Still Grazing

by Hugh Masikela

  Dr. Tshidi Ndamse, holding our daughter, Motlalepula Masekela, with my nephew Mabusha looking on at our Congo Beach home in Monrovia, Liberia, in 1978. Photo courtesy of the author.

  Selema Masekela, my oldest son, with his mother, Jessie La Pierre, in our Beverly Hills apartment in 1972. Photo courtesy of the author.

  Selema, my sister Barbara, and I pose with Polina at Barbara’s house in New York in the summer of 1978, shortly before Polina passed away. Photo by John Pinderhughes.

  In 1978 at the Park West in Chicago, Herb Alpert and I play songs from our album, Herb Alpert & Hugh Masekela. Photo courtesy of the author.

  Jabu, my third wife, and I at our wedding on August 14, 1981, at St. John the Divine Church in New York City. Photo courtesy of the author.

  Blowing from Lesotho’s mountain tops during a 1980 visit to the mountain kingdom for a Christmas Day concert with Miriam Makeba. Photo by Raymond Cajuste.

  My father, whom I had not seen for twenty years, joined me at the event. Photo courtesy of the author.

  In London in 1983, Father Huddleston presents me with a bust of Nelson Mandela after the concert for Mandela’s 65th birthday. Photo courtesy of the author.

  Talking backstage with Harry Belafonte and vibraphonist Roy Ayers at SOB’s in Greenwich Village after a performance with Kalahari in 1984. Photo courtesy of the author.

  Sharing a joke with Kwame Toure (Stokely Carmichael) in 1991. Kwame, who married Miriam Makeba in 1968, died in Guinea in 1998. Photo by Hakim Mutlaq.

  Playing my horn for the kids in the street where I grew up in Alexandra Township (1995). Photo by D. Michael Cheers.

  Barbara and I at my father’s funeral in 1996. I blew my horn for him as his coffin was lowered into the ground. Photo by Alf Kumalo.

  I love this photo of my father in one of his thoughtful moments. Photo courtesy of the author.

  My daughter, Motlalepula, bids me farewell after I gave her away to Monde Twala at their wedding in 2002. Photo courtesy of the author.

  With Selema at the party following the Carnegie Hall performance on my sixty-fourth birthday, April 4, 2003. Photo courtesy of the author.

  Paul Simon also helped me celebrate my sixty-fourth birthday at the concert in Carnegie Hall. Photo by Stephanie Berger.

  Elinam and I visited with Madiba, the “grand old man” of my country, who has the biggest, most loving heart in the world. Photo by Kofi Asante (Nana Bediatuo).

  At our farm, one hundred kilometers west of Johannesburg, with Elinam and our two sons, Adam and Patrick. Photo courtesy of the author.

  PART III

  Africa

  13

  I FIRST MET THE MBATHA FAMILY in 1963 at 310 West 87th Street when the anthropologist Mphiwe Mbatha and his wife, Beatty, a nurse, moved to the United States with their five daughters, Jabu, thirteen; Busi, eleven; Ntathu, nine; Buhle, seven; and Mpozi, five. Even then, it was easy to tell that they were pretty little girls who were going to become beautiful women when they were grown up. Mphiwe had stopped over to greet us after he learned that many South African students used 310 as their base during the holidays.

  I teased little Jabu that one day I would marry her as Jonas and I walked the family to their car. They were driving to Hartford, Connecticut, where Mphiwe was to take up a professorship at the university. I would often take Bongi to Hartford for a few days during the holidays. She would visit the home of Professor Vilakazi, another South African academic who had two daughters Bongi had befriended. I would see little Jabu and her sisters and always repeat the little joke about marrying her one day. It used to make her blush while the other girls giggled.

  I didn’t see her again until we came to play Lincoln Center with the Union of South Africa. She was now a grown woman of twenty-two with a librarian job at the New York Times. I wasn’t joking anymore. I was now very keen to get next to Jabu. She attended more of our concerts, and following one of the post-concert parties, I escorted her to her apartment in the Bronx, where she let me sleep over, but would not allow me to go any further. I told Willie Kgositsile, one of my homeboys from our days at 310, how I felt about Jabu. He turned out to be very tight with her and her family. Willie took me to a party at Jabu’s Bronx apartment, where many of the old 310 gang were present, along with several very fine young ladies from South Africa and other parts of the continent and the Caribbean, all friends of Jabu and her sisters. I had a wonderful time dancing with all the pretty women, but it was obvious that Jabu was cautioning all of them to lay off me because I was hers. The party ended in the wee hours of the morning, and I invited Jabu to drive back to Woodstock with me.

