Sound-Track to My Life

I have been mulling over the musical sounds that accompany us through life of late. The inspiration for this probably being my discovery of the rather nostalgic feeling Koffi Olomide’s music has been having on me of late. It was all rather an accident, how I found myself listening to Tatcho music, but that is a story for another day. It came to the fore on my recent trip to Chavuma, courtesy of my colleague Nduna, who seems to have an endless supply of the music of the man otherwise known as Mopao Mokonzi.

I slept in the lulling loom of the Zambezi River at “God Gives” lodge in Chavuma. Before I went to bed, I took time to read the lodge rules, typed on an A4 piece of paper which was in turn stuck to the back of the door of my room. Most of it was routine stuff about smoking and making noise. Only one rule stood out, the one stating that only married people would be required to occupy one room at the same time. I mused at how difficult it would be to get proof of the same.

Thankfully the taps were running and did not need much coaxing. It was a showered me who went to bed with my brain swimming in Tatcho music.

I had a friend at boarding school who could religiously sing from memory an entire Koffi Olomide album, “Magie” I think it was. Allow me to call this a talent (it must take considerable effort to memorise a 9 minute Lingala song, let alone an album).  Sadly, this talent seemed lamentably lacking when it came to him memorising other things like mathematical formulas and history essays.

Growing up in the mid-90s and early 2000s and in the demographics I did, my musical education was invariably Koffi Olomide and a further dotting of other Rhumba musical stars, although they all paled in significance compared to Mr Olomide. 

My Uncle had a pile of his music, at his home. That booming bass reverberating with the rather heavy bass line, would suddenly leap into a mesmerising tenor before snaking round the song in a dazzling array of voices. That was Koffi Olomide, flamboyant in dressing, opulent in his music and possessing an iron clad confidence.

Then we lived according to his in and out list. We burst our little lungs with bastardised renditions of Magie, Julia, Papa Plus, and Noblese Oblige. Wriggling our skinny waists, our eyes lighting up as that blanket of a voice would rumble along. Sometimes, it resembled a reluctant heavy drum beat, picking at just the right time and subsiding just when you need it to. Then fast-forward, the rewind.

At one point the new albums came in thick and fast and it was often difficult to keep up. Only Mopao himself would know whether this was a matter of a hyper-creative mind or a veritable case of satisfying market demand. To be honest we didn’t care.

Give us a danceable beat Mopao, the thumping bass, an overzealous hype man and an engaging drumbeat that is all that mattered. But then soundtracks to life are markedly different from those found in the movies. They can often be long, undulating with enough inordinate pauses to render all manner of coherence a significant challenge, and that goes even for those who can recite Koffi Olomide’s lyrics from start to finish without understanding a word.

I can understand if yours was shaped by the boy bands with looks that can only be described as angelic, well-manicured voices and a certain propensity to stand in a semi-circle while their blue eyes settled on the camera. Then they believed in the type of love that can only be a reality in fairy tales.

For variation you would have the all too common sad story about a love lost, sometimes never to be recovered but almost ending with a reconciliation of sorts while behind, a waterfall serenely cascades (why are these waterfalls almost always serene) throw in some rain drenched hugs and kisses; day made.

 They were all adaptations from the same script and before long Mopao’s monotony became sickening. The dancing routines, the throng of flamboyantly clad dancers, the troupe of male backing vocals, it just appeared too trained. We all grow up I suppose.

So we too found love in the boy-bands. You could point to the rather uncanny coincidence of this development with our then newly developed proficiency in the English language. Keen to test it we made copious notes of lyrics, sang them, argued over them till we realised it all turned into a dizzying cacophony of sounds. Not that we cared much, Mopao was out, sacrificed on a wave of euphoria over boy bands and Nigerian movies. We found love or so we thought or were tempted to make others believe. Let us get drunk with love and ensure everyone knows about it.

In hindsight, it seems odd that Chavuma would make me wax lyrical about Mopao and the fickle world of boy bands when I was growing up. Yet as I skipped over rocks and pebbles that early morning, watching the steam rise off the surface of the Zambezi River as its waters crushed against rocks like a huge boiling pot, Mopao was foremost in my mind. It must have had something to do with the searching faces of the little boys pulling their fish traps out of the water and throwing wriggling pieces of fish into a bucket. Or their father who watched with pride while smoking hand-rolled tobacco known as “Balani”, pausing only to issue instructions to his children. He let the cigarette languidly rest in his mouth as if it wasn’t even there.

 I saw myself in their faces, herding cattle, playing in the mud. Once home the elders would make us stand in a line. Mopao would suddenly spring to life, booming, coaxing and ultimately winning.

 “Dance!” the elders would command.