotional volatility of the source material.

We envisage a "glitching, burning, and weathered South African flag" as a visual centerpiece. This is not merely an aesthetic choice; it conveys "instability, historical trauma, and ongoing struggle". It sets the tone for a narrative that is "rebellious but patriarchal and yet protesting".

The imagery must be jarring. We need a "rapid-fire montage" that exposes the contradictions of our history: the pageantry of inaugurations contrasted with colonial figures like Cecil Rhodes and Jan van Riebeeck, disrupted by pre-Apartheid depictions of diverse Indigenous peoples. This visual strategy ensures that the human cost is never lost; it grounds the aesthetic in the reality of those who died during these eras.

The ultimate aim is to evoke a "profound emotional response"—moving the audience through acknowledgement, shock, and distraught. We must "attack their reality with facts from the past," forcing a confrontation with uncomfortable truths.

This analytical endeavor is more than a commentary; it is a piece of "educational art". By leveraging a massive cultural phenomenon as a strategic entry point, we can engage audiences who might otherwise be disengaged from historical discourse.

The primary objective is reclamation. We refuse to accept the sanitized versions of the past. We aim to foster a "deeper understanding" of causality, connecting the dots between historical injustices—from land dispossession to cultural erasure—and the structural realities of today.

Despite the heavy themes, this vision is anchored in hope. It highlights the enduring spirit of "protest, joy, and artistic expression". It draws a powerful parallel between the resilience found in the music and the resilience of South Africans, framing survival itself as an act of defiance. This is a manifesto that demands recognition for the marginalized, using a "universal template" to decode the complex history of a nation and arm its people with the truth.