Kiss
Ya Bangongi
By R D
Okang’a Ooko
© Okang’a Ooko, 2007. All Rights Reserved
DOMINIQUE
“Midomo Ya Bata” Christian Kabengele Mabiala had
died, he first had learnt on Matonge radio trottoir.
Before the assignment to Village Kingabwa. But he witnessed
more animation in the smokey, cold bar called Rendezvous
Ya Bino with Empire Bakuba and a throaty voiced Kabaselle
Ya M’Panya rumbling uninterruptedly on a fine thing called
Cocktail. He sat with Tonton Skol. He drank and thought
of his penchant for meringues, beguines and mazourkas, and the
vein in his forehead shone. Kabengele’s clear-toned jazzy
style was the kind preserving old music could not afford to
be without. Mellow with a florid jazzy style like Empompo Loway.
Then jerky and bending and bending like Verkys. A thing Dibango
could place in form and content, even style. Midomo ya Bata,
the disc d’or man of Loningisa. How could he be dead,
he was full of the talent and technique ingredient necessary
for preserving old music.
Adonisi,
the barman poked rudely into his thoughts like a redundant maringa
dancer and brought to life his asthma. “Here it is, Grand
Koserie,” Adonisi thundered in his loud Bayaka voice and
spread out Salongo. “Mokili tour a tour!
Nakamwaka te! Vraiment en colere! Kabengele Midomo
Ya Bata is dead. Akufaki! They have this story here.
But I first learnt about it in Wenze Ya Bayaka.”
Grand Koserie
grunted glanced at the paper for a quarter of a second and clawed
in his pockets for his inhaler.
Adonisi breathed out heavily through the wide dark Bantu nostrils
and tore into his agony with brutal charge. 'He died! You know,
it’s amazing when guy dies. Nakamwaka moto akokufa.
Nakamwaka mingi. When a great guy like Midomo Ya Bata dies.
You suddenly realize how much is gone. Wah! Oh la la! All those
great songs! Midomo Ya Bata played better than Verkys.”
He snatched Salongo away from Grand Koserie and exclaimed,
‘This guy played with Verkys, could play better than Verkys.
He was young when he played with Manu Dibango, Roger Izeidi
and Kalle in African Jazz. Is that true? Grand Koserie! I don’t
believe it. Grand Koserie. Then it says here that he played
with Brazzos and Longomba in Orchestra Lovy before he went to
Paris to team up with Mavatiku Michelino.” He turned to
Grand Koserie and said more than asked, “You met him in
Paris. You worked with him when he briefly sat in with Trio
Madjesi at Veve Studios. For a year. Your name is here in Salongo,
Grand Koserie. Then you parted for a while when you both left
Trio Madjesi. Or did Trio Madjesi fold up? I don’t know.
But it says here that you continued to manage Orchestre Sosoliso.’
“That
was later,” Grand Koserie wheezed and mopped his brow.
He had had a downing feeling of serious sickness.
Adonisi put in suddenly, “Where did he get the name Midomo
Ya Bata.”
Grand Koserie coughed thickly, coughed up phlegm and swallowed.
Death was in his mind as always.
“When
he accompanied Rochereau and Afrisa on a tour of Tanzania,”
he forced out. “Kiswahili.”
“Kiswahili?”
Adonisi sounded more exhilarated than surprised.
Grand Koserie
nodded and gnashed his teeth. “Kiswahili.’
‘Oh
la la.’
Grand Koserie
stared at him for a long deary minute before help came. A shrill
and in charged some youth with agility and prank only likeable
to bonobo.“Yo! Adonisi papa! Pesa Primus mibale. Ya
ngai na ya mwasi oyo. Mbongo ezali awa!”
Adonisi
cursed and sneered in Grand Koserie’s face. “Bana
ba lelo!” But he had to go. Grand Koserie saw his
chance to escape.
He didn’t finish his drink because cigarette smoke, Adonisi
and noise were making his life pain. He limped slowly out of
the dingy bar in silent protest, into the dark rain drenched
boulevard. The strong downpours having paused, only a faint
drizzle sprayed down his head and back as he limped and scanned
the dimly lit boulevard for a taxi. Not to his lonely mansionette
in Yolo where his wife Vendetta had recently deserted him, but
to city centre down to Boulevard Kasavubu. To Village Kingabwa.
Infact with the dull yellows and bluish neons that blinked out
the thick of the night. The tropical city with garish nightlife
and big hipped basi ba nduma and rhumba odemba
was good for a free spirited elderly bachelor.
The mystery
of Grand Koserie along with most of life’s puzzling questions
was that he was a perennial loser. That’s why he never
fulfilled his dream to settle down quietly in Brazza. He never
really made it across the river to Brazza with a fine band to
perform for the president. And did he really succeed as a musician?.
Going to the US on tour did not amount to any success. Money
was here in this great mboka ya bakoko. But look how
his celebrated group Shokolokobango fell apart. And his two
marriages had failed. Now at fifty six he could understand himself
better than anyone. Vendetta his third wife was right. He was
a turbulent man, as any true artist. He couldn’t sustain
anything for much long. Anything he touched he destroyed (Vendetta’s
words). That was it. But was it true, really? Maybe? He didn’t
think so. Yes, his business had failed. Yes, his band had fallen
apart. Yes, his marriages had failed. But deep down he knew
he was a nice guy who could still do good and succeed. A nice
guy people never really understood. Yes, they were only poking
holes in his character, wanting and demanding favours from him.
