Brother Man

We were an assembly of people put together by Thiloshnee as her birthday guests as well as premier visitors to her new flat in Baker street. Among this group is myself, Laurence, Yambazi and Ravi.

Thiloshnee is an over achieving employee a big city firm, Ivy leauge graduate, former competitive athlete and weekend mountain climbing extraordinaire. She also sees herself as some sort of social engineer, organizing theater nights and other such outings. Though employed by the city firm since her graduation, it was over a year before she moved out of her humble university provided lodgings and into a studio apartment in Baker st. It was to this central location that we her ‘close’ friends were invited to for desserts and drinks before the nights adventure to the night life of the west end.

Laurence is another helpless over achiever. Another London School of Economics graduate (indeed it is through him I got to know Thiloshnee), University of Cape Town graduate and current employee of an economics consultancy group. A white boy from Cape Town whose bookish pursuits and dilection for South Africans of color make him not just a passionate believer in South Africa’s post apartheid future, but also someone well aware of his countries struggles and past.

Yambazi is a Zambian I consider to be of my own making. He too has studied hard sciences and worked through pages long calculations for nights on end. He too has been to that boarding school in Lusaka that claims many of the countries best school achievers. He too is a sort or rebel, taking every day as a platform to act against social expectations. He is a dreaded, tall, thin, dark, bearded, guitar playing particle physics PhD student at Oxford on scholarship from Zambia. He has hosted Laurence and I on a couple of Oxford booze up social outings, and this weekend was a chance for Laurence and I too try and even the score.

Ravi, is Thiloshnee’s friend, we assume she knows through Harvard. More than once before, on hitherto unsuccessful outings attempted by Thiloshnee, we have failed to meet her “CNN” friend. Indeed up to this point, we were unaware that he had any venerable traits apart from his choice of work and employer.

Soho

After a couple of wrong turns in the rain, refusing to call and admit the need for further directions, Laurence, Yambazi stepped up to Thiloshnee’s flat. When she opened the door, Priyanks greeted us with a short black dress and pair legs that near blew the eye brows off our faces. Inside her square living room/bedroom was a collection of young, mostly Indian men, spread about the sparse furniture, whose cussioned and over educated lives was revealed in their chubby faces. Also present was Thiloshnee’s elder sister, not wearing as a nice a dress or showing jaw dropping legs. Laurence had warned that Thiloshnee’s crowd was not likely to contain many women. His prophecy, it turned out was all too true. At one point, after returning from a trip to the ablutions, I brought the room to a stand still by saying “eish, this room smells sweaty crotches and unwashed socks” in a blatant reference to the predominance of men. Laurence tried to cut the ice by quipping “trust Jumani to bring things to a stand still with a comment like that.” Whenever I was overwhelmed by my counterparts pre and post university achievements, I mentioned Yambazi and his particle physics studies at Oxford.

Cake and wine was consumed before we pushed on the bus and black cab busy streets, in the rain, to make for the underground to the night club for the night.

Soho is a collection of streets in the center of west London that is skew on all fronts. The roads are skew and never meet at right angles. The morals are skew, as proved by the numerous sex shops, brothels and naked legs waving out door ways. The sexuality is skew, as evinced by the buff men that sometimes walk its streets wearing nothing but gold bum pants and twirling a wand.

Thiloshnee and her sister, Laurence, Yamabazi and I as well as the assembly of over achieving chubby faced Harvard graduates, crept out of the underground at Piccadilly circus into the crowds and the rain. The night club of Thiloshnee’s choice would not let us in before 11pm (where upon Yambazi and I guessed that the ubiquitous racism of clubs door bouncers was at play) and so we were forced to wander the streets of Soho for a short term alternative. At this point Ravi, our man from CNN, knew just the place to go – a little place called The French House on Dean st. The French house only sells half pints of beer, has walls covered with black and white photos of good times of old and sells an obscure selection of books behind the bar. The clientele was curiously well acquainted with the bar staff and some of them were older than the photos on the wall.

