Unbury Our Dead with Song

by Mukoma Wa Ngugi

  ‘I grew up in an area much like this. I miss it. I miss it a lot actually, but I do not want to go back.’

  I stood up and tried to stretch.

  ‘Then for you, what you have is nostalgia and perhaps regret. For me out here, what I have is life, home,’ she said in a tone that had a tinge of pity in it.

  ‘Home? Home becomes the place we leave. That is how I grew up,’ I said.

  ‘What, are you crazy?’ she asked, jabbing me on my shoulder with her elbow. ‘Home, this place — here — this is what allows me to be in all the other places. Home is where you live, the place you always come back to, the place that sends you away to make money so you can come back.’

  ‘The life of a musician — that is a day job for you then? Like a nine-to-five gig, or whatever the hours are?’ I asked her.

  ‘No, man. It is a life. Not a day job — it is also life,’ she answered.

  ‘But earlier you said—’

  ‘I said that this is where I come home from my job. The musician in me might very well say the same about my being here, that this life is the job. Are you married?’

  ‘No,’ I answered, wondering why she was asking.

  ‘Okay, let’s say you, the tabloid journalist, the lover or the son — which of those lives is real?’ she asked.

  I did not answer.

  ‘They are all real at different times, but the place where they are real at the same time is home. It is a sad life if you cannot have that,’ she answered for me.

  ‘And here, do they know you as The Diva? Do they know you are The Diva?’ I asked her, feeling less a journalist and more a person who had been wounded by a friend.

  ‘So the gloves come off? I should not have run you too hard,’ she said, a glint of humour returning to her face.

  ‘No, that is not what I meant….’

  ‘I am their child here, and my children are their children, and theirs mine — we live here. How can I be The Diva here? Why is that so hard to understand? The Diva, that is someone else’s creation — not mine. But I am a musician — all the time — all the different mes are me here,’ she said defensively.

  ‘But you must want to be The Diva here, no?’ I followed up.

  ‘Are you rested now?’ she asked, and before I could answer, she had sprinted off. ‘See you at home!’ she yelled.

  I ran for a bit, gave up and started walking back. Running in safari boots was a terrible idea. The forming blisters were feeling like tiny waterbeds under my feet; I was in pain all over, thirsty, and the feeling of sweat drying on my face did not help. But I would not have traded that short conversation with Kidane. What I saw as contradictions, she saw as existence, as life itself. I now had a slight foothold in unfolding the enigma that was The Diva.

  Except for several fleeting questions: was I falling in love with The Diva that did not exist or with the married Kidane? Was The Diva my fantasy or was it Kidane? I knew enough about telling stories — they were also about the storyteller.

  16

  ‘Come see the other me.’

  By the time I made it back, Kidane was serving Mohamed and the kids hastily scrambled eggs. They had a good laugh at my expense. She went to the kitchen to toast some bread, only to curse so loudly that we all went quiet. Mohamed asked what the matter was, and she marched in and furiously placed a small loaf of bread with no crust on the table. Then I remembered Mohamed and me, high the night before, the munchies demanding something sweet, and the only thing we could find was bread. Mohamed had insisted he was going to make me the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich — it involved eating toasted crunchy crust. It was the best PB&J sandwich I had ever had, but we had not anticipated the fallout. The kids did not mind, though, so it balanced out in the end.

  It was time to leave for the concert — the set up and rehearsals were going to eat up the rest of the day. The kids were also eager to play football with their father, so after quick, casual goodbyes, we were on our way. The same cab driver that dropped us off at the bottom of the hills was waiting for us at the end of the painful, long trek.

  ‘Shall I stop at the other place?’ he asked in English as soon as we got in.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied.

  ‘What other place?’ I asked her.

  ‘You will see,’ she answered, and they both laughed.

