Unbury Our Dead with Song

by Mukoma Wa Ngugi

  ‘How hungry are you?’

  I was finally in Addis, standing outside the Panorama Hotel waiting for The Diva’s driver. I felt a tap on my right shoulder. Surprise! It was The Diva, playfully peering over my left shoulder, looking almost unrecognisable, and it took a few seconds to figure out why.

  In Kenya, she had been wearing the armour of a foreigner, the same armour that I would feel enveloping me whenever I returned to Boston from a visit to Kenya. Nothing distinct or pronounced enough for you to complain about, just a general awakening to the life outside of what you know — made worse by the nascent feeling you are not entirely welcome. The letting go of the armour, the relief, is not through conscious effort either and is never pronounced enough to be articulable, but I could recognise it in her.

  I did not have time then to think it through, of course. Here you have to see her marching off, gesturing to me and pointing at an Oldsmobile-looking blue taxi and see me hurriedly walking towards her. By Oldsmobile-looking, I mean it had the sharp architecture of cars made in the 1960s — the kind you would see in a post card from Cuba. She helped me load my bag into the boot, even though I did not need her help. She belly-laughed till she snorted when I clutched onto my carry-on with my laptop (a hand-me-down from my mother or father) and recording equipment.

  ‘That nervous twitch — it makes you a tourist,’ she said, pointing to my hands. She did not sound judgemental, more amused.

  ‘Relax, man, you are still in Africa,’ she added.

  ‘My point exactly,’ I said, to more of her undignified laughter.

  To be fair, I have known many African musicians who are famous and have sold a million records but still take matatus and eat Kenchic chicken like the rest of us — victims of bad contracts. But The Diva — I had read and seen enough of her to know that she was far from being broke or exploited.

  Everyone called her The Diva, but our mutual friend Google had told me that she had undergone multiple plastic surgeries, her real name was Kidane and she owned her own recording label, Guava Jelly Records, named after Bob Marley’s poetic love song, “Guava Jelly.” Her concerts in Ethiopia routinely sold out, and she had her own Guava clothing line and a Guava Diva perfume. In other words, she was, in addition to being incredibly talented, a savvy businesswoman. I could not help but wonder where her entourage and limousine were. But here she was, squeezing with me into the back seat of the bright blue, unforgivingly hot taxi. The question lingered as the torn vinyl covering the back seat bit sharply into my butt.

  ‘How hungry are you?’ she asked. I looked at the time: 9.15am. I had just had breakfast, and I was feeling hungry again. But it was the kind of hunger without an appetite — I was a bit apprehensive — so I said no.

  ‘Coffee then? Have you ever had Ethiopian coffee before?’ she asked.

  ‘No, and I am really okay,’ I said, feeling less like a journalist and more like a guest.

  The roads in Addis were empty, which allowed me to look at the quiet architecture. It was like Nairobi, or London, like any other city where the language of global capitalism glitters with the same sort of opulence; billboards that, like pictures, speak a thousand words more than the Amharic I could not read — Nike, Timex, Heineken, Volvo and others. We drove by a Bob Marley statue and then the African Union headquarters, a building that is really a billboard for an Ethiopia on the march to a heaven paved with gold — only it was built by the Chinese.

  Addis was much greener than many cities; it was as if it was carved out of a forest, and there were still patches left every few blocks. In Nairobi, a tree outside the designated park is as rare as a non-corrupt policeman or politician. In Nairobi, traffic lights outnumber the trees ten to one.

  A few kilometres out of the city, the vegetation became a few patches of green shrubs rising out of the suffering, tall, green and brown, alive and dying grass. It was not exactly a desert, but it was close to being one.

  To amplify the loud language of globalisation, we soon came across a slum: muddy with dog shit and rain; little children running around having fun with homemade toys of all kinds, from guns to footballs; women and men, presumably their parents, engaged in small businesses selling vegetables, illegal alcohol, mobile phones and glittery knock-off Citizen watches and Clive colognes. It was in sharp contrast to the quite empty and spacious Sunday Addis. I was not being judgemental — I am Kenyan after all — just pointing out our similarities. I looked over at The Diva and she shrugged. I did not ask why.