  The usual get-together was planned for that evening. Exhausted, Jabu went to bed, but woke up a few hours later to come and spirit me away from the dancing and drinking to what would become our bedroom for the rest of that wonderful week.

  Quincy Troupe was now teaching at Staten Island Community College and living at my old building in Park West Village. We were spending a lot of time together—doing clubs, restaurants, and poetry readings and taking long walks around Manhattan, marveling at the vibrancy of the city, its beautiful landmarks, crazy people, and fine women.

  Quincy had just returned from Nigeria, where he had spent considerable time with Fela Kuti. “Hey, Hugh, Fela wants you to get in touch with him, man. He told me he looked for you in 1969 when he was in L.A., but couldn’t hook up with you. He gave me a beautiful time in Lagos. Make sure to get in touch with him. This is a baaad brother.”

  Quincy didn’t have to convince me—I already wanted to meet this baaad brother. A year younger than I, Fela Anikulapo Kuti was the child of professional parents—his father was an Anglican pastor, principal of a grammar school, and an accomplished pianist and his social-activist mother wanted their son to become a doctor. They sent him to London in 1958 for a medical education, but Fela registered at the Trinity College of Music instead. He grew tired of studying European composers, and by 1961 he and his band, Koola Lobitos, were a fixture on the London club scene, playing a hybrid of Nigerian folk and urban dance music with a touch of jazz. His sound was strongly influenced by “highlife,” the popular Ghanaian dance groove, with which he mixed a diaspora’s worth of influences, including big-band swing arrangements, folk chants, a touch of calypso, ska phraseology, and South African township mbhaqanga. Fela returned to Nigeria in 1963 and started another version of Koola Lobitos that added into his crazy musical mix the James Brown–style singing of Geraldo Pino from Sierra Leone. Combining this with elements of traditional highlife and jazz, Fela dubbed this infectiously rhythmic hybrid “Afro Beat,” partly as a critique of African performers who he felt had turned their back on their musical roots in order to emulate American pop music trends. Besides being a vocalist and a prolific composer-arranger, Fela played the saxophone, keyboards, and guitar (he had given up on the trumpet, which he had played for many years). A frequent performer in the United States, Fela absorbed the political principles of black consciousness and the civil rights movement in America, which helped define the Africanism in his music. I wrote Fela’s address and phone number on the front page of my address book and resolved to get in touch with him when I was ready to go to Nigeria. Although Fela’s name was on the lips of many of my West African friends, I had not yet heard any of his music.

  In New York City, Quincy had become a major organizer of poetry readings, which would take place mostly on Saturday and Sunday afternoons at neighborhood community centers or downtown lofts in Manhattan. At those readings Quincy introduced me to the stars of the black literary scene, which was now, through the movement called Black Arts, becoming a strong force for political and social change. Jayne Cortez, Toni Cade Bambara, Vertamae Grosvenor, Amiri Baraka, Ishmael Reed, Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, Terry McMillan, Sonia Sanchez, and other dynamic writers would read, and on most occasions I would also have a slot where I would play solo trumpet—riffing out passages that I drew from plantation field hollers, chain-gang work songs of the Americ
an South, and chants of my father’s clan. I drew on the suffering of impoverished or misplaced people of African origin all around the world. On some days the World Saxophone Quartet, featuring Julius Hemphill, Sonny Murray, and Hamiett Bluitt, would play while marching behind poetesses like Ntozake Shange or Nikki Giovanni, who read their stunning, syncopated verse at full throat. I was captivated. This poetry—unlike the poetry I was schooled on—used the language of everyday black folks to tell the story of a full range of emotions: outrage, joy, love, passion, resistance, disgust. It was the language of an internal revolution that had spread all over the world, the liberation of voice. It sparked in me a deep urge to become a writer and reminded me of the underlying urge of my own art—the impulse to change the world, right the wrongs, and tell the truth, through the power of my voice.