  The cab driver’s name I now learned was Mustafa, a Somali living in Addis. I guessed until he had seen you twice, he maintained his cover — xenophobia against Somali people any time the war in the Ogaden flared up was a constant fear. We spoke about xenophobia all over the continent — South Africa, Libya, Egypt; it seemed pan-Africanism was in spirit and not in practice. We talked about how the Islamic Court Unions might have done some good were it not for Ethiopia and the United States. And how Kenya had now finally invaded Somalia ‘officially.’

  The conversation moved on to the mundane — the cost of bread, petrol and so on, until we were back in Addis, where he drove to an expensive-looking building a few hundred yards from the African Union headquarters. I thought we were picking up someone, but we drove to the back, where he punched a few keys into a pad and large gates opened up to a garage. I asked Kidane again where we were going. She simply smiled.

  Eventually we parked Mustafa’s taxi next to a long Mercedes Benz that looked all the newer next to his Oldsmobile. We entered an elevator where he once again punched in a code, and we took the long ride up to the top floor to pick up someone I was now sure was a good friend, or Kidane’s lover.

  When it turned out he had the key to an immaculately furnished penthouse apartment and there was no one in, I started to suspect that they were lovers. They went to separate rooms. The suspense was killing my tabloid senses, so I started looking for clues — there were none. I looked at the magazines and newspapers on the glass coffee table. Before I could open the latest Ebony magazine with a barely dressed, hips-thrust-into-the-camera Beyoncé on its cover, Kidane, and shortly thereafter, Mustafa, returned.

  Only it was not Mustafa and Kidane. It was The Diva and her bodyguard. The Diva came over to where I was standing frozen, mouth open, at once understanding what was before me and at the same time as confused as I had ever been. She was dressed in a long, white, tight evening gown, with a light shawl covered with the green, yellow and red of the Ethiopian flag wrapped around her bare shoulders, her long, muscular neck bare.

  Mustafa was dressed in a tuxedo, and where before he had seemed thin and effeminate, even in his several-sizes-bigger shirts and trousers, the Mustafa that stood before me was a guy you did not want to mess with, his chest straining the shirt buttons as he adjusted a gun in his shoulder holster, put on his jacket and checked himself in the mirror to make sure that the gun was concealed. I recognised him — he was the man I had almost run into back at the ABC when I was leaving The Diva’s dressing room.

  ‘What is going on? I saw you at the ABC,’ I said to him.

  He shrugged and smiled.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked The Diva.

  She went over to the stack of magazines and newspapers, took one and threw it at me so that it fell by my feet. And that is when I saw The National Inquisitor headline: “Sex, Drugs and Rock-and-Roll Tizita” — the piece in which I had lied in order to bulldoze the money men at The National Inquisitor to send me to Ethiopia.

  ‘You are not the only one with secrets. You are lucky I liked it,’ she said with a laugh when I started trying to explain.

  They walked to the door, and for a moment I thought they would leave me behind.

  ‘Come,’ she commanded, and I followed them, less a journalist and more like a boy caught lying. Mustafa flashed me a sympathetic, even friendly, smile.

  What had I been thinking? And why was she letting me carry on? Whatever the case, I was going to give my readers a good story, regardless of the truth. I mean, had I written only about The Diva of Nairobi, would that have been the truth? Or if I wrote only about Kidane, wife and loving mother — would that b
e the truth? In a world of multiple covers and faces, only a fool would think the truth was the first face one saw. In journalism school, we used to have drunken debates in the same parties where I played my one Malaika song about objective reporting. Ever the radicals, we would agree there was nothing like objective reporting.

  But we had it all wrong, because we placed the burden of objectivity on the journalists, who in turn bring their biases to the story, to be piled on by the biases of the editor, dictated by whatever corporation owned the paper. But we always assumed the subject of the reportage was objectively solid and stable. Well, what I was learning, or rather seeing, confirmed that both the journalist and the subject were in constant motion. And if both of you stopped and talked over a cup of coffee or a beer, that would be a sliver of the truth at that point in time. We had been applying the uncertainty principle to the wrong party.

