In neighboring Liberia, President William Tolbert was energetically pushing a project called “Higher Heights.” He wanted to galvanize Liberia’s citizens into contributing physically, financially, and spiritually to uplifting the morale and economy of the country. After seeing Miriam’s show during the Guinean festival, especially how we performed together, President Tolbert invited us to Liberia to perform and help raise funds for his initiative. Stokely had just returned from another U.S. trip, in time for the Guinea festival, with his younger sister Madeline in tow. A few days before we left, Madeline and I hit it off and were spending romantic nights at her chalet. Stokely found out about us, but turned a blind eye.
Our entourage was welcomed at the nursery/floral park of Gertylue Brewer, whom everybody called Sister Gertie, in the Congotown section of Monrovia, the capital of Liberia. Sister Gertie and Miriam had become close over the years, so naturally, Miriam stayed at her estate with Stokely and Madeline. The band stayed at the estate’s motel, which was surrounded by a beautiful drinking garden, a huge bar area, and a patio facing the sprawling landscaped gardens below the double-story mansion. The house had a wraparound porch filled with tables laid out with all kinds of drinks and Liberian cuisine. Invited were government officials and the cream of Monrovia’s social elite, including some of the most beautiful women I had seen since my return to Africa. Cecil Dennis, who worked in the president’s Office of Home Affairs, had chosen Sister Gertie’s home for our reception because she was reputedly one of the country’s finest chefs and a generous hostess. Dennis was the coordinator and executive director of the “Higher Heights” project. A tall, humorous character with movie-star features and a mischievous smile, he officially welcomed our delegation and briefed us on our itinerary. He introduced me to a beautiful young lady whom he announced to the guests would be my official escort for the duration of our stay. This brought laughter from all the guests except Miriam. I was leaning up against a far patio wall, drinking with some of my new acquaintances and being briefed by my escort, when Miriam walked over to me while I was in deep conversation with the young lady. Miriam asked her to excuse us because she wished to have a word with me in private. The young lady said, “Oh, pardon me, Mrs. Masekela.”
Miriam slapped the woman across the face, sending her staggering to keep her balance. “I am Mrs. Carmichael, you little bitch, and that man standing over there is my husband, Stokely Carmichael. Don’t you ever forget it, you little bitch!”
Miriam turned and stormed off into the house. The whole place went silent except for Sister Gertie, who gracefully tried to restore calm. “Everybody, the food is ready,” she said. “Come and dish up for yourselves.” I looked at Stokely, who was pouring himself some wine and knew better than to follow his wife until after she cooled down.
After the reception, Madeline rode back with me and was checked into a suite next to mine at the Ducor International Hotel on downtown Monrovia’s highest hill, with a breathtaking view of the city and the Atlantic Ocean. The “Higher Heights” fund-raisers at the E. J. Royce Auditorium and the national stadium were a resounding success. Although Miriam had previously performed in Liberia, this was my first time. The crowds were particularly enthralled. When the guitar introduction to “Grazing in the Grass” was kicked off by Sekou Kouyate, the crowd went insane. When the song ended, they screamed for an encore. We obliged several times to their demands. They especially loved Miriam’s universally acclaimed “Click Song.” They tried singing along, excitedly clapping their hands to the rhythmic arrangement of the song’s fascinating Xhosa tongue-clicking. Many of them were trying to make the sound, but only ended up laughing at themselves. When Miriam went into “Pata Pata,” the stadium went totally insane with excitement. They knew the words to this song and sang it with so much spirit that they would not allow Miriam to finish. She had to repeat it a few times.
Back at the hotel, Madeline and I had another week of passion and laughter. At the end of our stay, President Tolbert gave a farewell dinner for us at his official residence, where he awarded me full citizenship and a passport from the government of Liberia. When Miriam and her group left for a European tour, Sister Gertie invited me to extend my visit and move to her palatial home in Congotown, a suburb of Monrovia. A few days later, Sister Gertie brought in Nga Machema, a South African guerrilla fighter who had gone to Michigan State University with many Liberians in the 1960s while I was studying at the Manhattan School of Music. This was a pleasant surprise because we were old drinking buddies. Nga was on sabbatical from fighting alongside Roberto Holden against the military forces of the colonial Portuguese regime in Angola. Holden was the leader of Falana, one of the three liberation movements fighting against the Portuguese insurgents in Angola. Nga was one of Holden’s chief commanders. Nga Machema was his nom de guerre. Although his real name was Manelisi Ndibongo, we all called him Nga.