  All along, The Diva had been chatting with the driver in Amharic, every now and then breaking into laughter.

  ‘We have better food here,’ the driver said in English as he twisted his neck to look at me.

  ‘I was a refugee in Kenya when things were bad here, but the food there made me so miserable I came back — a life of boiled maize and beans and tough, very tough, goat meat. A life without doro wot, who wants that?’

  ‘I must defend my Kenyan friend,’ The Diva said. ‘It’s as the good Lord Jesus said, “Forgive them for they know not what they do.”’

  ‘That is not much of a defence,’ I pointed out, smiling.

  ‘For they do not know the shit they eat is more like it,’ the driver said.

  ‘Someone’s doro wot is someone’s….’ I could not think fast enough to finish the proverb I was trying to make up, and we laughed. The Diva was surprising me in all sorts of ways.

  The taxi eventually came to a stop, and she explained to me that the driver could not drive any further without ruining his car. We had to walk the rest of the way, ‘a kilometre or so,’ she assured me.

  It was about 10am — the heat from the sun was at a perfect pitch, just hot enough for me to feel the hair on my forearms bristle and cool enough for my skin to want just a little more heat. I found myself looking forward to the mid-morning walk as we started up a hill, the thin brown grass broken into tracks probably used by a donkey cart. After thirty minutes of staring at a monotonous grass path that would not quit, of trudging up and down hills and valleys, my luggage in tow, I was labouring for breath — thanks to all that ABC living. She took my duffel bag; I protested, but not hard enough. She slung it across her shoulders, and we kept walking. About halfway over yet another hill I slowed down to catch my breath.

  ‘Maybe the city boy would like to sit?’ she asked me with a half-amused look on her face, soaking wet with sweat as I was.

  ‘Maybe for a minute.’

  I sat on the grass and she on my duffel bag, and I found myself worrying that her sweat would soak into my clothes.

  I took out my small recorder and mic.

  ‘Talk for a minute or two?’ I asked.

  ‘Anything to catch a break?’ she asked in turn, but before I could respond, she was up and walking.

  ‘I want you to write about what you see, not what I tell you. No one taught you that?’

  All my energy was now going into keeping up. I could not respond.

  On top of a hill, we came across an old man standing by the bend of the road, reading something and then chanting into the wind, every now and then picking at the grass and throwing it up in the air. I looked at The Diva.

  ‘Kidane!’ the old man called to her. She waved, and he continued chanting.

  ‘By the way, out here you should call me Kidane,’ she said to me as we walked on. I asked why, but she did not answer.

  ‘The old man? Should we not have stopped?’

  ‘You want to rest again? His son died years ago; he was a soldier. Each year he does that, so we let him,’ she explained. ‘But this hill, this is where they spent most of their time when he was a young boy herding cattle, so he comes to remember. Even the hills sing the Tizita.’

  ‘Kidane, did you know him?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, as kids we were close. Look, just keep walking, okay?’

  And so I did as we fell back into silence, walking another ten minutes or so until we came to a farm.

  ‘Home,’ she announced as she opened th
e gate, or rather dragged a metal sheet to one side and walked in.

  Two little kids, about ten, give or take — a girl with a massive afro and a boy with closely shaved hair, both with missing teeth — ran out as soon as they heard the gate.

  ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ they yelled as they hugged and dragged her along.

  Staged? Definitely staged for the benefit of the journalist, I told myself as a tall, thin man with a doctor’s bag walked towards us looking at his watch.

  He leaned in and, with practiced efficiency, kissed her. ‘I have to go see…’ He gave a name that I did not catch.

  ‘My husband, Mohamed — a doctor,’ she introduced me.

  ‘A doctor with a patient he has to go see,’ he interjected.

  ‘And this is the journalist,’ The Diva continued.

  ‘I thought we agreed!’ Mohamed said to her as we shook hands.

  ‘No, we never really agreed — it was a truce,’ she answered.