  The Addis Ababa Stadium and Millennium Hall — magnificence on steroids — displayed a country conscious of its image as the poster child of development. In many ways, the stadium itself was performing for the TV cameras, the blog writers and tweeters, because each story, whether it was about a football game, a political speech or music performance, had to begin with its vastness, filled with 60,000 people all there to watch, listen and commune. Sixty thousand people in one space produce electricity, current charged with anticipation, in the constant, loud, undecipherable murmur of talking and singing voices.

  I had a choice to make, write it in the moment to help my readers see it as I saw it, or take notes and tell it to them as a story past. The energy…the magic of it all — it was not a word I had ever used before with my readers, but I loved them, so I wrote it as I was seeing it. I wanted them there with me.

  Live! The Diva on Stage

  The Diva is here to do a concert for soldiers, veterans, friends, family and anyone who cares to show up. It is free, so it’s 60,000 people and probably another 5,000 standing outside the stadium, not to mention those watching from home. Backstage, The Diva standing there — surrounded by tech people, journalists, fans who had won backstage passes, The Diva surrounded by the machinery that produces the music we consume — looks so small, in danger of being crushed by all of it. She smiles, signs this, takes a photo, kisses someone on the cheek, shares a joke with an old friend. I look again — she is not in danger of being crushed by it all; she is in control, the skilful surfer who seems to be in danger of being swallowed by a massive wave but triumphs each time. Every now and then she looks at Mustafa, the leash that will keep her tied safely to her surfboard if the rising waters were to push her off.

  The anticipation builds; the band, all men dressed in army jackets over khaki pants and army boots, are playing as if on a loop, repeating the phrase so that each time they return to the point where the musician should make an entrance, the crowd yells for The Diva. She calls me over — the waters respectfully part to let me through — and she whispers, ‘Come see the other me.’ She smiles at Mustafa, and he walks me over to a small VIP section and then hurries back. I can hear and feel the ocean of 60,000 people behind me. I am no longer a journalist — I am one of them.

  I look around and see large-screen monitors set up all around the stadium showing her making her way to the front of the stage, Mustafa in front of her. Triumph, mixed with a self-conscious smile that suggests she knows how good she is, plays on her face. The Diva — no sign of Kidane anymore — walks onto the stage. The united horn section goes into high gear, the drums, bass and keyboards follow, and a storm of dancing song brews. She walks up and down the stage; she owns it. She stops every now and then, says something and playfully wags a finger at the crowd. I have no idea what the words mean, but I know enough now not to worry about what words mean but what her voice says — she is telling the men to be careful of her, or of others like her, or telling the women to be wary of men like the ones she is pointing at.

  Call and response with the band, the horn section coming in slightly before she talks to the men — more like sings to them — with the band all quiet, and then as her voice gets angrier yet remaining playful, the band comes in. The drums set the tone — a few angry rat-a-tats as the horn section, the keyboards and The Diva remain silent — and then her, just her — her voice speaking to the 60,000 people comes in, magnified by the image of the beautiful, lone woman on stage, and we all go wild. The band comes in — and we are hungry for more.

  She paces up and down stage, her voice whipping up the band into a frenzy — and then she does a simple gesture that almost causes a riot — the band comes to a stop, there is only silence. She runs to the centre of the stage and takes off her suit jacket, and then runs her fingers over the buttons of her white shirt, pretending to undo each one of them. The roar of a turned-on crowd; the band intervenes, but not before letting one of the trumpet players talk to her, his trumpet approving, asking for more. It is simply the sexiest, most erotic performance I have ever witnessed, and I feel things in me stirring, made all the more intense by a turned-on, massive crowd. And then she moves on to a few more disco music-like tunes. We dance and dance; people sing along to her popular songs until their voices are hoarse. This is no Kidane on stage — this is The Diva, and I feel I understand her, even though I have no words to express this understanding. The Diva and her all-male band — she thrives, loves being in control of all of them, all their macho selves held and sewn together by her voice.

