Coming Home

I read an article the other day about the stereotypes that are still being propagated about Africa.  A little study revealed  that a great deal of published material about our continent have very similar visual themes on their front covers.  Essentially, the world sees us as elephants on a flat plain, with a golden sunset in background and the token acacia tree in silhouette.  And this got me thinking about what I personally think of Africa.  I’ll admit my view of Africa is limited, limited to the few countries in the south that I’ve visited and or lived in.  As such when I do question what my image is of Africa, mostly I think of the two thousand kilometre road journey from Johannesburg to Lusaka.  A trip I’ve undertaken thrice in the past twenty four months.  This trip shows you quite an interesting slice of what Africa is REALLY like.  

  

One thing the world should know, in this part of Africa, one hardly ever sees wildlife.  Cows, goats, chickens, dogs and donkeys, yes.  In abundance!  But Elephants and baboons?  Hardly ever.  And the glorious hues of the sunsets they romantically extol in their literature?  Well, yes we do indeed have glorious sunsets.  But in reality, the colours you see most in Africa are boring brown and boring green and of course glorious blue sky.  In this part of the world, (depending on the time of the year) everything is either very brown or very green.  In our cities, its brown all year round (think Nigerian movie).   Dirt roads, the brown of the unpainted houses and the brown of the skin.

We begin our journey with the bustle and industry of Gauteng.  Despite having lived here on and off for the past seven years, I still have a hard time coming to terms with the sheer size of Johannesburg.  Cars, people, office block, houses, everywhere!  The disparities in wealth are very, very striking.  A squatter settlement here, a gated community there.  A beggar approaching the window of a Porsche Cayenne.  Its obscene.  But its life I suppose.  Our journey is smooth, the terrain flat through most of Limpopo.  A little escarpment and we’re at Beit Bridge, signalling our entry into Robert Mugabe’s Zimbabwe

What amazes me about Zimbabwe is how very big it seems .  it’s much, much smaller than Zambia, but when you’ve on a bus already for twelve hours and you are still a thousand kilometres from home it seems as though you are traversing the Sahara desert.  But it’s always nice to stare out the window and soak in the huge potential that the country has.  It truly is a fallen giant.  Despite the tough times they’ve had, their small towns are still bigger and more numerous than Zambia’s.  The farms on the outskirts of Harare are more impressive and feature greater herds of cattle and more massive granaries than what you’d see in, say, Chisamba. 

Finally, Chirundu.  Dog-tired after spending some eight hours waiting for all passengers and luggage in the sixty-seater to be cleared by customs and immigration.  Chirundu really is nothing more than a village, for as soon as you drive a kilometre from the gates of the border post facility you are met by the humblest of thatched dwellings.  An hour or so of twisting through the escarpment and you’re back on the flat land you’ve grown accustomed to throughout the journey.  To the right, Kafue Gorge.  A few more minutes and you’re in sprawling, uninspiring Kafue town.  But one’s heart quickens now, knowing that Lusaka is very very close by. Chilanga is soon upon us.  And then Lilayi and Makeni.  

Nothing says “Lusaka” like traffic.  But this particular gridlock feels great.  It means I’m back home.  I peer down and see motorists patiently inching their way forward towards Kafue roundabout, their final destinations unknown to me.  Lusaka residents like myself.  Their faces occasionally darkened in the shadow of an optimistic street vendor at their window.  Findeco House looms large and confident in t the afternoon sun, bidding me, the prodigal son from the south, a warm Lusaka welcome.

Snare Nine

Much has been said on the #BanDunka campaign. I dedicated a few tweets to it a couple of weeks ago, but here in one place are my thoughts again:

The origins of the genre have been highlighted already by brother Anthony Muligisa.  Reggaeton came to us through the like of Daddy Yankee and Don Omar.  Zambian producers were quick to copy the infectious drum pattern and soon we had hits like Gong’a by Uncle Jah and Over Over by jimmy.  Soon there was a plethora of dunka songs in our ears over the successive years, the arrival of a new genre of Zambian music that went relatively unheralded.

Dunka is essentially reggaeton music, adapted for Zambian audiences.  It employs the normal reggaeton four-on-the-floor drum pattern.  Use of “snare 9” was once very prominent, snare 9 being the instrument that gives the beats their distinct “ka” sound from which the word dunka is derived. 

What I like about dunka is its authentic Zambian-ness.  Others may beg to differ, asserting that it’s a copycat of an established sound.  I disagree.  Inasmuch as dunka has its origins in reggaeton, it has evolved over the years to be a truly local sound.  Our music is different from that of the DRC or Malawi or Tanzania.  Like most other music genres, we took another idea and made it our own.  (Bear in mind that rock and roll had its origins in black Spirituals, but was adopted by British youth and turned into something altogether unique).  One only needs to listen to the work of Mampi, Dandy Crazy and Oga Family to realise the level that dunka has raised Zambian music.  Its success in international markets bears testimony to the success of the genre.

Unfortunately with the rise of dunka came a multitude of artists hoping to make a quick buck off a tried and tested musical formula.  Many were quick to replicate the rhythms and melodies, note-for-note, of established hits.  Herein lies the problem.  The past six years we have been bombarded with a whole bunch of songs that “sound the same”.  And indeed they do. Take the established drum pattern, incorporate a simple four chord progression and add juvenile lyrics.  The result?  A catchy, danceable, yet annoyingly predictable hit.  And that is the crux of Krytic’s argument. 

We do indeed have great singers and producers in our great republic.  But lately there is very little real songcraft for we the public to appreciate.  The onus now is on the so called “artists” to revisit their motives for making music, and ponder over what art and artistry is really about.  I’m confident that the industry will rise to the challenge and bring us more great music.