Our crew snuggled up into a corner of the pub and had a round of drinks next to a middle aged man with over sized spectacles, wiry thin black moustache and communist style hat in a red t-shirt. Initially, Yambazi and I were not engaged in conversation with the man. Laurence, who was engaged from the start, who seemed enthralled, had mentioned with enthusiasm, that the man was from Joberg. Our coterie jostled and shifted in the hustle and bustle of this crowded busy little tavern. Phones rang, text messages sms’d and directions yelled for further friends of Thiloshnee to come. Through all this, Laurence took a call and had to meet his lady friend at the nearest tube station. Vacating his position next to the man, Laurence said to me “talk to the man” and I took Laurence’s position.

“English is the language of the oppressor. It is the language of business power” preached the man in the red t-shirt. And he was preaching. He had put on his orating tone of voice. Pryanka and Ravi buffeted the man on each side. They both had a solemn look on their face as if both suffering from reverence and guilt.

“Brother man” said the man addressing Yambazi “where are you from?” When Yambazi said he was from Zambia he then asked “and what do you speak at home?” Yambazi replied “Well, we speak our language, but we all speak English also…” and then Yambazi was cut short “you see!” exalted the Joberg man. Yambazi tried to explain that there was a wide variety of indigenous languages in Zambia making English “the most sensible alternative” but the Joberg man was dismissive.

Thiloshnee too tried to explain the comfort of her country, India, to the use of English as the medium of business and governance. But the Jorberg man insisted that “you are oppressed by the very language you use.” Thiloshnee was exasperated and left the tavern to shout directions into her phone for soon to come members of the party.

I was sympathetic to the notions that of lingering oppression maintained through language. I pointed out the current South African minister of education’s, (Naledi Pandore) trials in opening up the ‘bantu languages’ conundrum, which was labelled by some critics, Pandora’s box. However, the Joberg man did not latch on to this example, but went on to talk in abstract terms.

Then the Joberg man went onto claim he was a man on the battle front in South Africa, with Mandella. That he “knew Thabo well” in London. That he was an exile. That he was disappointed with the South African president “putting the economy before peoples lives”. Through this I asked him if he had been back to South Africa since democracy, to which he replied “just briefly” in another dismissive tone.

Then came a long story of being arrested for not having a pass book in apartheid South Africa. “I ran home from school and changed quickly out of my school uniform. Then my mother sent me to buy bread, but I had forgotten my pass in my trouser pocket.” Then he told of being arrested by a typically unsympathetic Afrikaaner police officer. Of being taken around his township at the back of a van picking up other similar offenders. “when I got home, I found my mother had been so worried, looking for me all over the place, not sure if I had been stabbed by gangsters.”

At this point, I interjected in jest hoping to relax the tone a little. I said “but you still brought home the bread right? I mean you went through all that and you still brought home the bread. That is to be commended.” To this we all laughed, even the Joberg man. But then the Joberg man turned and said “but how can you make such a joke. How can you make such a joke about my mother?” It was a rhetorical question I did not answer. And then he continued “you are a half-caste aren’t you?” I replied “yes, well it shows” while raising the skin of my wrist into view. But the Joberg man did not take this wager for peace and continued “yah, you are not just half-caste in the skin, you are half-caste in the mind. That is Afrikanaar thinking what you said. You have Afrikanaar in the mind” The air had been turned foul quite quickly. I said to Yambazi “eish, this barley is flat” and chuckled a little, even though the insults thrown at me suddenly were quite caustic in my opinion.

It was any how, time to meet some Thiloshnee’s other friends the designated club for night, it being after 11pm then. There we met Laurence again and regailed to him the dramatic turns of conversation with man we had by now christened ‘brother man’. Laurence said, quite amused, “I knew he was talking shit, that is why I wanted you to talk to him” which surprised me. “I had thought otherwise” I said to Laurence. “I thought you were quite taken by him” I said but Laurence replied “No! I knew you would upset him soon enough. That is why I asked you to talk to him.”

Conversations with Blessing

Once again we are on the bus. Blessing, my Malawian visitor from Scotland bought only bus passes for her 5 day stay in London. I didn’t mind avoiding the train for a change. Up the stairs, we passed a pair of prams by their young mother drivers. Sat on the upper deck of the bus, it was as if we were flying among the oak trees of South London.

Blessings Friends

‘But don’t you have any friends?’ I asked, trying to pry out of her some sort of picture of her life in Scotland. ‘Any friends from your Quantity Surveying School?’