People were always trying to rip him off. At any given time
someone was on his neck for something. But his son Dally, working
professionally in Paris as a jazz guitarist and tenor saxohpnist,
and his daughter Micho, working in Nairobi as a fashion designer
knew his good side. They knew him not as the mean, brutal heartless
brute everybody branded him. Today in the fullness of time,
his manner had improved as his life had slowed. Now he had changed
to wearing African design attires in a new effort to rebrand
himself.
Since the collapse of Shokolokobango his musicians had regrouped
as Duku Duku and took up impromptu session work in Nairobi and
lowly live performances than recording. He had to live, so he
linked himself to the great singer Tabu Ley Rochereau and worked
for a while as a composer and arranger. But Afrisa had a heavily
fused salsa bedrock and had no time for rumba odemba
and he had never been enthusiastic about African Jazz school.
The result was that he eventually became of no use to Afrisa.
He next worked briefly at Veve Studios with Dene Wade rerecording
old material, among them the smash hit Maria Tebbo.
Eventually, six years ago, his contract with Veve ended, he
had cast away his ambitions and went to New African Promotions
where he got full time employment as a consultant handling young
talent and preserving old classical music. Looking around for
young talent meant slogging at night to the nondescript hotels
and the dingy slum club houses looking out for young stars.
From the dressing rooms of cold-eyed fallen stars in Quartier
Far West to the slum quarters of dirty, short distance beginners
in Matonge, he saw it all. The men had sharp foxy faces and
voices that could melt souls of vilest of witches. The la
sapeur fever and phenomene had not yet died and
fashion and dress mode was carried to extreme levels of eccentric
clown-like make-up. The apparel brand was Made In Paris.
Fabrique en Belgique. Where else? But they wore abacost
no more, these stars. Authenticite wouldn't hold for
much long, it had been candidly predicted by haters of Authenticite.
Nobody in this age remembered abacost and what it stood
for - a bas le costumes (down with the suits). Everyone
of these stars and their fans wanted wear ba mondele ya
sika. That means the latest from Europe. Suits they wore,
cheap imitation fashion black suits and brogues in the stifling
and scorching Matonge midday sun. Not many of these stars with
a galaxy of phony, cocaphonic, egostistical and self-styled
Authenticite-inspired names, would ever make it out
of Matonge. You would find them in run down bars doing Zaiko
acts very badly, cleaned up, or down in the cheap burlesque
houses as dirty as the law allowed and once in a while just
enough dirtier for a raid and a noisy gendarme court trial,
and then back in their shows again, grinning sadistically filthy
and as rank as the smell of stale sweat. Grand Koserie fished
them. He fished out men and took his profiles to the publicity
office of New African Promotions in Kimbwala. The man who was
his boss, the publicity manager, Oredde Komando, glanced briefly
at the reports, studied the photos with distaste, listened to
the tapes briefly, forwarding, listening then reached out for
the red phone on his desk. Grand Koserie had by now grown to
take that cue dreadfully. He quietly withdrew to his stuffy
office down the dirty corridors, decorated by the posters of
smiling musicians, Langa Langa Stars, Victoria Eleison and Viva
La Musica among them in his office he kept the files in the
iron cabinets and put his feet on his iron desk. He would have
French English Dictionary and he would be reading and struggling
with his English. His mind was on Nairobi City, where Vendetta
had run away with his young son, Boyibanda. But if you didn’t
find him in his office then he would be at the bar near the
entrance. A large backlit sign over the imposing three story
building cried in harsh blue, yellow and red New African Promotions.
A lot of people, mostly promotions people for various companies,
artists, singers, composers and out-of-work guitarists flocked
the bar eager to talk to the great man who was once known as
Grand Koserie. Among these were impoverished stars who had once
graced fame and big money and fallen. Their faces still smiled
at from New African Promotions studios, libraries and offices.
But, here again they flocked the corridor outside the publicity
managers office eager to make comebacks and new start of sorts.
Handling
young talent and preserving old classical music for Grand Koserie
was an easy job. Many old groups had fizzled out into near obscurity
due to the fact that they were unable to adapt to new styles.
To Grand Koserie this was more a question of material and resources
than talent. For six years he had had a busy time at New African
Promotions signing in old bands into contracts that made them
virtual contractors of the agency. He had signed in twenty musical
groups and sold over forty new albums. Then he made the agency
lose three million francs when some of the groups either failed
to perform or rebelled under the new terms.
But for Grand Koserie today, there was a sweet artistic side
to business. He had talked with these new stars, laughed with
them, dined with them and rode in their cars. He had tasted
all that grandeur. His greatest pride is that he was the one
who rediscovered them. Redefined them. Rebranded them. He rediscovered
Bella Bella playing for small money at the rail station pub.
After the success of Bella Bella he went on a long journey that
saw him rediscover the Stukas, Professor Vata Mombasa, Choc
Stars and Lipua Lipua. His work was easy – he got these
groups to rework some of their old hits. These were repackaged
on compact discs and sold all over Africa. Easy work. Bands
of the yesteryears could never be compared with the new groups
working in the highly competitive more commercialised digital
age. But the bands of the yesteryears were always compared unfairly
with the more faster, more vigorous prolific bands of today.
