The JRB presents an excerpt from Ghost in the Drum, the debut novel by Nthato Mokgata aka Spoek Mathambo. 

Ghost in the Drum
Nthato Mokgata
Teka Works Publishing, 2024

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7
To Catch a Lie

Zinhle wasn’t the only one.

Of course, she thought she was. She thought she was the only one in TC’s world, because she was the one who stood by him when no one else believed in his music. And in some ways, she was right—she was the foundation, the one he always came home to. But there were others. There were always others.

There was Nandi, the girl from two doors down in the back room—slim, with a wicked smile and a habit of showing up late at night when Zinhle wasn’t home. TC had never meant for it to go on as long as it did, but the thing about sidechicks ekasi: they were always there, always available, no questions asked. They lived on the margins of life, slipping in and out of people’s beds like ghosts, only ever leaving behind the faint scent of someone else’s perfume on the pillow.

It wasn’t just Nandi. There was Lebo from down the street too—the neighbour whose house he passed every day on his way to catch the taxi. They never talked about it, but sometimes, late at night when Zinhle was working an extra shift, Lebo would invite him in for a quick drink, a smoke, a moment that stretched a little too far. TC never felt bad about it. That’s just how things worked. It wasn’t cheating—it was survival. You grabbed whatever fleeting moment of joy you could, before the pain of life swallowed you whole again.

Zinhle never asked him where he was, never questioned the long nights he spent ‘working on music’ in the studio, even when she knew deep down that something was off. That’s just how life was. You kept your head down, worked, prayed, and hoped you didn’t catch something worse than heartbreak. But it wasn’t just about juggling women. It was about juggling life itself. Juggling those quiet, nagging fears that stalked everyone in the game—the fears of getting caught, of whispers spreading, of things unravelling. There was always the underlying hum of danger, the whispers of HIV lurking in the corners of every quick hookup, every late-night rendezvous. Everyone in Atteridgeville knew someone who had been taken down by it—a sister, an aunt, an uncle, a cousin, a guy who used to live two streets over. It was part of the landscape, as common as the empty bottles of Black Label littering the streets.

But that fear didn’t stop anything. If anything, it only made the urgency stronger, the need to live fast and hard, to grab whatever warm slice of life you could before it turned on you. That’s what TC told himself when he slipped out of Zinhle’s bed in the early hours of the morning, just to catch Lebo’s eyes lingering on him as he walked by her yard. He’d make sure he wore a condom. That’s what mattered, right?

8
Zinhle’s Eyes

Zinhle stood behind the till at the grocery store, her fingers rhythmically scanning items as she daydreamed. She had perfected the art of zoning out while working; it was the only way she could escape the noise of customers, the repetitive beep of the scanner, and the heavy thud of reality. Dreams kept her going. She had big plans. Saving every cent she earned here was her ticket out, not just for her but for her family too. She could see it so clearly—a degree, a proper job, a house somewhere nice, something she could call her own, not the cramped shack she shared with her younger brother and sickly mother, where space was always tight and futures seemed even tighter. She was working toward something bigger, something that wouldn’t trap her in this perpetual struggle.

But then there was TC.

At first, TC had felt like a ticket out too. Their relationship had started in that sweet, all-consuming way love does when you’re young—everything about him felt fresh, exciting, electric. He was her escape, her life jacket when it felt like the township was pulling her under. She’d listened to his wild dreams, his music, his ambitions to make it out of Atteridgeville, and she believed him. She loved how he saw things differently from everyone else in Atteridgeville.

But lately, TC had started to feel like something else too. The weight of TC’s dreams sometimes felt like it was pressing down on her, dragging her away from her own. His music career, the endless hustle—it was consuming him, and by extension, it was consuming her. She worked these long hours, saved up all she could, but when TC needed money for transport, or a new mixer or food, she couldn’t say no. She couldn’t let him drown, even if sometimes it felt like she was sinking with him.

She loved him. That much was true. But love wasn’t simple, especially not now. When she thought about their future, it didn’t always feel clear.