  Whenever I was with Quincy, we listened to a lot of African music and rapped about the continent’s issues and its artists, especially Fela. Quincy encouraged me to visit Africa because it was clear that even though I was from South Africa, I knew little or nothing about the rest of the continent—which was at that very moment going through a phase of intense postcolonial flux. I was recharging my batteries in New York, but my star had clearly stopped shining. Making a musical and personal pilgrimage to Africa began to appeal to me. My idea was to get away and try to rediscover some missing piece of myself, something I’d lost. I also thought I could scour the continent for interesting new sounds and musicians and put together a new kind of group, which had become impossible in America, given my ruined reputation in the music industry. I decided that this pilgrimage was the answer to most of my problems, especially cocaine, which would be totally inaccessible on the continent. Back in Woodstock, I told Ray Lofaro and Stewart Levine about my plans, and they encouraged me to take the plunge. It was as obvious to them as to me that for me the sun had set on the United States. It was time to leave the country.

  The problem with leaving the country was that at this point I had been rendered stateless like so many others. We were South African artists who could not travel outside America because the South African government had long since canceled us from their travel document registers. Miriam Makeba had now been living in Conakry, Guinea, for more than five years, and I told her about my plans and my difficulties in finding a way to travel. She persuaded President Ahmed Sekou Toure to issue passports to us.

  Back in Los Angeles, I put what few belongings I had together and prepared for my new adventure. I got a release from my recording contract, telling Bob Krasnow that I would not be returning to America. He was very unhappy with my decision, and told me how full of shit Stewart and I were, before he agreed to let me go. I told my friend Herb Alpert at A&M Records about my impending African expedition and how I intended to put together a group somewhere on the continent along intense ethnic lines. Herb and I had a little mutual admiration society going as fellow trumpet players and Clifford Brown aficionados. Herb was also becoming interested in African music, and expressed interest in collaborating with me should I develop a project during my sojourn. He promised that his company would be keen to sponsor such an undertaking.

  Toni Cade Bambara, the great poet and novelist, had been a regular participant at Quincy Troupe’s weekend poetry readings. During this time we became very close friends because of her intense fascination with African culture. We spent many hours talking about my upcoming pilgrimage to Africa, which intrigued her for its complete lack of planning, except the pretty vague idea that I would try to put a group together. Back in New York, Toni hosted a farewell party for me at her Harlem penthouse, and many of my friends, including Jabu, attended. I spent the next two days at the Essex Hotel with Jabu. We thought we might be in love.

  I arrived in Conakry, Guinea, one morning in early 1972 to begin a new life. Not expecting me that soon, Miriam was pleasantly surprised to see me. To my amazement, Abbey Lincoln had finally realized her dream of coming to Africa, and was visiting Miriam. When Sekou Toure discovered how happy Abbey was to finally visit the continent, he held a small ceremony to rename her Aminata Moussaka. When our eyes met, the idea of rekindling our romance was tempting, but we were not about to resume it on this new terrain.

  It was common practice in all socialist African countries of the day for visitors to have a guide. Conteh met me at the airport. He told me he was officially assigned to me during my stay in Guinea. I was not to leave his side. I was registered at the Hotel de France, but would be spending my days at Villa André, a gated community, where Miriam lived in a luxurious cottage. Villa André, named after Sekou Toure’s wife, was a series of thatched-roof lodges where guests of the government and other dignitaries stayed. On my first evening there was a major drink fest at Miriam’s place. Some of her musicians attended, as well as Colonel Kouyate, a jazz lover in the Guinean military, my guide Conteh, and the filmmaker Gilbert and his wife Audrey, both of whom I had met in Los Angeles when he was in film school. Philemon Hou, who had arrived a few months before me, Kante, the country’s sports commentator and cultural organizer, and a handful of other friends of Miriam were also there. Stokely Carmichael, her husband, was in the States on a Black History Month lecture tour.