Which is more than these old groups could do. In the olden days
people made music to create and preserve art, today it was to
make money. That was why today’s industry had promoters
tagged hard to it. There was no argument about it, the bands
of the yesteryears were always the greater bands because they
originated and initiated lasting techniques, styles and profiles
which indeed formed the basis for music and which today’s
groups now modernised against the spectrum of technology. Take
away the simplicity of melody and art and technology wouldn’t
hold much for today’s groups. Now old bands; stuck with
the past sadly meant they could only play well the songs they
were well known and remembered for. Grand Koserie knew that
the only way to preserve old music was to rerecord the old music
and recreate the old bands.
Added to
the good business side is that most people who grew up in the
seventies and eighties only wanted the music of that period,
rerecorded or not.
As the car
went rustling through the dark and the rain he shut his eyes
and dug his head into the awful smelling upholstery. He decided
to spend the night in Village Kingabwa because, the thought
of Vendetta depressed him, brought darkness over his life. Her
angular somewhat serious face filled his mind. Her voice was
in his ears. And he fondly remembered her enchanting smile,
that woman could smile with her eyes. She had been a musician
too, he tiredly remembered. A musician of sorts. He had met
her performing in Abidjan with what was left of demi goddess
diva Abeti Massikini’s band. She was a dancer, she liked
to be known as a choreographer. She wrote poetry, she wanted
to write heart rending ballads like Le Poete Lutumba Ndomanueno
Symaro Massiya. She practised with playing clarinet, was a reasonably
good player. She was a fierce personality who greatly adored
M’Pongo Love. She loved Djuna Djanana’s voice. And
she could speak English so well. So she made good living as
translator. She also possessed a good command of French and
Spanish. Now she had the UN job and was comfortably working
and living in Nairobi.
Now, Vendetta. What about the depressing love side? A big man
like him? Was it love or just need for good companionship? Someone
to grow old with? He had thought he had conquered the love thing
when he met Vendetta. He had had too many women in his life.
As a musician in the sixties and seventies, he had made a good
number of babies and broken a great many hearts. And thought
he fully knew them. Women wanted to own you, you wanted to own
them. You got intertwined, you became one. You controlled each
other. Then out went the love thing. And you fell apart because
you were tired of one another. When he met Vendetta, he struck
a deal: no owning. They stayed together and ran parallel like
the strings of a guitar, playing one note and enjoying the resonance
without becoming one thing. But why was he finding it difficult
to focus and live after she left? A big man like him.
Village Kingabwa was hollywood. A depraved libre ville
on this part of the world. Nights here were indecorous, garishly
illuminated. Hungry lips and red glows of cigarette plied the
main streets. Hunger and pleasure went together as long as money
changed hands. Ba musicien came to this hollywood,
plodded the dark boulevards, ate illegal game meat and made
for the strip where the predatory basi ba ndumba avidly
waylaid and ensnared them. They were gigantic big-boned women
with sultry engaging bedside manners, sweaty faces, bushy sweaty
and smelly armpits and scanty pagne that revealed wide
thunderous hips and large, ravenous and effervescent genitals.
As raw as ever. Ba musicien made them totally tickled
and totally drunk. Then they invoked the ndoki for
consummation. The basi ba ndumba complied with alacrity.
Upon rickety wooden beds, upon bare mattresses and unwashed
blankets, they were consummated and given babies. Consummated
with vigour, brutal torture, and reckless abandon that made
them scream and bleed and reach shattering orgasms braying like
demented donkeys. Ba musicien left them dazed and panting
with the aftermath of body-shattering climaxes, copious man
seeds flowing out of their ravaged and smarting womanhoods.
The musicians asked them to say their names. Sometimes the ba
musicien were too tired or too drunk for consummation but they
lied to the basi ba ndumba that they were going write
songs for them. These musicians flamboyantly walked with that
popular crouching giant and carried their guitars whenever they
went. Then they went away, but the name they gave to Village
Kingabwa as a music man’s paradise remained miraculously
unchanged.
Grand Koserie got out of the taxi, argued with the fast-talking
chauffeur taxi about the fair, paid and got a rude
sneer. The taxi rolled back into the dark of the night like
a crocodile making for its frothy waters. Grand Koserie watched
its red rear lights disappear into the darkness. Oyo nini
mujinga, he swore with absolute meanness. Mm. Moyibi.
All about him buildings stood erect like match sticks. Signs
and neons flashed, sparks of grey, harsh blue, red lines like
fire rods and in pale purple and indigo lines, called out died
away and brightened, all giving out their best different energies
like laughter of hardened witches. The night pulsated like a
mammoth expectant elephant. There was a light and steady drizzle,
enough to soak one down to his skin in only minutes. But nobody
seemed to mind. There were people, good and not-so-good men
pairing freely with luridly dressed, torrid and adequately available
basi ba ndumba. There was loud music and there was
life. All along the two hundred meters of the boulevard up on
the balconies the fleshy rumps and pudendas of basi ba ndumba
rubbing against sensational music boys who looked like dreadlocked
heroes of the colonial era or just purposeless youths of fashion,
but infact were not.. Policemen and fishy chaps were not welcome.
The musicians themselves were tucked away inside the bricks
where they caressed large, dark thighs and smoked hard things
and purred, mwasi, kitoko na yo nyama!