My old friend began to show me the exciting life around Monrovia, where the scene was the exact opposite of Conakry. Monrovia never went to sleep. The people partied around the clock, and all of Nga’s fellow Michigan State alumni were in senior government posts or were top business moguls. There was a heartbreaking disparity between this community, who called themselves Americo-Liberians, and the ethnic population, which was obviously living in abject poverty. Liberia was the oldest independent African country. Freed American slaves who wanted to return to Africa were resettled there by the United States government starting in 1822. Surprisingly most of them reverted to more or less the same behavior of their former slave masters by treating the natives like dirt. I felt uncomfortable with this state of affairs, but strangely Nga, his friends, Sister Gertie, and all the people I was hanging out with brushed me off nonchalantly every time I brought it up. Miriam and Stokely, however, did privately express their disgust to me, but pointed out that it was futile to pursue it, and not a politically correct topic to broach with our hosts if I wanted to remain in their country.
Unfortunately, throughout all of Africa the cruelty of the colonial regimes and the tyrants who came in their wake caused the people to seek solace in mind-altering substances—mostly alcohol. Marijuana and the mouth-numbing kola nut and khat are most widely used among non-Christian communities and where famine is rife because in the latter cases, they kill the appetite. In Africa, as in many other parts of the world, the military is notorious for abuse of alcohol. In South Africa, alcohol was only legalized for native consumption in 1961; prior to that date, abusive drinking became a heroic form of militant protest that, unfortunately, turned into a national culture. It’s no surprise that many of the liberation cadres of that country arrived at training camps already seasoned alcoholics. Sexual decadence was always part of the package, owing to the fact that most of the world’s military community is morally bankrupt and its respect for women is almost nil. Anywhere there is suffering and oppression, the same situation exists. In its alcoholic and sexual decadence, Liberia’s elite society was no different from any other society where the guilt of oppressing the disadvantaged haunts those who are in power.
Political reservations aside, I was having a ball and not too keen about returning to Guinea. We were hitting all the clubs, and the women of Monrovia were as friendly as those in Kinshasa, except that many had their own businesses, homes, and cars. The “taxi fare” request hardly ever came up.
One great quality that both Guinea and Liberia had in common was that government ministers, upper-middle-class big shots, and dignitaries, including the diplomatic corps, all basically hung out in the same bars, clubs, and restaurants as the working classes, and most people were on a first-name basis. There was very little of the “Your Excellency,” “Mr. Minister,” and “Your Honor” bullshit that you find in so many African countries today. There were also very few if any of the noisy, irritating sirens of police motorcycles and countless bodyguard convoys that go harassing pedestrians and motorists all over the roads, bringing traffic to a standstill. In Guinea, everybody, including the p
resident, was addressed as “Comrade.” Although William Tolbert was called “Mr. President” formally, he privately loved his nickname, “Speedy.” In Liberia, people addressed each other as “mate,” “buddy,” “bubba,” “my man,” or, in the case of females, “my child.”
Two weeks later I returned to Guinea, but soon I became a man of two cities, splitting my time equally between Monrovia and Conakry, which made for a wonderful contrast in lifestyles. Conakry was the regimented home of strict socialism and rules, militancy, political slogans, discipline, fierce loyalty, one-party solidarity, and the iron-fisted rule of Sekou Toure’s committees. The Guinea-Bissau war was ongoing, and there was constant anticipation of an insurgent raid by Portuguese mercenaries. The population, ninety-nine percent Muslim, was armed to the teeth and ready to defend itself. Monrovia, on the other hand, featured round-the-clock bars, a thriving international tourist trade, and American currency. It was governed by a Christian minority of the descendants of American slaves, who treated the indigenous population almost like slaves. Americo-Liberian opulence and vulgar wealth existed in the midst of embarrassing ethnic poverty, ritual secret societies, and deep superstition.