  During the course of the evening a heated political debate developed, which was all in French. I was completely in the dark as to the exact subject matter. I was able to grasp only bits and pieces because the only French I remembered was the little bit I had learned at the Manhattan School of Music. Around midnight, everyone was getting quite drunk. Jet-lagged, I tried to persuade Conteh to escort me back to my hotel. With their political debate now at fever pitch, my guide could not tear himself away. I finally lost my patience and decided to walk back to my hotel by myself. Little did I know there was a citizens’ militia guarding the city because of the ongoing Guinea-Bissau war raging next door, a war of liberation against the Portuguese. Bissau’s many freedom fighters were staging their battle from Guinea. Strangers were watched like hawks. Collaborators were summarily executed. There had been a few raids by Portuguese insurgents, and every citizen was armed to repel them whenever they attempted to attack the coastline. Even schoolchildren carried arms to class.

  I was stopped at a few roadblocks during my drunken walk back to my hotel. At each stop, I asked if I was walking in the right direction toward the Hotel de France. I was within a few blocks of the hotel when a Land Rover materialized out of nowhere. The driver asked me in perfect English, “Where are you going?” I explained I was near my destination. He said, “Listen, I am a close friend of Madame Makeba. Jump in. We will stop at my house, drink a few cognacs, listen to some good jazz, and then I will drop you off safely at your hotel.” It sounded okay to me—jazz and a few cognacs were not things I usually declined, even with a stranger on my first day in a new country. He drove for about five minutes, then stopped in front of a well-lit house that he said was his home. I followed him through the front door into what turned out to be an army office, where he handed me over to a couple of elderly, high-ranking soldiers who began to interrogate me in what sounded like French. The English-speaking driver vanished before I could protest, and it struck me that I was in deep shit. A soldier demanded, “Ou est vôtre guide?” (Where is your guide?) In my most fucked-up, terror-filled, broken French, I tried to tell them that I was a guest of the president, a brother of Miriam Makeba, a musician, and whatever else I could come up with. I noticed that all I was causing for the old colonels was a great deal of mirth. Somehow the fact that my French was more fucked up than their own illiterate patois amused them and the other soldiers who were gathering around. Soon this room, its dingy walls splattered with blood, was filled with soldiers laughing every time I opened my mouth. As the colonel raised his voice to terrify me even further, my lips went dry. I sobered up quickly when I realized that I could possibly die in this room where others had obviously lost their lives.

  The bizarre interrogation went on for the remainder of the night. By sunrise the soldiers had had enough fun,
and the colonel ordered one of them to drive me to my hotel—and, if they found no Guinean passport there, to bring me back for God knows what. When we got to the hotel I gave the driver my passport and slept like a baby in my bed until evening, when Conteh came to my hotel and scolded me for leaving his side. I never saw him again. He was apparently transferred to a remote part of the country for failing in his duties.

  Two days later, Miriam took me to meet Sekou Toure, Guinea’s president. He invited me to the People’s Palace for the customary evening of national cultural entertainment. When the president was in Conakry, the capital city, he sat in the front row of the People’s Palace (Palais de Peuple) next to the stage and recorded every performance. Protocol dictated that all guests were obliged to sit through the performances with the president; these included drama sketches, choral singing, bands, drummers, acrobats, and gymnasts, and went on until two or three in the morning and sometimes longer. The next morning or anytime during the day, Sekou Toure could go on national radio and call a people’s meeting in the national stadium. In less than an hour the seventy thousand-seat Conakry Stadium would be filled with citizens, schoolchildren, members of the government, the military, journalists, members of the diplomatic corps, farmers, and others—mostly dressed in white. Whoever wasn’t in the stadium had to listen on radio as Toure addressed the nation—sometimes for as long as seven hours. When the president left the country, people would have to line the route to the airport and sing and drum and wave the national flag as his motorcade passed by. The pageantry was repeated again when he returned from a trip. Athletes, artists, and musicians all received a monthly salary from the state; ordinary citizens who did not work for the government were supplied food coupons and commodity rations from their committee headquarters. Committee leaders kept tabs on everybody. Those who were reported as not toeing the Socialist line were in danger of being categorized as cinquième colonne (fifth-column antisocialist collaborators). The punishment for this infraction was indefinite imprisonment or, in extreme cases, execution. Nestor Bangoura, Miriam’s English-speaking band manager, had been jailed and his father had been executed for collaborating with the enemy. Toure was a passionate lover of his people’s culture, but could also be a paranoid tyrant. Guinea was a beautiful and terrifying place.