The chagrin
strip show at Wemba Club had been curtailed and a live band
had been brought to play in the basement. An improvement since
the woman who did the strip shows fell in love with some idiot
lowlife Belgian know-it-all and got married. She was to old
that sort of thing, anyway. Forty-six years. Mama ya bana.
Grand Koserie got this story from an old fella who sat on the
longue reading Salongo. The old fella was called Mbelekete
and he was the manager of the band.
Grand Koserie
left the old chap called Mbelekete listlessly reading Salongo,
went through the club’s modestly proportioned lower hall
where men and women sat drinking Primus, eating ntaba
and talking loudly, to the basement. The band had not yet arrived
and a discreet juke box with pictures of The Rolling Stones
played a groovy OK Jazz rumba that had a heavy seventies nostalgia
with melodious voice of Kiambukuta and was accompanied with
neat and incessant saxophones and trumpets. Kiambukuta’s
persuasive voice had cravings and pangs of emotion that went
far beyond the heart, out beyond the old chap called Mbelekete
reading Salongo into the dark street. A drunken man
in a wax batik print abacost staggered in his unfunny
dance jigs before the juke box and sang along the vocal parts
with Kiambukuta, perhaps louder, perhaps better than Kiambukuta.
The stage
was well lit. The band’s gear stood there. Three mikes,
a drumset and a large Roland organ. Grand Koserie was surprised
at the sight of the equipment. They didn’t look so bad
only for the Roland and the speakers that were battered a little.
He moved closer to glare at the two roadies who were fixing
the drum set. The drum set itself looked elaborate a bit with
three steel drums added. One roadie was fixing a mike for the
drummer and another was testing the amp. What was this group,
he asked. Historia, he was told. Grand Koserie was surprised.
Historia? Kabengle’s group!.
I have
arrived, Grand Koserie thought to himself. The search is
drawing to an end. Then it occurred to him that it would be
difficult convincing Dominique Kabengele’s son. He hobbled
out of the club in haste, in search, the old Fella called Mbelekete.
‘Sango
nini?’
‘Sango
te.’
‘Oyo
nde orchestre ya nani?’
Mbelekete
spat and said, ‘It’s Midomo Ya Bata’s orchestra.
This is our last night here. You might be lucky if you can convince
the boy. He is indeed talented. He plays the lead guitar. I
play bass.”
Grand Koseries
nodded. “What’s his name,” he asked
“Koko.
Koko Kabengele. ‘
Grand Koserie looked elaborately about him.
‘Koko,’
the man repeated. But Grand Koserie ignored him and asked. ‘Where
do I find him?
“Mokonzi
Pizza is his uncle. Find them there. You will find me here when
you come back.”
“Them?”
Mbelekete
nodded and showed the gold in his teeth for what passed for
a smile.
“Two
of them. There is this other kid you wouldn’t like who
is his best friend and something of a mentor. You better hurry.
Today they had a girl so I don’t know if you’ll
find them.”
Grand Pizza hurried away into the darkness and the thick of
the pouring rain.
“Good
luck, ndeko na ngai,” Mbelekete called out after
him.
He knew
where Pizza’s bar was, only a few walks down the boulevard,
at the top of a broken, white stone house that leaned dangerous
over the angry and filthy river below. Going up the cold, broken
stairway, he fell down twice and sat in the dark to rest. From
above came voices. Some subdued tinker voices could. Then one
loud voice cuts in silence. Someone strums a guitar and runs
into a slow tune of a familiar OK Jazz song.
Grand Koserie
picked himself up and went up more carefully until he reached
the landing. He walked slowly into the bar room. The room was
cold. Boulevard lighting came through the window mesh like a
yellow spray and an old-fashioned propeller fan wheezed from
the white ceiling. Only four people were n the bar. Two kids
who played the slow solo and rhythm and rode along the OK Jazz
song and a girl. The two boys wore dirty baggy jeans and combat
jackets and the girl was in a black stretch-to-fit showed her
figure and her developing boobs. She was barely fourteen, one
could tell. The fourth person in the room was Mokonzi Pizza
behind the bar, sitting resolutely behind the bar like a retired
general. Grand Koserie crossed to the bar and asked for Tonton
Skol. As he watched the boys the tiny stream of discovery razed
through him with the intensity of an orgasm. A familiar feeling
that told him that among rubble one finds gold.
The OK Jazz
song went on. The hypnotic solo and the relative rhythm. They
kept changing, coming to the repeated groups of tunes almost
at the same time. The boy who played the solo looked the youngest.
He was an embarrassingly scrawny 60 kilo twerp. The girl chanted
out the vocal parts of the song. She sat on a long stool and
she sang with her eyes closed, swaying her lithe body widely
and elaborately while her hands were on the solo guitarist’s
neck, kneading and massaging with her long fingers, sometimes
kissing his ears. The other boy who looked older had his back
to Grand Koserie, hunched over, his body moving extravagantly
with the rhythm.
They careed
the song to an end. Grand Koserie huddled over and demanded,
“What are you boys drinking today?”
The soloist
looked up at Grand Koserie’s with a haughty expression.
The older boy asked, “Nani wana?”
Grand Koserie
said, “Kombo na ngai Grand Koserie. Ndeko ya Bapius.
Tata ya Dally. Tata na Micho. Camarade ya tata na yo.”
