Why is it that when an artist from Zimbabwe raps, we call it Zim Hip-Hop—but when Drake drops a track, we don’t call it Canadian Hip-Hop? Nobody says South African Hip-Hop when Nasty C raps, unless it’s about geography, not genre. His music is just hip-hop. So why do we keep boxing ourselves in?
Let’s be real—hip-hop is no longer limited to New York, L.A., or Atlanta. This genre has transcended borders. It’s global now. And Zimbabwe is part of that global conversation whether the world acknowledges it yet or not. But here's the thing—we might be holding ourselves back by trying to label our art like it’s a spin-off or a second-tier version of the real thing.
Some people might think this mindset is about trying to sound American or chasing validation from the West. It’s not. Hip-hop itself has evolved into something much bigger than where it came from. It belongs to the streets of Chitungwiza as much as it does to the Bronx. It lives in Mbare just as loudly as it does in Compton. Whether it’s drill, trap, conscious rap, or afro-fused flows—it’s all hip-hop.
What we’re doing here in Zimbabwe is not a “Zim” version of something—it is something. Something original. Something that could influence the next wave of global sound if we stop treating it like a local hobby and start respecting it like the serious art form it is.
Some say we can’t call it hip-hop unless it sounds like it's from the U.S. But that’s a colonial mindset in disguise. Why should using Shona, Ndebele, or any local accent mean it’s a subgenre? It’s still rhythm, poetry, bars, delivery, flow—all the core elements of hip-hop.
There’s no rule that says hip-hop must be in American English or come from the West. That rule never existed in the streets—it only lives in the minds of gatekeepers and insecure fans.
Let’s be real. We’re not trying to win BET Africa awards just to say we’re seen. We want our artists on the same BET Hip-Hop Awards stage where J. Cole, Kendrick, Megan, and Future are. Not because we want to be them—but because we believe we have stories, pain, poetry, and power that deserve to be on that level.
We’re not saying Zimbabwe has already reached that tier of influence. We know there’s a long way to go. But how are we supposed to grow if every time we step into the global space, we’re already stepping back by labeling ourselves as local-only?
“Well, they got us trying to talk and live like them, they sure as hell better hear our stories too.”
— MashStat Founder
And that’s exactly it. Hip-hop is about expression. It’s about truth. Our truth. So when we rap about life in Norton, or hustle in Mbare, or dreams from Highfield, we’re not making Zim hip-hop—we’re making hip-hop, period.
Fifty years from now, imagine a conversation about hip-hop evolution that includes, “This sound started in Zimbabwe.” Imagine a future where Zimbabwean rappers are not side acts at festivals but headliners at the Grammys. That’s not impossible. But it won’t happen if we keep pushing the narrative that what we make is a knockoff.
Let’s drop the prefix. Let’s stop introducing our art like it’s a demo version of something real. It is real. It is global. And it is hip-hop.
So from here on, let’s say it with our chests: This isn’t Zim Hip-Hop. This is hip-hop—from Zimbabwe. And it belongs to the world.