Comrade Sekou Toure and President William Tolbert shared the most unlikely mutual admiration, given the contrasting qualities of their political agendas. The irony was that although one country was capitalist and the other socialist, their regimes were similar in their autocratic and totalitarian suppression of their peoples. They shared a common interest in ensuring that the masses did not have the opportunity to voice their grievances. This was also tactically very crucial, because the borders between the two countries were colonial inventions. The people in the region originated from the same ethnic groups, and family ties dated back many centuries.
In the summer of 1973, I flew back to New York to fetch Mabusha, after convincing my sister Barbara that it would be good for my nephew to learn the indigenous languages, customs, traditions, and culture of West Africa. The people of this region lived together like one large extended family, a quality not present in a city like New York. Mabusha jumped into Guinean life with gusto, making friends quickly and learning how to play soccer and bonding with Lumumba and Zenzi and all the other children in the vicinity surrounding Villa André. They would start screaming for him to come out and play early in the morning on holidays, weekends, and after school. We often took trips to Miriam’s villa in Dalaba, way up north in the Fouta Djallon mountain region, the home of the Fulani people, where the weather is temperate and the nights are cold. Sekou Toure refused to allow mining multinationals and other industrial giants to exploit the raw materials of his country. As a result, the ecology of the country remained pristine. Guinea was a country of many small towns and villages; even Conakry was really only a hamlet. Migration to urban areas was not permitted, and development of village communities and feverish agricultural activity was heavily encouraged and sponsored by the state.
As a result, there were great expanses of virgin land covered by native flora and fauna. On our trip to Dalaba, we actually had to stop for a community of hundreds of gorillas crossing the road. In July the rains came, and because Guinea is so rich in minerals, the lightning and thunder were awe-inspiring. When it rains in Guinea and Liberia, it’s like standing under a waterfall; umbrellas and raincoats are a joke, because the rain penetrates right through them. The rain is so torrential you cannot see more than a few inches away from your own face. And the rains can come down for weeks without end. The average rainfall is about three hundred inches a year. Tropical fruits such as bananas, mangos, coconuts, dates, pawpaws, and plantains grow wild. Fruit bats darken the sky. Tropical vegetables, fish, and forest animals are in ridiculous abundance. That there is famine in Africa from time to time is perplexing, given these limitlessly abundant gifts of nature. It is unfortunate that almost all of Africa’s regimes are run by greedy bastards who think only of their personal well-being and the amassing of wealth at the expense of the masses, without harnessing the available resources. Enough natural resources are available to supply every family on the continent with sufficient food, but the selfishness of most of those living at the top makes it impossible to create an infrastructure that could extract such value. The needs continue to exist, but the will to solve many of Africa’s problems is absent among the majority of Africa’s ruling and wealthy classes. They are the only ones who have the capabilities and resources to achieve this end.
Soon after I recovered from a short bout with malaria, I received a message from Fela, asking again for my presence in Nigeria. Stewart Levine, who was still my partner in Chisa Records, flew to Liberia from Los Angeles and together we took off for Lagos, where he would help me assess musicians for future recordings. Finally I was to meet the legendary Fela.
As promised, Fela met us at the airport. Standing about five feet seven on a taut and muscular frame, he strutted toward us like a matador approaching a crazed bull before the kill. Head held high, Fela stepped out in his white moccasins, wearing light green, tight-fitting toreador-style pants and matching shirt. Laughing, he welcomed us to Nigeria.