The soloist
strummed silently at his guitar, silently working on a tune,
“Grand Koserie. Oh, I know you. Friend of my father. Well
my father is dead.”
Grand Koserie
nodded and bit had on his lower lip.
The bigger
boy leaned forward and almost pleaded with the soloist, “Now,
Koko. This old guy wants to buy drinks. Tika mbilinga mbilinga.
Quit asking questions, hey! I need a drink.”
Grand Koserie
took advantage of the situation and put his arm around the bigger
boy, “That’s right my son, go over to Mokonzi Pizza
and get whatever you want. I’m paying.”
“And
cigarettes too, mister.?” The bigger boy said, pulling
himself out of Grand Koserie’s grip. He made for the bar
with great haste.
Grand Koserie
sat heavily on a stool spoke to the soloist. “I’m
sorry about your father, mwana na ngai. Na pasola na soucis.
Mawa mingi.”
The solo guitarist shrugged. ‘Tika kokanisa,’
he told Grand Koserie, ‘So what do you want, papa?’
Talking about his father bored him.
Grand Koserie
understood. “What’s your name, son?” he asked.
‘Koko,”
he was told. “Koko Kabengele.”
Grand Koserie
breathed heavily. “Koko Kabengele.” This would be
Midomo Ya Bata’s son by a lesser wife, he thought. According
to Oredde Komando, he would be the only one who had followed
his legendary father’s foot steps into music.
As if reading
Grand Koseri’e thought, Koko Kabengele declared, “I
am the son of Dominique Kabengele Midomo Ya Bata”
“Of
course,” Grand Koserie grunted. He coughed slightly, cleared
his throat. His chest was getting congested. He was wheezing.
This boy
had it. His approach to the OK Jazz song had been harmonic;
while he played some of the melody notes, a keen listener could
feel he explored musical relationships between the old and new
deep within the cords underlying the melody. As he played the
sebene, you could see how he embellished some of the notes of
the melody, diverging from it briefly before smoothly getting
to one of the key notes of the song. This boy played old music
with modern feel. Hard to believe how so much talent could be
passed from father to son and in such a unique way. The senior
Kabengele had been a fine saxophonist. The junior Kabengele
was well on his way to becoming a dynamic guitarist. Grand Koserie
marvelled at the fact that great musicians of the world were
born. From Louis Armstrong to Le Grand Maitre L’Okanga
La N’dju Pene Luambo Makiadi. They started out playing
music in their teens and did nothing else through their long
chequered careers but play music. Another thing why potential
genius didn’t get far out of the young guitarist Koko
Kabengele, who now spoke in a trembling adolescent baritone,
was probably fate that befell all ambitious beginners; already
predisposed for success. Formation of art in a person could
take many forms, could spell desperation. But there was only
one road to accomplishing art: perspiration. You had to work
hard at it. This young guitarist Koko Kabengele certainly will
never step into a music school. But he will be a master. Playing
this far, he very well just picked up the guitar and taught
himself to tune and strum through a long and laborious self-teaching
process that relied only on talent and the love for music. The
desire to play and feel had won it all for him. Yes. He had
taught himself to love his craft perfectly like all the great
stars whose material he used. And he could play. His fingers
may be blackened by cigarettes and be sticky and sweaty and
some of the strings in his guitar may have been broken and replaced
by ordinary mesh wires. But dirty fingers or mesh-wire strings
he plucked his way through more than words could say.
The bigger
boy returned and busied himself handing out drinks. ‘Who’s
coke? Who’s Primus? Tonton Skol??’
“Pesa
ngai,” Koko Kabengele told him
“Koko
Kola,” the girl said
“Cigarettes?”
“Cigarette te!”
“Oui,” Koko Kabengele reached out.
The packet exchange stained hands, others hands grabbed cold
bottles. Fire flared around and lips smacked.
Koko Kabengele grinned behind the cloud of smoke. He pushed
his guitar to his back.
Grand Koserie spoke. ‘How long you boys been playing in
Village Kingabwa?.’
‘All
the tourist season,’ the bigger boy said. ‘Now today
we just got back from burying Koko’s tata. That’s
why we are not playing tonight with the band. We are mourning.
We are playing old songs from long time ago for Mokonzi Pizza.
‘Miziki
ya bakulutu,’ murmured Mokonzi Pizza from the background.
‘Oncle na Koko,’. the little girl said.
She giggled a bit, still folding her elbow over the young guitarists
wide face, the proud smile and the sexy eyes telling youthful
love. Eyes that sometimes fooled you. She would be a Chicolette
or Citoyenne. But she was still a child. The cigarette smoke
even looked harmful to her and once she chocked and coughed,
an innocent child’s cough. That round pretty face with
all the innocence of a child.
Then the
bigger boy who played the rhythm guitar said, ‘Oyebi
kombo na ngai, monsieur? You know my name yet? It’s
Bifallo.’
Being older than the boy soloist and the little girl he displayed
some detestable chief behaviour. One immediately hated him by
the way sat over the bar stool, all hunched up, his cheap Japanese
guitar laid across his knees is that old-fashioned self-possessed
star style. He would immediately put himself the boss, if he
got a chance. He spoke in a loud voice, rude and careless.
‘Biffaloo?’
Hm. Sounded familiar. Pere Biffalo was a priest who became the
acclaimed leader of Minzoto Wela Wela.
‘Biffalo.