  ‘In a truce, you sneak him in?’ he asked, and laughed to himself.

  He looked at his watch again and said something to her in Amharic, which I guessed to mean, We shall talk about this later.

  He kissed her on her cheek and left.

  We walked into the house and she showed me around; her two kids excitedly pointed out things like windows and doors. They named the girl Selamawit to mean she is peaceful and the boy Tsage to mean happiness, she explained. They lived in a five-bedroom house — well-maintained, but over the years, the wear and tear had caught up with it. The fresh coat of beige and brown paint could not hide the rotting wood planks, and the furniture showed just how busy the two kids were. The one thing that stood out was an electric keyboard sitting in a small room with nothing else in it besides a chair and expensivelooking DJ headphones. She showed me the rest of the house, including a small guest bedroom that overlooked rows upon rows of hills. ‘Some of which you met,’ she pointed out with amusement.

  I promised myself I would be seated by the window later, in the night, staring into the darkness, conjuring up the hills in my mind and writing.

  12

  ‘Now, tell me, are you the spark that lights a fire, or the spark that the fire throws out to die?’

  By mid-afternoon that first day, I could tell I was going to love being out at The Diva’s, aka Kidane’s, farm. Our house in Nakuru was not really a farm — it was where we that were privileged enough not to need farm animals lived. On holidays, we would do what city families do and go visit our rural relatives in Limuru. We would bring all sorts of gifts, from mirrors to clothes, and they would slaughter a goat for us. An envelope would change hands, promises would be made that they would send the kids to spend a weekend and get back to their roots, learn how to speak proper Kikuyu, and then we would retreat back to Nakuru, where my mother, feeling inspired, would start a vegetable patch that inevitably went to weed.

  Being out here, with the familiar pungent smell of cow dung permeating the air, the grass still soft from evaporated morning dew, was awakening a need to reconnect with Limuru and the relatives who over the years had become just somewhat familiar faces.

  ‘Mummy said we should not disturb you, but she always sleeps when she comes back,’ Tsage said, looking sad. The kids were now in my room as I unpacked.

  ‘Well, sometimes grownups work too hard and they need to rest,’ I said to him, but he looked at his sister.

  ‘Singing is not hard work — do you want us to sing you a song so you can see it’s not hard work at all, at all, at all?’ Selamawit asked, getting ready to belt out a tune.

  ‘No, no, I believe you. Maybe later? Later would be good,’ I said to escape.

  ‘Can we show you the farm now?’ she asked. I supposed this was the real reason they had come to see me.

  So we went around the farm; one moment they would be pointing out in perfect English what we were looking at — chickens, cows and goats — and the next moment they would play jumping and skipping games that I did not know. We got done with the farm and went back to the house only to find that Kidane was still sleeping. But at some point, she must have gotten up, because someone had set out some marmalade and jam sandwiches, some milk and a Fanta, and so we snacked away.

  ‘Now is later. Can we sing now?’ Tsage asked.

  I pretended to think about it as I sipped my Fanta and, of course, said yes. They danced and sang to Michael Jackson’s “Beat It.” Did they have their mother’s talent? It was too early to tell.

  It was time for me to be a journalist. While The Diva slept, I would walk around with the hope of seeing something that might be useful for my story. After all, she wanted to show, not tell.

  The kids wanted to come with me; I agreed, thinking that they might be useful guides and could translate for me if need be. I packed the rest of the sandwiches in a brown paper bag I found in the kitchen, filled an empty juice bottle with water, and we strode off into the hilly great unknown.

  The kids skipped ahead as I took in the view and wondered who The Diva really was. So far she had introduced me to her family, her house and farm and then napped. Peace and happiness, she seemed to have it here. But how can you sing the Tizita if you have everything? If blues musicians did not have loss, would they sing? Can you sing and be spiritual about the loss of something you have never known?