The welcoming lounge in Lagos airport was totally insane, with scores of people there to meet arriving passengers. Taxi and bus drivers were hustling; self-appointed porters and security personnel were jostling and screaming hysterically over each other’s heads. About twelve strapping young men with rippling muscles were pushing and shoving each other in a tug-of-war to carry our bags to Fela’s car. As they pulled our bags hither and thither, their body odor was so strong it almost knocked me out—I was dizzy and my eyes watered uncontrollably from the stench. Fearing they would destroy our luggage, we looked at Fela with anxiety. He assured us our bags were safe. He said, “Oh! Oh! Don’t mind these fools. They will bring the bags to the car. Hugh, this place is fucking crazy, man. You haven’t seen anything yet.” When we got to the car, our self-appointed porters kept yanking our bags in all directions. Fela yelled, “Put the bags in back of the car, you stupids.” He then gave them a naira each (about one dollar) and told them to go away, as they tried to hit him up for a bigger tip, praising him by screaming, “Black president! Chief priest!” Everyone who saw Fela’s convoy echoed this chant throughout our trip into town. We crossed a bridge into Lagos proper, and the madness began right away. There were traffic jams everywhere. What seemed like millions of people were screaming at each other in the packed streets and sidewalks, hanging out of apartment windows, and trying to keep from falling off overloaded trucks. Cars were honking endlessly; Nigerian juju and Afro-beat music was blasting from storefronts and little kiosks. At the taxi and bus terminal, a long line of people were waiting to slap the face of some man who had allegedly been beating his girlfriend. In the back of the line, some potential slappers were asking what the man had done, even though they were spitting in their palms in enthusiastic anticipation to whack the poor motherfucker silly.
Passing us some robust marijuana spliffs, Fela said, “They will slap that man till he dies, and if his family doesn’t find a traditional diviner to come and pray over his body, his carcass will rot right there on the sidewalk because it is bad luck to touch it. Even the ambulance and mortuary folks will not go near it until the diviner has come. If they try to move it, the crowds will kill them too. This is a crazy place, Hugh.” I looked at the victim in amazement as our vehicle inched its way through the heavy traffic and stifling heat.
Lagos was the dirtiest place I had ever been to. The stagnant water in the open sewers running down both sides of every street was pitch black. The stench changed in odor just about every fifty yards, unexpectedly surprising the nose and causing Stewart and me to moan painfully at every new, pungently unbearable aroma. The smell of urine and feces came rising from some of the sewers at unexpected intervals. Majestic mansions reared their fancy parapets and verandas in the midst of millions of hovels, shacks, and corrugated iron storefronts, kiosks, and improvised dwellings in and out of which ran snotty-faced, bare-asse
d toddlers and preschoolers, dogs and midget goats, dirty chickens and dried-up cats. Women of all sizes, wearing headscarves, their torsos wrapped in colorful fabrics with matching blouses, pounded cassava and yam in giant wooden mortars with long pestles made from tough timber, and prepared meals on outdoor braziers. The men, muscular and taut, lingered about or walked hurriedly to some destination. Everybody was screaming, arguing, or yelling at one another. Millions of restless souls, reeling from the heat, irritable from the discomfort of their conditions, pissed off at government negligence but somehow still laughing from their souls between shows of violent temper: social schizophrenia at its most intense permeated the atmosphere.
“Fela, why is everybody screaming at each other and so short-tempered?” I asked.
Fela said, laughing, “Hugh, these people are very happy. These are Nigerians, man! This is their nature. They don’t hold anything back.”
The rich men were dressed in bright-colored lace, silk, or linen ankle-length boubou and agbada, layers of long gowns that they nervously adjusted into place over their shoulders, matching caps tilted to one side on their heads. Their women, often wives dressed in similar overflowing robes and gowns, walked submissively behind them. The bright, rainbow-colored outfits most people wore sparkled with cleanliness, seemingly dirt-resistant in spite of the filth. Amazing.
Fela checked us into the Niger Hotel in Lagos, where the bar was full of men loudly debating about God knows what. The rooms were funky. The whole place smelled like shit. As Fela prepared to leave us, I said, “Fela, there is no way we’re going to stay here. This is just too funky, you know what I mean?”
Fela laughed and said, “But, Hugh, I thought you wanted a typical African atmosphere.”
“That I want, but this shit is not it.”
Still Grazing Page 35
