FROM SOLUSI TO STRINGS. Part 1.
Maleka Charles
Seated under the shade of an apricot tree alone, Tapiwa was strumming his guitar for a good jam that refused to birth. He had tried various strums to no avail hoping to strike a good note in the end.
“I have a song in my mind.” He said. “But it doesn’t want to come out.” He fashioned a transient smile of contentment around his lips.
A very close friend of his, Mandla, who appeared to admire his strums more than I ever did, told me Tapiwa had been struggling with the strings since the morning.
“He woke me up around six to tell me he has a song and needed my help to hit the right note.” He said, rolling a joint of weed in between his fingers.
“My man you don’t understand.” Tapiwa said. “Sometimes for the right note to come we must connect with the ancestors, so that they give us songs.”
He was referring to his late grandfather ‘uMachonisa’, who passed away in 1998. The stick of the road tells us that late grandfather was a very famous guitar player back in Zimbabwe 1950.
He had toured the world regaling his fans with magic under his fingertips. In 1952 Machonisa was acclaimed the best rumba artist in Africa, prior to his death, the Zimbabwean born rumba artist had already won a magnitude of countless awards between Africa and Europe.
“Old man was the best my man.” Tapiwa said. “I hate death, I really hate it.” His face emphasized a very deep shadow of anger against the hand of death, which had mercilessly taken grandfather from him so soon.”
As a rill of tears unwillingly mustered on his eyes, I could feel the tension of frustration blossoming all-round the stratum of his spirit.
The memory of late grandfather stole into his mind with inevitable volt of poignancy. “You really loved your grandfather neh?” I asked.
“Dearly.” He said smilingly, his world was now becoming deurmekar and the acid jazz of sorrow pitilessly gnawed at his bosom like mice would a cheese.
“Eish! I need to smoke now.” He said, looking cravingly at Mandla, as he gingerly curled a cloud of smoke in the nearest of air. “Bafo maziche phela!” Tapiwa finally said.
“For how long have you been playing guitar?” I asked. “It’s been a while now.” He said, pulling an empty grade of beer that idled three feet from where he sat, he placed it before himself and implored that I sit down.
“Thank you.” I said. Bewitched by my humbleness and inquisition, Tapiwa flashed at me a wide smile of amiability I personally could not resist.
“I was twelve when grandfather taught me the strings.” He hoisted the joint of weed to his dry lips and took rather a long pull of smoke and ferociously puffed away into air in the end.
“Twelve!” I cut in. “Sure!” his eyes took up a more vivid form of life now and his countenance flowered into a sheer resilience as if the dawn in Christmas morn.
“From Solusi to strings baba.” He burst into a shout. “Zikuchayile manje.” Mandla said, breaking into a giggle. “Ah! Wena” Exclaimed the stoned Tapiwa.
He then closed his eyes and began to hum a song. He nodded exactly like the elephant grass bowing to the wind, as he tenderly tapped his fingers on the guitar and suddenly burst in to a song.
“Ndiya hamba
Ndiya hamba
I’m going home
Yeah! Yeah.”
“Ndiyo bona
Ndiyo bona
Isthandwa sam’
Nomvula wam’.”
“I’m going home
I’m going home
I’m going home
Yeah! Yeah.”
No sooner had he finished singing and then humming again, than a friend who seemed totally consumed by the song, burst into a short poem to add life on the song.
“Where is Umangobe?
The coal train from Nyamandlovu
The locomotive of the dry and barren lands
Umangobe the homeless child
Tell him the sons and daughters are crying
For the milk of their mothers’ breasts.”
“Where is Umangobe
The coal train from Nyamandlovu
Mbizeni! To come and fetch us from the concrete jungles of Johannesburg.
Safangendlala eGoli, engabe ipeke kuphi iZimbabwe uma sila madoda?”
