Tyla’s rise as a global pop star highlights the complexities of race, identity, and cultural representation, challenging how Blackness is perceived across the diaspora.
Tyla on Late Night, 2024. Credit Rob Corder via Flickr CC BY-NC 2.0.
In 2023, I noticed a young, racially ambiguous woman in cornrows frequently appear on my “For You Page.” I learned that her name was Tyla, and I also learned that she is from my hometown of Johannesburg, South Africa. In that same year, she emerged as one of South Africa’s most promising cultural exports, blending a kind of Amapiano rhythm with the global pop sensibilities of an international star. Yet, for me, Tyla represents something much more interesting. She has transcended the “pop star” label and has inadvertently become a symbol of racial anthropology; a figure caught in the complex crossfires of identity, representation, and global Blackness. Her career trajectory has challenged her to connect with a wide enough Black American audience and to navigate the divisive loyalty of her South African fan base, offering a captivating perspective that examines the diasporic politics of race and culture.
As a Black South African, I view Coloured identity as an unremarkable, normal part of our societal fabric. I grew up with the understanding, like most South Africans, that “Colouredness” was a legitimate identity and experience that was rooted in a mixed ancestry. But for those unfamiliar, the term, “Coloured” originates as a technology of racial classification during Apartheid South Africa. This tool was imposed to separate people of mixed ancestry from Black and white populations and became codified legislation under the Population Registration Act and Group Areas Act of 1950. However, as authors Tessa Dooms and Lynsey Ebony Chutel discuss in COLOURED: How Classification Became Culture, Coloured identity evolved beyond its colonial and Apartheid roots and, like Blackness, became a legitimate racial identity that is neither monolithic nor simple.
Coloured identity holds a multitude of cultures, spanning the Khoi and San people, enslaved Black South Africans, and settler-colonial European ancestry. Becoming more than racial ambiguity, it represents a legacy of survival and adaptation. Yet, when filtered through global eyes, Coloured identity is flattened into a perception of ambiguity that frustrates binary racial categorization. And while mixed-race identities are not unique to the world, the packaging of a mixed-racial heritage within an explicitly African context feels relatively novel to a global audience. While Tyla has yet to explicitly address her defined relationship to Coloured identity publically, I see it all over her appearance, accent, and artistry. This has complicated her reception on the world stage, where the Black and white binary dominates racial discourse.
To Black American audiences, Tyla’s identity may appear as a racial rejection that triggers distrust and disinterest. Black audiences often seek cultural figures who mirror their experiences, and Tyla’s colouredness presents a version of Blackness that may feel alien or irrelevant to those accustomed to interpreting Blackness through an American lens. The divergence is historical and aesthetic; where African-American music sensations such as Beyoncé and Kendrick Lamar cultivate narratives steeped in Black-American culture. Whereas Tyla’s artistry reflects the sonic and visual language of Amapiano, a genre rooted in Black South African culture. For audiences unfamiliar with the cultural weight of Amapiano, its presentation through a racially ambiguous Coloured woman can feel suspicious.
Adding fuel to this complexity is the fervent defense Tyla receives from her South African fans online. South Africa’s social media spaces are notoriously combative, particularly when it comes to defending their contemporary cultural icon—Tyla. Much of this defense is rooted in pride over Amapiano’s global ascent and the validation of South African cultural exports like Tyla. However, it’s worth noting that part of this fervent support of her from her South African fans, also appears to be rooted in a kind of colorism. Tyla’s racial ambiguity may contribute to her perceived palatability for global acceptance and thus adamant defense of her—an observation that merits its own exploration in a separate article. Tyla’s rise has also been accompanied by waves of online vitriol directed at anyone who dares to question her identity and artistry.
And here lies the crux of Tyla’s struggle: the protective cocoon her team has wrapped her in, while well-intentioned, a strategic mistake. Shielding her from critique, particularly about her identity and how it is received, isolates her from the very discourse that could propel her career forward. This missed opportunity was evident when Tyla refused to address her identity directly in her Breakfast Club interview when the host, Charlamagne tha God, asked her explicitly about her ethnicity and heritage. By refusing to answer, she ceded control of the narrative surrounding her identity. That moment could have served as the avenue to which she could have proudly introduced her background to a global audience rather than leaving it open to interpretation or speculation. The history of Coloured identity in South Africa offers rich terrain for Tyla to offer a new layer to global Black identity. For Tyla, leaning into her different racial identities could offer a compelling counterpoint to the simplicity with which global audiences often approach race and identity.
Ultimately, it’s worth stepping back and acknowledging that much of this discourse—Tyla’s positioning in the so-called “diaspora wars,” debates over her identity, and the defensiveness of her fan base—is symptomatic of something deeper: the invention of race itself. Race, as we understand it, is not an inherent truth but a constructed imposition by colonial powers to divide, categorize, and control. It’s a legacy designed to fracture solidarity and redirect our energies inward rather than upward. Perhaps the real question isn’t whether Tyla is “Black enough” or whether Black Americans are justified in their skepticism. Instead, we might ask who benefits from these divisions and what they distract us from.
Tyla is undeniably beautiful and talented, and some may find it unfortunate that she has been transformed into an anthropological figure in the ongoing discourse on race and Blackness. But I believe this makes her artistry even more compelling. My hope for Tyla is that this conversation doesn’t break her, but instead empowers her to channel these tensions into something truly profound and groundbreaking in her artistry. This is fertile ground and it is all hers.
