Oh Zimbabwe

(This is one of a series of articles I wrote dealing with memories of an African childhood. To read the first of these, click here)

As regular readers will know, this blog has encouraged me to mine my memories of a childhood in South Africa and Zimbabwe. In the process, I have discovered that Africa had a much deeper effect on me than I had realized while I was living in England. Yet I should have suspected this, if only through something that happened a few years into my English sojourn.

Out of the blue someone phoned me from London, asking if he could visit to relive old times at university in Pietermaritzburg. His name sparked only the faintest of memories (and I have since forgotten it again) and I could not remember his face at all. But I figured that it would all come back to me when I saw him, so I invited him and gave him directions. In a little more than an hour, he arrived.

And I did not recognize him. As we talked, I searched my brain for some distant memory of the guy, anything that would confirm that I had once known him, but nothing occurred. He could have been a stranger off the street.

Now, my memory is a fickle beast and I have become fairly used to situations like this, pretending to remember people that have vanished forever, and I carried things off rather well on this occasion; I don't think he even suspected that I had no memory of him at all. We talked for a couple of hours and it was quite clear that he knew me well - he remembered things from those days that he could only have known through being there.

It was when we said goodbye and he was walking back to his car that the faintest of memories appeared in the dim recesses of my mind. There was something about his walk that sparked this. Yes, I had known him but very vaguely; he was a friend of a friend and had only ever been on the periphery of our circle.

So my memory was vindicated at last. But my forgotten friend did me an unwitting service before he left; he gave me a tape of Zimbabwean pop music. To him, it was nothing - merely something he happened to have at the time and a convenient gesture of thanks for brief hospitality. But to me, it became a treasure trove of Zimbabwean memories.

Music is a part of life in Zimbabwe, so much so that I hardly noticed it while I was there. It fills the background, every young Shona about town has a portable radio or beatbox blaring forth, and the sounds blend into daily life to become unnoticed, just as the insect noise at night does. Perhaps this is why it infects the soul so deeply.

As I listened to the tape, I was transported back to blazing hot days in the dry Zimbabwe summer, walks through the long grass, the sweat trickling down my face, and music drifting through the air from some unknown source. And I smiled. I smiled as the memories emerged from hiding and once again I was confronted with the essential happiness of the Shona people. The smile was and remains my involuntary response to their music. Even as I write, Thomas Mapfumo makes me grin as he pounds out the rhythm in the background. And the sound of an mbira, the thumb piano of Africa, has the same effect on me. I am more Zimbabwean than I ever suspected.

That tape became my refuge from gray English winters and depressing times. Whenever I needed to smile, Nyami Nyami Sounds, Jonah Sithole or The Four Brothers were happy to oblige. Eventually, I made the mistake of lending the tape to someone and never saw it again. But my hunger had been whetted and I searched everywhere for more Zimbabwean pop music, mostly to no avail.

And then I heard and recorded a program on BBC radio that went some way to sating my need. A young presenter named Andy Kershaw had been doing a series on African music and, when he went to Zimbabwe, I had the sense to record the program. This consisted mainly of Andy being shown around Zimbabwe by Biggie Tembo, the lead singer of the Bhundu Boys, one of the top Zimbabwean bands of the early eighties. There were snippets of music in between the talking, some traditional, some pop. They visited Biggie's home village and a beer hall, then wandered off to look at more famous sites, in the end arriving at Victoria Falls. And it was here that Biggie said something that, for me, epitomizes the Shona spirit and wisdom.

At the edge of the Falls, there is a statue of David Livingstone, looking suitably noble and European as he gazes out over the cascading torrent. Andy looked at this and then made a comment that revealed his vast lack of understanding of African history and the nature of Livingstone's calling to that continent. He said to Biggie, "Doesn't this make you angry - that there should be a statue to this man in this place? He claimed to have discovered the Falls and yet they were always known to your people."

Bear in mind that "bhundu boys" were runners for the guerillas during the war in Zimbabwe and that Biggie had been one of them. It might have been expected that he would agree with Andy's sentiments but that would not be allowing for the gentle Shona spirit. Without hesitation, Biggie replied, "Oh, he wasn't so bad."

There was a slight pause and then he went on: "After all, Andy..." and I can imagine the smile on his face as he spoke the next words, "He made me met you..."

--ooOoo--

For those who are interested in a taste of Zimbabwean pop music, there are a few brief snippets at this address. Some of the links lead to a music site but the following will play if you have RealPlayer on your computer: Muti Usina Zita by Zexie Manatsa & the Green Arrows; Rudo Imoto by The Four Brothers; Taxi Driver by Jonah Moyo and Devera Ngwena.

Technorati tags: Zimbabwean pop music; Zimbabwe.

(to read the next of the African Memories articles, click here)