Biff. A nice name isn’t it? My mama used to be a dancer
with a band called Minzoto. They used to play like Thu Zaina.
Like Zaiko. My mama always wanted me to be moto ya miziki.
My mama and Yondo Nyota once worked nights together at the Une
Deux Trois. Know Yondo Nyota? She is the elder sister of Yondo
Sister of Soukous Stars. What about yuh, monsieur. What do you
call yourself.’
Grand Koserie
guffawed and stifle a cough. He ignored the question and instead
tried to stare the boy down. The height too. Six feet. Yet he
would be twenty at most. The eyes had that stony unpleasantness,
bolt hard and not kind either.
The silence
was unbearable, so Grand Koserie had to find something to say.
‘Yo na ye. Bandeko?’
‘Camarade
na ngai ya liboso. Just friends.’ Biffalo told him
‘I play the rhythm guitar. I also play misolo’ He
had a nasty habit of nosily sniffing back at mucous and snort
in his nose. Now he sniffed even louder.
‘How
long have you been playing?’
‘Let
me see,’ he started to count his finger, remained silent
in some thought, then said, ‘About three years, yah. Three
years. Mbula misato. Mpo na nini?’
‘You
ever been professionally trained?’
‘What
does that mean?’
‘Oh,
forget it.’
Biffalo
curled his nostrils in and sniffed.
Grand Koserie
gritted his teeth, and turned around elaborately to talk to
Koko Kabengele. To his horror he found the boy guitarist and
the girl locked in a tight embrace, their mouths munching at
one another. He glanced over at Mokonzi Pizza, but the old barman
was lost in some deep thought, a mug of streaming coffee before
him.
To Biffalo
again. ‘You ever played professionally?’
‘I
don’t know what you mean,’ Biffalo told him, ‘I
play in a band. And for all your stupid questions, papa, I can
play. I play. And I eat. Hey, who the hell are you? You just
come in from the rain and you ask us questions. And you buy
us drinks too. Mpo na nini? What’s in this for you, papa?’
‘You’ve
got a filthy mind,’ said Grand Koserie without any heat.
‘And your brain is full of kwanga na kamundele .’
‘I’m
going to be a big star and make it to Paris or Nairobi. I’m
going to play music in one of the big hotels there?
‘Maybe.’
‘Tata
kulutu,’ Bifallo complained. ‘Tosolola
ni? Ata lisolo ya pamba! Ndenge nini?’
‘Tika
makambo wana’
Mokonzi Piza murmured from the background.
Grand Koserie
glared at Bifallo, started to speak then stopped. He had other
things on his mind and his head felt heavy. At this moment life
and everything that went with it greatly depressed him. At the
same moment it occurred to him how much he hated his job, felt
further depressed that he had to convince this boy that he had
no talent, but did he need to be told that? He had ego too.
‘People
who are going to be stars are born. They are no longer made.’
‘So?’
‘I
am a professional musician and I have experience. I am in the
industry. I know what I am talking about.’
‘So
I cannot make it in music? Is that what you are trying to say?’
‘Do
you like music?’
‘Mokili
ekobaluka,’
“Do
you like music?’
‘Of
course I like music.’
‘That’s
it. You see?. We all like music. But we all cannot make music
unless we are born to do it. People like Professor Vata Mombasa,
Michelino and Lokassa Ya Mbongo were made with hands of steel
to create perfect rhythm. They didn’t get here through
craft and technique, they got here through talent. Craft and
technique followed. After talent. Rhythm is the bedrock of our
music. Melody is the motor, the rhythm is the essential element
that carries our music.’
‘Look,’
retorted Biffalo. ‘I’ll play music and do nothing
else, I’ll play for a bubble gun crowd for free. And when
I have no one I’ll come up the stairs and play for Mokonzi
Pizza.’
‘What
about the day Mokonzi Pizza drops dead?’
‘Well
there’s my mama. They say she is mwasi ya ndumba. But
she loves my music.’ Again he sniffed noisily, chocked
on the snort and swallowed. ‘She buys my clothes, she
cooks for me and she allows me to share her cigarette. This
guitar you see cooks for me and she allows me to share her cigarette.
This guitar you see here; this Japanese is no Les Paul. But
she bought it, you see?’
Grand Koserie
looked away, having ceased to listen a long time ago. There
was no point in telling this boy that he was old enough to know
that in music, as in all other art forms, one needed to strive
to develop a personal sound or tone colour—an idiosyncratic
sense of rhythm and form and an individual style of execution.
That performers created rhythms characterized by constant syncopation
and also by sebene—a sensation of pull and momentum that
arises as the melody is heard alternately together with, then
slightly at variance with, the expected pulse or division of
a pulse. That everything depended typically on a rhythm. That
masters like Professor Vata Mombasa, Michelino and Lokassa Ya
Mbongo among many other rhythmists had created their individual
styles very early in their careers. That even if playing the
same song, they will take the same tune and recast it in their
own individual own ways. And you did not require education to
create and develop a personal style, it came from within. Education
imprisoned your mind and curtailed your free will because you
were made to believe that things were only done in a certain
way. Yet the world over commercially popular music forms like
Jazz, blues, rock’n’roll and reggae were products
of rebellion and a departure from the norm, not education system.
Grand Koserie
asked simply, ‘What about your father?’
‘My
father-oh, he used to be one of these guys. But he’s not
around anymore. Tell you what, lets not talks about my tata
because I’ll get upset.’
