Bhudaza’s Bo-Mapefane: in the mind of Kelebogile Leepile

There are albums that become part of your life so deeply that eventually you stop hearing them as music first. They become memory. Atmosphere. Family history.

That is what Bo-Mapefane by Bhudaza has become for me.

The first thing I always say when people ask me why I love this album so much is that it sounds like home. Not in a poetic way — I genuinely mean it sounds like home as I remember it in my childhood. When I listen to it, I immediately see my grandmother. I see her tapping her foot while telling stories. I see us sitting outside after church, sometimes on the veranda, sometimes under a tree before we even had one.

The funny thing is that my introduction to the album wasn’t even through it being played inside our house. It would be playing across the street or somewhere nearby, but loud enough to become part of our environment. Part of our afternoons. Part of our conversations. That’s the kind of music it was. It travelled.

And because of that, the album feels communal to me. It feels like it belonged to everyone around us.

Even now, when I play it, I don’t just remember one specific moment. I remember a whole way of living. Sitting outside after church with family. My grandmother wanting to stay outdoors for as long as possible. My cousins running around somewhere nearby. The pace of those afternoons. The softness of them.

I think that’s why this album affects me the way it does — it carries people inside it.

It reminds me of a particular time in Southern African jazz. Not because I fully experienced it at the time, but because I grew up around the feeling of it. There was a richness to jazz culture that felt alive in everyday spaces. I remember being young and already wishing I was older so I could experience that era properly for myself.

And with Bo-Mapefane, I feel like I still get to touch a piece of that world.

When people ask me about favourite songs, I honestly struggle to answer because I’ve never treated the album like a collection of individual tracks. I have never gone into it wanting one song. Never. I always start from the beginning and play it until the end. That’s the only way I know how to listen to it.

But there are certain songs that carry very specific memories.

One immediately takes me back to primary school choir rehearsals. I can still remember the classroom, my teacher, the feeling of practising together before performances. Music has a strange way of preserving tiny details like that. You forget entire years of your life but somehow remember exactly how a classroom felt because of a song.

And then there’s the poetry of Bhudaza himself. The way he takes his time. The way he speaks through the music instead of simply performing it. There’s patience in the album. There’s storytelling in it. Even when I was younger, I think I could already feel that this was music made by someone who understood people deeply.

That’s also why I think he’s one of the coolest musicians we’ve ever had.

I remember years ago seeing someone post about sitting with him under a tree just talking, and I genuinely don’t think I’ve ever experienced FOMO like that before. I wanted to be there so badly — not even for a picture or anything dramatic, just to listen to him speak and ask him questions.

He’s one of the few African musicians I would truly love to meet one day. I’d happily sit and drink tea with him for hours just listening.

Because I honestly don’t think what he did can be replicated.

People can create music inspired by that feeling, but they can’t recreate that exact thing. There’s something spiritually intact about the album. Something deeply rooted in home, memory and people.

Maybe that’s why I still return to it so often.

At least once a month — from beginning to end. Even if individual songs appear in playlists throughout the month, there’s still a moment where I intentionally return to the full album. It keeps me company when I’m cleaning or washing dishes or just sitting by the window while the sun comes in.

And if I’m being honest, sometimes I’m simply missing my grandmother.

It’s actually funny that I’m speaking about this now because lately I’ve been in one of those moods where I miss her more than usual. So after this conversation, I already know I’m going back to Bo-Mapefane again.

That’s what this album does for me.

It doesn’t just remind me of home.

It keeps home alive in me.