‘No’ was her curt response, tucked in a mouth that hardly opens wide enough to let the words out.

‘No friends at all?’ I asked again.

‘Yes, I do have some friends’ she said finally.

‘Well, what are they like? Are they Malawian’s like you?’ Across the isle from us, a young teen sat under a black hood and cell phone connected to his ears by headphones with music so loud we could hear it.

‘No. One, shiz Italian. The others are from Zimbabwe and Botswana’ she said. ‘The Italian, shiz always asking me to go with her places. She doesn’t have a boyfriend but she doesn’t like being alone. That’s why she make me go with hah to the cinema some times, but I don’t mind’ she went on.

‘And the other two, the Zimbabwean and the Botswanan? Do they have boyfriends?’ I asked, fishing for drama. I have to keep prodding her with questions to keep the conversation on the move. But somehow, it is not as bother some as I might otherwise think.

‘Yes they have a boyfriend. Well, the boyfriend of the Zimbabwean is now with the Botswanan’ she said, preceding the sentence with a nervous laugh, as Blessing often does.

‘What?’ I said, glad to have finally found some intrigue in Blessing’s background. ‘Doesn’t the Zimbabwean mind losing a boyfriend to her friend?’

‘Yah, but shiz funneh‘ said Blessing.

‘Funny? What do you mean she is funny?’ Just then a tubby boy sat in front of us chomping on a greasy pack of chips. As his thick fingers dived into the tomato sauce oily pack, I wondered if his choice of food for the evening has anything to do with his obesity.

‘Well she behaves funneh‘ was all Blessing said. I had to repeat and try the question from different angles before I got some sort of an answer when Blessing said ‘I work with hah. At work she can be funneh. Like if you are toking something she will go teow the boss.’

‘You mean if you are talking about the boss she will turn around and go tell him’ I suggested.

‘Yah’ she replied.

‘Yes that is very funny indeed’ I agreed.

‘She is pregnant’ said Blessing.

‘Who is?’ I asked, getting a little alarmed. ‘The Malawian’ she said. ‘The one who is pregnant?’. ‘Yes’ she said.

Blessing told me that her two friends, wh0 live in the same house, dated the same man. The man is from Lesothu. She says most people find the Zimbabwean friend ‘funneh‘. Another funny thing about the Zimbabwean, I was told, was that she looked down upon and was disgusted at girls who got pregnant. She said it showed what they were doing. When the Zimbabweans own pregnancy began to show, Blessing said the girl said she did not know how it happened.

Blessing went on and said ‘So he did not want to be married to her because of the way she behevz. He said when she has the chaud, he can just give the beby to himu and he wew giv to hiz mother to look-u after the chaud at home. He doesn’t want to marry hah‘

‘And all the while he is with the Botswana girl? I asked and Blessing answered in the affirmative.

‘But she didn’t tell anyone she was together with himu. I just knew because the other house mates tod me’ Blessing added. ‘Even up to now, she doesn’t know that I know. She is funneh.’

I was puzzled. I inquired for clarity ‘So these two girls live together and share this man? How do they know him’

‘They are staying in hiz house’ she said.

‘Ah!’ I said. ‘And do they pay any rent?’

‘No’

‘Then is suddenly makes a lot of sense to me’

Rokia

The Barbican is a concrete jungle in the heart of the centre of London. A wide reaching forest of concrete walkways and interconnected city blocks that secretly conceal tube stations, museums and and the Barbican centre. In the belly of this labyrinth of stair cases, sign posts and old Roman city ruins, Rokia Traore was to perform a Mozart influenced live performance.

Loveness was not at the Burger King at London Bridge, as agreed. On the phone she said she was told that there was no Burger King at London Bridge (incorrectly). I swallowed my frustration and met her at her unilaterally chosen meeting place, outside in front of the HSBC bank.
We took a bus to the Barbican.

Lovenss has lived all her life in northern Malawi, except for one short visit to Lundazi, in eastern Zambia when she was five. Two years ago she went to Glasgow to study Quantity Surveying. She is small, neat, shy and speaks with a strong Tumbuka accent.

‘Rokia is an African like us. She is from Mali. She makes black peoples music. Tonight, she is taking white peoples favorite classical music, and making it black’ I preached. I find my self talking to her like she is a child for her quietness. She is 22 though.

