Lesotho’s ‘Queen of Famo’: Puseletso Seema Struggles Amidst Violent Evolution of Her Own Music Genre

Lesotho’s Puseletso Seema, affectionately known as the Queen of Famo, embodies the soulful essence of her nation’s beloved musical genre. Despite her international acclaim, she resides in a modest dwelling nestled amidst the rural landscapes outside Maseru, where boys ride donkeys and shepherds clad in vibrant blankets tend to their flocks against the backdrop of snow-capped mountains.

Winter’s clear skies cast long shadows over her home, yet Seema cannot afford electricity and is unwell, frequently coughing as she recalls her journey to becoming the first woman to break into an industry once dominated by men.

Famo holds a unique significance in Lesotho, acting as both a vessel for emotional expression and a reflection of the country’s rich history. Motsamai Mokotjo, an esteemed journalist who has extensively covered the genre, describes famo as “a fusion of poetry and accordion,” embodying the essence of Basotho folk law.

In essence, it serves as a vehicle for expressing joy, sorrow, and every other human emotion. Lesotho, one of the world’s poorest countries, provided Seema with meager beginnings; she grew up without formal education and was tasked with tending livestock by her family, responsibilities that were typically reserved for boys in her community.

However, undeterred, Seema found solace in music, singing famo melodies as a shepherd, a role traditionally filled by men. Famo originated among Lesotho’s pastoral communities but gained prominence when Basotho migrants took it to South Africa’s mines during the 20th century, where they were introduced to the accordion, the genre’s primary instrument.

In mining towns, weary workers sought solace in rough-and-tumble shebeens, and famo became an integral part of their nightly rituals. Seema herself ventured to Johannesburg, not as a miner but as a performer catering to the miners, bridging the gap between her pastoral roots and her urban aspirations.

“I was the first woman to produce famo music,” she recalls proudly. “Because that music was known for men to sing and women to dance, flicking up their skirts when they went to shebeens.”

In recent years, however, the music has faced a darker evolution, becoming inextricably linked with gang violence that has claimed innocent lives and prompted government intervention. Last year, the Lesotho government launched a crackdown, banning certain groups and prohibiting media from reporting on the gang wars.

Prime Minister Sam Matekane acknowledged the severity of the issue, stating: “Our families, relatives, and friends are being killed by these famo gangs.” The crackdown followed a series of revenge killings, one of which claimed the lives of five members of the same family in April 2024.

In July, famo star Khopolo Kholue was gunned down alongside a local journalist investigating the gang wars. Musicians and cultural activists like Mpho Malikeng believe the violence stems from escalating verbal confrontations within song lyrics that often turn into real-life feuds.

“It’s akin to a rap battle,” Malikeng explains. “One musician will diss their opponent in their lyrics, prompting a response that escalates the conflict.” He likens this situation to the 1990s East Coast-West Coast rivalry between hip hop groups in Los Angeles, which led to the murders of Tupac Shakur and Notorious B.I.G.

The violence is further fueled by territorial disputes, as Malikeng explains: “You cannot listen to so-and-so’s music in a certain area without risking your life.” Yet he believes the government’s response may have gone too far, especially considering allegations of involvement between politicians and members of the security forces in famo gangs.

“The political landscape has been tainted by these issues,” Malikeng claims. “Politicians use the gang wars to garner support for electioneering.” Despite the challenges facing her music, Seema remains committed to promoting a cleaner, more unifying form of famo, one that does not resort to vulgarity or hate speech.

“I want my music to bring joy and harmony, not discord,” she says firmly. “Music has the power to heal, and I choose to use it for good.”