Grand Koseries
swore under his breath. He was only playing this dumb boy along
as a means to establish some understanding and get to Koko Kabengele.
Any information however trivial was important. He didn’t
know whether he was doing a good job or not long as he kept
talking. ‘Okay, I know you are good. First I’d like
to meet your mother. Now tell me your age’
He sniffed
and said, ‘I’m nineteen’
‘And
do you go to school, bird brain’
‘I
didn’t catch that last word’
‘I
mean do you go to school?’
‘I
did. Moke moke.’
‘Tango
nini?’
‘Two
years now. I left .’
‘Why.’
Biffalo
shrugged. “Sangu na mbongo.” He attempted
to grin. His eyes were suddenly misty. His patience diminished
quickly and along went the hardcoker macho image. His misty
eyes shone and beads of sweat formed his upper lips. “Tango
nazalaki somele.”
Grand Koserie
turned. He pulled Koko Kabengele from the girl and asked, ‘Do
you go to school.’
‘I
did my junior last year,’ he said.
‘So
what do you do now? Do you go to college something?.
He shook
his head. ‘No. I used to go to the art college but I left.
Educational bores me. Ngai naboyo’
‘Na
lavie? What about life, does life not bore you?.
Koko Kabengele
finished his cigarette. He passed his but to the girl to throw
away. He was such a dispassionate character. Such unflappable.
His manner exuded independence, self confidence and intelligence.
You wanted to look out for him. He would never speak much, but
he had an active mind. It showed in his eyes, the way he looked
at things. The way he touched things. The way he talked. Self-absorbed
but intense. The girl got up and planted her weight heavily
on his back. Her delicate hands circled him and went inside
his shirt.
‘Nalingi
miziki te!. Music doesn’t bore me. Every other thing
does?’
‘Even
sex?’
The girl
bolted up. ‘He—ey!’ Her reaction was mild
and blasé but passionate enough to express concern. ‘We
do it, but not that much.’ She leaned and smiled into
Koko Kabengele’s face and asked,
‘Koko
mon amour. Tell him, cherie.’
Koko Kabengele
swallowed. ‘Were just in love, cherie’
‘And
how old are you Koko?’ Grand Koserie demanded
‘I’m
seventeen.’
Grand Koserie
gulped his drink and rammed down the glass on the shiny table
top. He glanced at his watch. This was too depressing and he
felt tired and exhausted.
‘So
you wouldn’t want to go the art college’
‘I
see no need. I’ve already won one art for myself by way
of music. I don’t see any need for another! I want to
play like Japonais. Know him?’
‘No.’
‘He
plays for Wenge Musica Maison Merre. Ya Werason.’
“Werrason,’
Grand Koseries mouthed. ‘Think I know him. Met him once
in Tchungu Wembadio’s palace in Village Molokai.’
‘Who’s
Tchungu Wembadio?”
‘Papa
Wemba.’
‘Oh.
What about JB’
‘JB?’
‘Yeah.
JB. JB M’Piana.’
Grand Koseries
grunted. ‘Think I know that name. Look kids, I am no longer
young and keep no tabs with soukous. I am a preserver of rumba
odemba.’
The girl
said, ‘Koko used to be an actor too, didn’t you,
cherie? Mon amour? Consolation ya motema na ngai?’
‘Uh-huh.
In school’
‘You
were good?’ asked Grand Koserie matter-of-factly.
Koko Kabengele
smiled for the first time. ‘Superb,’ he said, ‘I
did Molière. I stared as Harpagon in
L’Avare.’
Grand Koserie
took that seriously. ‘Merveilles”
Then Koko
wore back his smug and nonchalant look. ‘You got any more
cigarettes, monsieur?’
Grand Koserie grunted and fished out his pack. ‘You can
keep it. I don’t smoke that much. I am asthmatic.’
‘Merci,’
Koko Kabengele said. He held out the pack for the other two
to pull out cigarettes than he pushed it in his jacket. He hugged
the girl.
‘Cherie.’
‘Eh’
'Bolingo
na ngai.'
'Mmmh."
‘Je
taime.’
The girl
lit up. ‘Ngai pe nalingi yo.’ She faced
Grand Koserie and was gleeful. ‘Azali mobali na ngai,’
she laughed dryly, coyly, ‘Bolingo ya bomuana.
Nazali femme Africaine. Nasepeli. Ah . . . ah, nasepeli. Na
kati ya motema ngai. Elongi ya bolingo lokola napasuka. Sentiment
motema. Nakomi zoba! Nakoma kolela lela!’
‘Hm.
Moto olingi, ‘Grand Koserie cautioned them. ‘Bolingo
ezalaka mabe soki olingi yo mingi te. Bolingo aveugle, attentione.’
'Mpona
nini?'
'Souvenir
ya bolingo ezali na matata.'
‘Nzambe
asala eloko oyo bolingo.’ The girl countered with
mild anger. ‘Nazali mwana ya nzambe Nakobanga nzambe
na ngai’
Grand Koserie
saw his chance then, and seized it. ‘Mwana na ngai,
eloko oyo bolingo eloko mabe. Nasi trouble. Oyo misere. Na nzoto.