  There was a sound that for years had bothered me from my days in Boston watching blues musicians. The sound of their wedding ring running against the frets — did that mean they were still married even as they sang about loss? Now I was thinking that one probably sings a truer song about loss when still in love — the anguish, the imagining that you will lose the love of your life. Otherwise, after the love is gone, the bitterness, anger and pain would choke the beauty out of the song — and it becomes longing for love once again.

  We went down and up a hill, and I found myself thinking about the chanting old man. And, as if I had conjured him, there he was, still chanting. We walked over and stood close to him until he acknowledged us. He stretched his hand in greeting and introduced himself.

  ‘His name is Giriama Felleke. And you, who are you?’ Selamawit happily translated.

  I told him my name. He wanted to know a little bit about my background, why I had an Italian name, telling the kids to tell me that even a fruit that falls down from a tree still has roots. I had to think fast which of my myths of origin would work best, and I went with the pilot who had landed his plane on a frozen river, and my mother, pregnant with me, giving me the name of the pilot who had saved both our lives — Manfredi.

  ‘They should have named you Tamru — it is a miracle, God’s will, that you are alive,’ he said with great empathy. ‘And your middle name, what does it mean?’

  ‘Thandi — it means spark.’

  ‘Now, tell me, are you the spark that lights a fire, or the spark that the fire throws out to die?’ he asked, looking pleased, like one who had been dying for a conversationalist and had now found one worth sparring with.

  ‘Well, either is fine by me — either the piece that gives greatness or the piece that comes from the whole — either way, I am fine,’ I answered, and he started laughing.

  ‘I am a journalist; I am doing a story on Kidane. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions now that we have sparked a conversation?’ I asked.

  He laughed so hard I thought he would fall and roll down the hill. He whispered something to my able translators.

  ‘He would like something to drink. He has been here too long,’ Selamawit translated.

  I gave him the water, but he shook his head to say no. I figured the kids would be okay. I ran all the way back to the house, thinking about my name and why it mattered that my parents had been in bed with the dictator.

  This is the version I never told anyone. My name was suggested by the dictator — an inside joke. It’s the name of the hotel where their affair started when he was the VP and my mother was coming up the party ranks. No, I was not the exdictator’s son, though I always d
id feel he favoured me. I was a reminder of simpler and perhaps happier times. Why had my father gone along with it? For the same reason as my mother — it made him part of a club, and, in his own way, he might have felt it was something he held over their heads.

  How did I find out? The dictator’s sons had told my brother, who in turn had taken great delight in telling me. I had doubted it and looked up Manfredi Hotel, and there it was — a small boutique hotel in Rome. I asked my mother if she had ever stayed at a Manfredi Hotel in Rome. She said she had never been. But old passports do not lie. And neither do archived newspaper reports of official government visits to foreign countries. Everything — the lies and truth, or truths — was possible.

  The Diva was still sleeping. I found a bottle of vodka that was clearly old, judging from the dust it had collected, and ran back to the old man. He motioned for us to sit down for a ceremony that only he knew. He poured libation after libation, taking a gulp of the vodka and spraying out a small fine mist. I had to get my questions in before he passed out.

  ‘Can you ask him if his thirst has been quenched?’ I asked my little translators.

  ‘Yes, I am very fortunate. I am ready,’ the answer came back.

  ‘The chanting, who is it for?’ I asked.

  He hesitated. ‘The problem, some stories are not for young ears,’ he answered, and laughed.

  I understood; my translators were too young, even if only transmitters. I took the bottle from him and had a good swig and gave it back to him.

  ‘Tell him, I am old enough for him to tell me the story without really telling it to you,’ I answered, thinking of the heavy Kenyan code that old people would use in our presence — ordinary words that, used in a certain way, had so many meanings that they must have had a code to decipher. They were the original deconstructionists and post-modernists; only, they had meaning.

  ‘Life is long, life is short. It’s longer for others and even shorter for others, and even a long life can be short. When people do not get along, we send our children to help settle the debate and some come back, and others trip, fall down and decide to stay. My boy went back to our neighbours to help settle a little disagreement. He was lucky to come back, but if you go somewhere to visit, sometimes that place makes you a different person….’ He paused as my translators intervened.