She had met him in highschool on her way from school one afternoon. He looked so confident, standing in front of the crumbling walls of the old corner shop, like the world hadn’t already decided who he should be. His oversized school blazer hung off his shoulders, and those sunglasses he always wore, like he was already famous, caught the fading sunlight. They had clicked immediately, a shared sense of ambition pulling them together.

But as the years passed, Zinhle noticed the cracks. TC was more obsessed with himself than anything else. He spent nights in his tiny shack studio, creating new sounds, and when he wasn’t doing that, he was ruminating or scrolling through his phone, looking at who had made it before him. She supported him, fed him, even cleaned the place up when he couldn’t be bothered, but she wasn’t sure how long she could carry him. Sometimes she wondered if he even noticed.

The nights were the worst. After her shift, she’d come home, exhausted, her feet aching from standing for hours. She’d lie down on their tiny bed, and TC would be there next to her, stomping his foot, keeping time with an impossibly loud beat or talking about how he was going to ‘change the whole game’. He talked about moving them out of the township, getting a place in Joburg, maybe even by the coast, where they could be someone else entirely.

But what about her dreams? What about her studies, her plans? She couldn’t say it, though. Not when TC looked at her like she was his grounding force. He needed her to believe in his dreams as much as he needed the music. And part of her did. She could see his talent. But another part of her—the one that stayed up late, counting her savings, imagining what it would be like to go to university—wasn’t sure.

It was that part of her that grew louder every time she saw her paycheque slip through her fingers because TC needed something else. That part of her that screamed violently when he didn’t see her exhaustion, when he took her support for granted. Sometimes, he felt less like the lifejacket and more like the weight pulling her deeper into the abyss.

9
Soft Life Symphony

Musa had been on TC’s case for weeks, sending endless voice notes, facebook and WhatsApp messages that TC barely opened. The guy was relentless, popping up on Instagram and TikTok, tagging him in stories, dropping comments like they were already best friends. Every time TC logged in, there’d be another ‘Yo, my guy, when we cooking?’ or ‘Big dawg, we can do something special … something global!’ Musa’s enthusiasm was a lot, almost too much. TC felt like he was being hunted.

At first, TC ignored him. Kept it moving. There were too many dudes like Musa in the music scene—hungry for attention, hungry for something. But Musa was everywhere, and soon enough, the streets started buzzing. People on radio, at gigs, taxi ranks, and club backrooms were all saying the same thing: ‘You heard about Musa? That dude’s moving, bra. He’s blowing up.’

It was like he was everywhere, sliding in from the shadows. And despite himself, TC felt the pressure. He couldn’t just keep dodging. Musa was becoming a problem.

Eventually, after weeks of dodging and ignoring, TC folded.

‘Sharp, let’s link,’ TC typed, reluctant even as he hit send. Musa’s reply came instantly.

‘Aweh, big dawg! Let’s cook this weekend. You’ll love the setup, I swear!’



Pulling up to Musa’s place felt like stepping into another world. The high walls, electric gates, the sprawling lawn—it wasn’t just a house, it was an estate. You didn’t see places like this where TC came from. This was money. Not the flashy, newrich kind, but rather a classy, refined, generational wealth. Old school ANC money.

The gate slid open, and Musa came bouncing down the driveway like a kid in a candy store. He had on some fresh white sneakers, a clean-cut bomber jacket—too polished, too slick. TC felt uncomfortable before he even said a word.

‘Awe, my guy! Big dawg!’ Musa shouted, flashing a grin as wide as his parents’ massive yard. ‘Welcome to the magic, broer. This is where we turn dreams into hits!’

TC just nodded, forcing a half-smile. while Musa led him through the garden like he was giving a mansion tour.

‘We just finished the renovations on the pool,’ Musa bragged, pointing to the glistening blue water and elaborate hard crafted tiling. ‘All this… that’s my dad. He’s big in the mining game, you know? Exile struggle days and all that. But now he’s into the big money. Izinja zegame, you feel me?’