Yo olingi ye ovandaka na ndako oleli. Mbongo esili, biloko ya
ndako ozomba. Wapi eloko ya kolia. Bana baleli. Absence ya mbongo
ezali eloko mabe. You need money. Ngai nalingi kopesa
yo mbongo. Na mosala ya miziki. Napesi yo credit yo mosala ya
miziki.’
Koko Kabengele
then asked, ‘You promote musicians?’
Grand Koserie
nodded. He took out his visiting card and gave it to the boy.
He watched as Koko Kabengele read it, watched his face crease
up.
‘Kind
of. We turn talent into profit actually. We make you realise
your dreams?’
Koko Kabengele continued to stare at the card. The face lit
up, the brows concocted with mixed feelings. Joy excitement,
disbelief. Then he swung around and thrust the card at Biffalo.
‘I
want you to come to my office at nine tomorrow?’ Grand
Koserie said resolutely. 'European time.'
‘What
for?’ Biffalo snapped.
Koko Kabengele
glanced softly at his friend with laid-back demeanour.
‘Nayebi
bato awa!,’ Biffalo yelled. ‘I know them. He
fancies us and he wants to use us. When we go there we’ll
be made to sing a contract, then that’s it. He’ll
bleed us.’
Koko Kabengele
appeared confused. “Oh will you realy do that monsieur?’
he asked nonchalantly.
Grand Koserie was so mad he felt like bashing life out of a
higher vertebrate. ‘Us!?’ he mouthed.
Biffalo
swung himself round and hit the floor in a charging manner.
‘Yes. Us. We. The band.’
Grand Koserie
set down his beer glass and addressed Koko Kabengele. ‘Are
you coming tomorrow to see what I’ve got to tell you or
are you going to be bogged down by this bird brain’s stupid
remarks?
‘Depends,’
Koko Kabengele told him.
Grand Koserie
got on his feet. “Okay. Here’s the deal, kid. The
agency sent me here to look for you.
Your father,
he was on the throes of cutting a recording deal with us two
months before he died. He left a lot of unrecorded material
with us. Old stuff, you know. Not entirely his because the agency
provided him with financial support, environment and resources
to work and write his songs and rehearse with the studio band.
Legally the agency now has ownership. Now we want you, his son
to record his songs the way he would have done it; the old style.
If you want it, you have a deal with us. If you don’t,
we’ll get somebody else who can match his style. But you
will lose. And your family will lose too. Since there was no
contract. Your father knew he would live long. If you agree
to this arrangement, you will get a perfect opportunity to step
in your father’s shoes and make it into big time. It would
be a lot quicker and easier for you since you will be in his
shadows for the rest of your career. Because this will mark
your beginning and your identity in terms of style. And what’s
wrong with that? He’s your father and you should carry
on his legacy.’
Silence.
Then Koko Kabengele said. ‘Tata na ngai abeti saxophone,
ngai nabeta lindanda. My father played the saxophone. I
play the guitar.’
Grand Koseries sat down and heaved a heavy sigh. His heartbeat
was on the rise and he thought he felt his temples pulsate.
He was on the verge of tears and something told him life was
not easy even as he begun his speech. “Tata
nayo abeti miziki na elengi, azali pembeni na biso. Omoni?
Jazz musicians never really had issues about instruments.’
He demonstrated frantically. ‘They used various instruments
at various times to express their musical personality. Instruments
changed; from piano to saxophone to trombones to trumpets to
guitars to vocal accompaniments. But jazz remained. Instruments
didn’t change it, they enhanced the style. Dynamic creativity
and great knowledge of our music plus the elusive ability to
distil life experience into musical expression is paramount.
In our music instrumentalists emulate vocal styles, you should
know that. Study the early works of Kalle and African Jazz.
Or Wendo is the best example. Also study Franco and Bowane.
Men like Rossignol, Roitelet, Brazzos and Simaro Massiya. Just
stick to the early works. Go further and even explore Dechaud
and his brother Kassanda Wa Mikalayi, and listen to those early
recordings. If you like you can even study the influencial Dewayon
and his brother Bokelo Isenge. The road goes on. I was there
and I witnessed it. Verkys was a great sax player with OK Jazz
and Franco was a master guitarist. Now when Verkys left OK Jazz
with his saxophone, did that mean the end of OK Jazz style?
Did OK Jazz change its style? No. Why? Because OK Jazz style
was always there the time Verkys joined them. And OK Jazz style
was still there when Verkys walked out. Verkys was but a mere
instrument that could be changed, dispensed with or replaced.
But the style was always there.’
Grand Koserie
felt exhausted. He got up slowly, put his hand on Koko Kabengele’s
shoulder like a pastor bestowing blessings on a new convert.
In that same fashion, he asked the boy if it would be possible
for him to come to the studio and take up his father’s
work.
‘C’est
pas possible,’ came the reply.
It was as
if everything came to a standstill suddenly. Just suddenly.
Before Grand Koserie ceased to breath. Before they saw him tumbling
down massively like bricks. Before Bifallo gave room for him
to fall. Before gravity took him smashing down to the floor.
Before he hit the floor. Hit the floor hard with a crash that
must have been heard in Nairobi.
‘Lavie
est un combat,’ Bifallo murmured with exhiliriation.
‘That's the way the coockie crumbles.’
From the
shadows, Mokonzi Pizza made a high keening noise like an exhausted
devil on boulevard de la mort. ‘Azali na
malade. Amoni na dokotolo?’