  Almost two hours into the concert, and a song ends. She bows her head and, lifting only her eyes so that it looks as if she is about to charge the crowd, she says, ‘I believe in God.’ I expect her to say she believes in the devil as well, but this is a different crowd — soldiers need no reminders of the devil. This group of men yet to be wounded or killed, yet knowing that for some of them, death is certain; and those who had survived and lost limb or faith, and the relatives of those who died — they all need hope.

  The band leaves the stage in silence. Mustafa comes and hands me an envelope. ‘She wants you to have this,’ he says as he sits by me. A choir dressed in blue comes in, and standing in front of them is a krar player, short and overweight. I open the envelope — it’s a Tizita. It’s all written down by hand thanks to The Diva.

  The krar starts off with a solo as The Diva sways from side to side, now more self-aware. She waits a little bit more and says something that Mustafa translates for me as 60,000 people get on their feet, yell, clap and shush each other. ‘It’s a Tizita by Bezawork. She wants to pay homage to one of the greatest Tizita singers of all time,’ he translates.

  A few reps by the krar player. She closes her eyes and brings the microphone to her mouth, keeps swaying from side to side, as if waiting for a cue that only she knows. I remember this from her performance at the ABC. The krar player, fingers at times a blur, at other times picking up one note after the other, keeps nodding in her direction, as if telling her, I am waiting for you; enter now.

  60,000 people still on their feet waiting, and the waiting itself feels like a song. The choir sways with her, waiting. The band members taking a break have also come out to the sides of the stage, a little worry and pride etched on their faces. And then, whatever she is waiting for, perhaps a perfect balance between the krar and the loud anticipation from the crowd, comes to pass. Her voice, hoarse from all the high-charged singing earlier, is cracked a bit, but it adds to the music. I finally allow myself to look at the lyrics. They are in Amharic, but I follow them, listening to her voice, not for words and their meaning, but as an instrument trying to tell us something. What does it matter what the words mean? I listen.

  Hiiwot zora, TeQuma tizitan

  Hiiwot zora, TeQuma tizitan

  Dirron ayto madneQ, yesekenu eletta

  Dirron ayto madneQ, yesekenu eletta

  Deggun mastawesha, baynorewu tizita

  Deggun mastawesha, baynorewu tizita

  Negen baltemegnat, sewu

  Negen baltemegnat, sewu…

  The cadence of her voice relaxe
s, the voice I know to be hers — it’s almost like she is having a chat with the Tizita. Her voice — the word I have been looking for comes to me: her androgynous voice — rising and falling with the bass and the krar, drawing out sorrow as if from a well. And when she repeats ‘Tizita, Tizita,’ I see split images of Bekele and her, alive and young and vital, the tragedy of what awaits their happiness on the horizon. ‘Love and its mischief, it came and left,’ her voice, the instrument, cries.

  Tizita bicha newu, yelib guadegna

  Tizita bicha newu, yelib guadegna

  Letamemech hiiwot, meTSnagna medagna

  Letamemech hiiwot, meTSnagna medagna

  The way her voice quivers, life has become unbearable, cannot be lived as is and something has to give.

  Eyayun malefun, lemedelign aynein

  Eyayun malefun, lemedelign aynein

  Eyayu malefun, lemedelign aynein

  What is she pleading for and whom is she imploring? Here I get lost in my own thoughts. The Diva — I know she can hit any note she wants. She did it with me just yesterday with her kids running around the yard, the sun that had set just an hour before glowing through the clouds. But this evening she is holding back, and where her voice takes command and soars, she flicks her hand up in the air as if to hold herself back, and she lets the krar play on eight or so beats before coming back to the song.

  That gesture again, and I put the lyrics down. I start to watch each time she raises her hand — the gesture elides something. I watch hard enough to notice that she does that to pull herself back. The Corporal did it, the holding back, at the ABC, but not to the same effect as Kidane. We had been angry at his holding back because we wanted a bit of that flagellation that comes with facing one’s demons — catharsis. But Kidane is getting rewarded — the crowd going crazy each time. The choir comes and completes the gesture by giving depth, as opposed to height, through a solo.