TC just nodded again, keeping his thoughts to himself. He didn’t need Musa’s whole life story. He just wanted to get into the studio and be done with it.

As they finally approached a back cottage—Musa’s private studio—TC took in the quiet, expensive vibe of the place. This wasn’t the kind of setup most DJs he knew had. This was nextlevel, soft life.

‘You’ll love this,’ Musa said, opening the door with a dramatic flourish. ‘All imported equipment, broer. You know I worked with this cat in Amsterdam? Dude’s a legend. He put me on to all these next-gen plugins, stuff that the homies here don’t even know about yet. That’s why I had to bring you in. We gotta make magic.’

Inside, the studio was decked out—state-of-the-art gear, walls lined with drum machines, synthesizers and vinyl records that looked like they’d never even been touched. The space was like nothing the chaotic TC was used to.

Musa settled into a plush gaming chair, pulling out his MacBook. ‘So, broer, let’s jump into it, yeah? I’ve been in talks with some people, you know? Got some stuff lined up with Sony, maybe a festival gig in London. You heard of this place called Fabric? Heavy spot, broer. I DJ’d there with some guys. Same lineup as Culoe once.’

TC couldn’t help but smirk. Musa was dropping names like it was nothing, acting like everyone in his phonebook was a big deal. It was all too much. He couldn’t tell if the guy was for real or just feeding him lines.

‘Shocase.’ TC muttered, already bored with the conversation. He just wanted to lay some beats and get out of there.

They started working on a beat together, but the vibe was off from the start. Every time TC laid something down, Musa would swoop in, making adjustments, tweaking things. And it wasn’t just little things—he was rearranging entire sections, like TC didn’t know what he was doing. He’d disappear every ten minutes, ducking out of the studio and coming back a little too hyped, a little too jittery.

‘Broer, this track!? Fire,’ Musa said, grinning wide as he came back from another mysterious trip to the bathroom. He had that energy, the unmistakable, coked-up swagger. He tried to hide it, but TC could see through it. He knew what this was.

The day dragged on. TC wasn’t feeling the session. Every time he made good progress by himself, Musa would get extra distracting—dropping into his phone to check messages, sending voice notes to some promoter in New York, talking about how him and TC were ‘making magic’ together. It felt so fake, forced.

It didn’t help that Musa had mastered this bullshit version of being kasi. He’d throw in a few words and meme phrases— ‘Sharp, ntwana,’ ‘Izinja madoda,’ ‘O jile o jile’—like seasoning in a soup, just enough to seem authentic. But it was all wrong. You could hear it. The words didn’t fit his mouth right, didn’t flow, because they weren’t his. They weren’t real. He’d learned them somewhere else, some polished prep school in the midlands, and now he was trying to spit them back at the streets, hoping no one would notice how off it all sounded.

And then there was the name-dropping. That really made TC’s skin crawl. Every time Musa opened his mouth, some other high-end name came tumbling out.

‘Ja, bra, I was just in Ibiza, you know? Mad vibes. Was chilling with Coffee and Da Capo there, you know, just talking about life, DJ sets, whatever. Solid guys. We’re definitely doing something together soon. Ah, you know how it is.’

No, actually, TC didn’t know how it was. He didn’t know how you just chilled with Black Coffee in Ibiza, like it was nothing. TC knew the slog, the hustle, the grind so deep it leaves your knuckles bleeding. Not some curated life where you had every damn door opened for you because your dad had banked the right cheques for ANC comrades years ago, signed the right mining agreements.

Musa would vanish from the studio for a few minutes, then return, eyes gleaming, movements sharper. And every time, Musa’s arrogant smile got bigger, like he had some secret TC would never crack. TC could feel the kasi edge eroding under Musa’s manicured hands, could hear the music losing its rawness, its teeth. It was all Musa’s show now.

And when TC finally decided to leave—because his stomach couldn’t take it anymore—he cracked a joke, because what else was there to do? He stood in the doorway, ready to go, his eyes skimming over the pristine palatial yard, the freshly row series of cars parked in the drive, the quiet, suburban hush.