‘But there will be plenty of white people there who like black peoples music’ I continued as we skipped over the Thames river on the upper deck of the double decker bus. I pointed out the south bank and St Pauls Cethedral.

Loveness smiled and said nothing.

Indeed there were lots of white people at the Barbican that night that like black peoples music. I could tell because many of them wore printed shirts. Very educated women in their forties donned shawls and kaftan’s and printed head cloths. Caucasian men had sandles and cotton pants. Mixed race couples were present too.

I mean black peoples music like the kind that is sung in native languages and with traditional instruments. Not the over produced chart bashing rhythms forced onto high streets and MTV. It is called African World Music.

Loveness and I had a drink outside and sat on the steps by the fountains. The evening was warm and the soft dusk sunlight dappled the creepers hanging over concrete balconies yonder and all around and above us.

In the auditorium, the lights went out, the convivial crowd died down and two shadowy forms walked on to stage. It was Rokia and a curly haired guitarist. On the screen behind them a short story was told through screen shots of bustling Bamako in black and white and a voice over narrative, in french and english with subtitles. It told of time breaking down and contemporary artists such as Amadou & Mariam, Bjork and Billie Holiday arriving at a banquet to perform at the crowning ceremony of Soundiata Kieta, the first 13th century emperor of the Mande kingdom in Medieval Mali.

The first song was a tentative and calm dirge. Rokia’s throat deep wails augmented by the languid plucks of an acoustic guitar.

Rokia wore loose cotton pants and a chinese style cotton shirt with long sleeves that drooped well past here hands. The cut across her torso was high to reveal some of her taught stomach. She is lean, short and small with a powerful neck, short hair and an eager countenance. Dark skinned and liable to charge with passion at the drop of a dime.

The songs that followed were lacklustre but powerful, with the familiar charges of her singing and chanting. Four violins and a chelo on one familiar number from one of her recorded albums. If you love Rokia’s music then you would of loved this, with classic instruments to back her up.

After three or four such numbers, her usual band took up the remainder of the instruments behind her. They were all men but her back up singer, a more voluptuous specimen whose back bone was not as flexible as Rokia’s to the pounding rythyms.

As the performance went on so did the tempo. The all man band got more assertive. Rokia and her back up singer danced more to their mildly choreographed routines. All this was inter-spliced with more screen shots of Mali and voice over doing a fantasy of the empire of Soundiata Kieta and his journey to be emperor.

Loveness was quiet next to me but not motionless in the gloom. I bopped my head as I saw fit and clapped lots.

The second to last song was ten minutes long and really rocked the house. One of the guitars looked like a wood padel, with strings strung across. The drums smashed and the electric guitarists face contorted with passion. Rokia danced and smiled like she was drugged. Just when you thought the song could not get any more hectic it went up to a higher tempo. When the song finally concluded, with a triumphant bash from the drummer, the applause was almost as long as the song.

Of course there was an encore. Rokia charged back on to the stage with her whole band of African men and back up singer. She demanded every body get up and dance. That included the white males in the front rows with white hair and bold patches. She demanded and, coaxed and cajoled until we were all on our feet, though Loveness and I didn’t need much convincing.

The final song was for all to dance. Loveness danced like she talked, quietly and in a smile way. No loud gestures and not much movement.

Rokia got a standing ovation. I was glad I came. I didn’t notice much Mozart in her performances. There were some classical instruments which worked really well on her ballads to accompany her passionate and indignant wails. But I don’t know Mozart. I do know, however, that I like everything that comes out of Mali when it comes to music.

They say Rokia came back from the western world of her fathers diplomatic circles to learn traditional Griot music and fuse it with modern influences. I love her music. I wish I could do the same with literature as she has done with music. She inspires me.

‘Did you like it?’ I asked Loveness.

‘yeah’ she said with her usual nervous laugh. I doubted the sincerity of this reply but I don’t think she was bored.

We followed the signs posts to the bus station and took two buses home.

Over the Thames river again on the bus, I saw to the east the full moon a strong orange just emerged from the horizon in the twilight. It was ochre yellow and framed squarely by the tower bridge under the moon rose over the river beyond the bright city lights.