A Life Still Learning the Chords

By Patience Musa

I first knew him as a fellow musician. We shared stages years ago — nothing
ceremonial about it. Just sound, lights, and the quiet understanding that comes
from standing beside someone who knows what they’re doing. Only later did I
realise how long his story with music had already been unfolding.
To tell Daniel Jenkins’ story, we would have to go back to when he was about
13 years old. That was when his father taught him a few chords on the guitar.
From there, he never put it down. He still laughs about how he used to take the
guitar from his father’s hands whenever he wanted to play, but even then, music
had already found its place in him.
Music became his constant. He grew up playing in church and in school bands.
School itself never quite held his attention. He would skip lessons and make his
way to the music room instead. Over time, the teachers became used to finding
him there. When the prefects came looking during class, the teachers would
lock him in the music room, knowing it was where he wanted to be. They saw
something forming long before he had the words for it.
By the time our paths crossed, he was already immersed in rock and adult
contemporary music. There were moments along the way that marked the
journey. In 2013, he opened for Prime Circle — a band he admired deeply and
still does. Later came the cruise ships, contracts that took him far from home.
His first one took him to Antarctica, a place he describes as one of the most
serene he has ever experienced.
The work, however, was demanding. Seven days a week. Up to five hours a day.
Around 300 songs every week, repeated until they became instinct. Nearly
1,200 songs a month. It was intense and unrelenting.
And it was lonely.
For ten years, he travelled the world with no permanent base. No place to settle.
No family of his own. While others his age were building homes and raising
children, his life unfolded in constant motion. From the outside, it looked
glamorous. From the inside, it often felt isolating.
Race was never something he saw as a barrier in Zimbabwe’s music scene.
Many of the musicians he grew up with and still interacts with — Ammara

Brown, Jah Prayzah, Tehn Diamond — were simply part of his world. Music
was the common ground.
Then COVID came, and everything slowed down.
During that period, he went through a near-death experience linked to substance
abuse. That moment changed how he viewed fame, ambition, and even life
itself. What once seemed permanent suddenly felt fleeting.
His addiction had taken him to a dark place. It caused pain to those around him.
Through faith, he came to see himself clearly — not just the struggle, but the
damage. That honesty became the beginning of change.
The transition into gospel music did not feel like a struggle. It felt like
understanding. When you grasp that you take nothing with you when you die —
not accolades, not money, not status — perspective shifts. What the transition
did require was humility. Early on, his desire was to be seen, heard, and
recognised. Over time, he realised how much of that was centred on self.
He puts it plainly now:
his old music was about self-glory.
his new music gives all the glory to Jesus.
His songwriting has changed. He no longer writes to chase success or
recognition. He writes when something comes, often quickly, often without
force. He writes from lived experience, asking hard questions of himself and
even of God, while always offering hope. At times, he listens back and is moved
by the grace, mercy and love reflected in the songs.
Pain remains a catalyst in his writing. The guitar remains his main instrument.
And where his skills end, others help bring the vision to life. Musicians and
producers Simba Moyo and Riffi Wacho played a vital role in shaping his first
worship album.
He titled it From Darkness to Light.
Later this year, he plans to host a worship gathering in Harare — not as a
performance, but as a space where lives might be changed. He has no
expectations of reception. If one person finds light, that is enough.

As for the future, he holds it loosely. Wherever the music goes is not his
decision to make. Whether it leads to stages or quiet worship alone, he is
content.
Less of him.
More of God.
A story still being written.