‘Ja, broer, I better head back to the slums,’ TC said, laughing awkwardly.

Musa’s eyes flickered for a second—just a second—but that fake, easy grin plastered itself back onto his face. It was a joke, man. Light-hearted. But it landed with all the elegance of a concrete slab to the chest.

‘Eish, sharp, broer, take care of yourself, Mapule, the helper will let you out,’ Musa had replied, his voice a little too tight, a little too forced. TC could feel the weight of his words hanging there, like something that should never have been said out loud. And as Musa watched him leave, there was no offer of a ride, no suggestion of a lift to the taxi rank that was kilometres away. Because Musa? He couldn’t relate. He wouldn’t.



As TC left the estate, walking down the long driveway toward the street, TC felt the weight of the day settle on him. The mission home was long, but what really gnawed at TC was how Musa, sitting there in his pristine coke haze, didn’t feel any of that.

Musa’s facade seemed perfect, but something about the guy didn’t sit right. Something was off. The way he acted, the way he talked, the way he moved—it wasn’t real. There was a hollowness to it, a gloss over the grit. Musa was manufactured, built for success by a bourgeoisie family with money and connections.

TC climbed into another connecting taxi, the sun setting behind him. The ride home would be long and uncomfortable—Cinderella back to her pumpkin, back to the real world. And as the taxi sped through the streets of Pretoria, bouncing over potholes and swerving past vendors, TC couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. He knew he wouldn’t be the same after today.

After the day of the studio session, TC started hearing some of the music that he had created at Musa’s house everywhere. The worst part? It wasn’t even a slow takeover, like underground beats simmering until it bubbled to the surface. No, it was like one day the world had been sane, and the next, BANG, Musa’s polished, glittery, watered-down version of TC’s sweat and blood was spilling out of every crack in the city.

It started in the usual spots—underground clubs, taverns, Tiktok, corner shacks, taxis blasting down the broken streets, the vendors hawking CDs in city centre taxi ranks, then radio. Then, it hit the mainstream clubs, the kind of clubs that made TC uncomfortable now—places too shiny, where people wore shoes that cost as much as rent in the suburbs. Those clubs. And then came the taxis, man. Taxis were the last straw. When the midday sun beat down, cooking everything, and even the roadkill stank like death, TC heard it. Musa’s track. A track he had practically birthed with his own hands, now playing like an anthem on every street.

Musa had taken their work—his work, if you wanted to get real about it—and stripped it of its grit. The track didn’t even breathe anymore. Gone was the sharp edge, the rawness of the township sound. In its place was some squeaky-clean, suburban-friendly nonsense that felt fake, soulless. Polished to perfection, like something you’d hear in a tacky fashion store while white girls tried on overpriced Tupac T-shirts, too cool to care. It didn’t belong to the streets anymore.

And the worst part? The very worst part?

Musa’s name was all over it without so much as a mention of TC.

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• Nthato Mokgata aka Spoek Mathambo is a multidisciplinary artist, writer, filmmaker and musician, best known for his boundary-pushing work in music and his unflinching exploration of South Africa’s cultural landscape. Ghost in the Drum is his debut novel. Copies can be ordered here.

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Publisher information

TC is a rising star in South Africa’s underground music scene—his explosive beats are the lifeblood of Pretoria’s streets. But fame comes at a steep price. The pressure of success, the isolation of touring, and a spiraling inner turmoil push TC to the brink. Once his music was his escape; now it mirrors the chaos inside him.

Running from more than just fame, TC has abandoned the life his father had planned for him—a career in the family’s mortuary business. Hiding from his past, he betrays those who love him, including his loyal girlfriend who refuses to give up on him.

Ghost in the Drum is a raw and unflinching exploration of fame, mental health and the cost of ambition. Can TC redeem himself before it’s too late, or will his choices destroy everything he’s worked for?

A powerful story about the high stakes of ambition, the toll of betrayal, and the search for redemption.