When tomorrow becomes yesterday
Another writing from the vault. Here it's a reflection on funerals in Malawi. I wish I could say there are less these days, but sadly there have been even more since I wrote this.
The theme of today's story, let me lay it out at the outset, is to talk about all the funerals I've been to this year of notable musicians. Also it's to talk about the funerals I haven't been to, yet, but fear I will soon enough and with a similar sadness to the ones I'll now talk about.
I'd also like to talk about the good things that have happened over the last year and thereby express the overall feeling of my time in Malawi, which is clearly very mixed.
Living in Malawi over the past five and a half years, I've come into contact with so many musicians. It's the industry I'm involved in so that's only natural I guess, but due to the small size of Malawi, it means I've interacted with all the most famous artists in the country, as well as the upcoming ones.
In Japanese the number '4', is feared, because its written character is the same as that of the word 'death'. 4 is actually my lucky number, and on the rare occasion that I'll play roulette, I'll always put some tokens on that number. But 4 is also the number of music friends I've lost in the last year. Kapalamula Batson, Bernard Kwilimbe, Dazika Michongwe, and Young Chilaga.
They were all guys who'd been at the top of their game, who now were regarded as veterans among the younger musicians. But the thing that got me so hard each time it happened was how they were all musicians who had developed a new sound in their older age, and how we had plans to get them into the studio to capture it, but never did.
Kapalamula was one of the very first musicians here who just blew me away with his guitar playing. He was a small man in his 60s, quiet in a way, but once he got on stage, in an effortless way he would just explode. The guitar playing so intricate and in place, with a voice like a whiskey that had been maturing over decades.
The crazy thing was that his hit song from the 80s, 'Bambo Wa Tereza', was still played on the radio, and is a song known and loved by every Malawian, be they from the middle class suburbs or the remote village. And yet how was Kapalamula living in his 60s? In a one room shack that he shared with a younger friend, and playing gigs here and there for peanuts. And the worst part is that the population of the country wouldn't have even known that he was alive. So how could they have known when he died.
He taught me my first ever Chichewa song back in 2013 and I sing it to commemorate him. I've now also learnt to play Bambo Wa Tereza, and it's an honour when I get the chance to perform it. His 80s recordings are cool for sure. And his voice, even back then was unreal. But I just feel so sad that we didn't capture his sound in later life. We wanted to but were putting it off, thinking, 'we'll do it tomorrow'. But tomorrow never came, until it was yesterday.
Mr Kwilimbe I met at the Norwegian Ambassador's residence, years before I was taken off the invitees list for jumping in the swimming pool. Today is actually 17th May... Should we gatecrash? OK, so I'm off the point. (Will let you know later on if I did)
I was new in the country back then also and I was introduced to Mr Kwilimbe as the country director at the ministry of culture. In his wheelchair he wielded an incredibly charisma. I was awed immediately by his presence alone. And after enquiring as to how I got to Malawi, and when finding out that I came here with no money, that I never got a job, but was just hustling through by putting on shows and playing music, he said, 'that's brave and wonderful'. He was genuinely impressed. That compliment kept me going for a while.
We became friends long before I ever heard him sing. I would regularly go to his office to keep him up to date with my latest venture, whether it was starting up a music venue, or managing young bands. It was always amazing to hear the voice of wisdom.
Then it came to a point where I would go to him to talk about personal issues and family matters. By the end I pretty much thought of him as a grandfather. I'd never really known any of my grandfathers, but the love and warmth that he always welcomed me with was unsurpassed. I may not have even lasted in Malawi for so long if not for him.
I always wanted to hear him sing, but it took at least 3 years before it finally happened. And then I couldn't stop talking about it until the final days. His control over the audience was unbelievable. Pushing his wheelchair to the front of the stage and holding the mic and in such a gentle manner telling the audience to come to the front. Normally the singer has to coerce the audience to do this, but for him it was just as simple sentence and the whole crowd went forward. He had an amazing voice but it wasn't just that. He had the most hypnotising command but it wasn't just that. He was steeped in all the country's traditional music which he'd fused with jazz to create an utterly unique and rapturous sound but it wasn't just that. The man was a truly legendary artist, and again, nothing of his later years was ever recorded.
2017 was sad that we lost these two legends. The Malawian international artist Ray Phiri also passed, famed for his guitar work on Paul Simon's Graceland. There was Leonard Cohen and many other greats. But in Malawi, when those greats went on, they were actually your friends. It's the good and sad side of living in a country like this.
In March this year, for the first time in my life I actually went to 2 funerals on consecutive days. I think when I heard of Uncle Dazika's passing I was more shocked than any other. He was more like a buddy. We had had a band together in 2014 when I'd opened my first venue here. Always great to chat to. Always funny and always super cool. He'd lived most of his life in Tanzania, and was not as well known in Malawi as he might have been. He was an incredible musician who'd featured heavily on Stolnard Lungu's breakthrough album, and who'd influenced musically the likes of Erik Paliani.
I just remember visiting him in his house, which was a bit out of town. Beautiful country cottage. He'd be sitting on the porch rolling something and sitting there looking in robes and hat like a Muslim priest with a naughty grin. I remember how he'd gotten a bit frail, but his aura was always that of a twenty-something year old. He was Peter Pan. I think that's why I was so shocked. Again, with Erik, we'd talked about recording his new style. In his earlier days he was an electric guitar wizard, but these days he played soft and deep on a nylon. Beautiful music. Never recorded.
I took a 5am shared car to Blantyre and made it to Zomba by lunchtime. I knew I was a bit late for the church but I hoped he'd forgive me for grabbing some lunch after the long journey. As it happens by the time I got to the church no one was there. I couldn't get through to anyone on the phone. I was just walking along when I saw his nephew Bahebe in the car.
When I got in I realised how lucky I'd been. The burial was a good 30 minute drive away deep in the village. If Bahebe hadn't stopped to roll one up, I'd have missed them, and missed the whole occasion. I had to have a puff and it came to me how much of a sense of humour Uncle D had. The whole time during lunch I felt like he was talking to me saying, 'don't worry baba, all will be good, fill up your belly and be happy.'
Throughout the whole ceremony I could see him in my mind's eye like an angel in white robes with cool sunglasses and a big smile. There was nothing sad about the funeral, to me, even though he wasn't that old, probably late fifties or early sixties. He was a guy who would always see the bright side of things, and that spirit was ever present that day.
When it was time to carry the coffin onto the back of the lorry to take it to the graveyard, I wanted to help lift it but couldn't find my space. There were too many people. I was upset, but thought maybe it was meant to be like that. Suddenly as the path narrowed, the guy at the front could no longer manage so I got a chance to carry it and help lay it on the truck. He seemed to say to me, 'this is your last music lesson from me, just like this, when there's no space in the music for you to take your part, don't worry, it'll come.'
From there there was a car going towards Lilongwe. I had to be in Dedza the following day for the funeral of Mr Chilaga. So I hitched a ride as far as Ntcheu where I spent the night. In the morning it was just an hour to Dedza and I was there before 9am. Mr Chilaga was a great facilitator for young musicians. He ran one of the only rehearsal spaces in the ghetto side of town where we live and lots of Lilongwe musicians were there. By the time I arrived they had been playing music throughout the night, and said that now I should play some songs to give them a rest. I didn't join in right then, but did play a few later on in the day.
Mr Chilaga was the youngest of all these veterans. He was in his mid forties and I'd seen him in the hospital just a few days earlier where the doctors had said that he was making a good recovery. Then suddenly... over. That's what happens in Malawi all too often.
When I launched my album in 2014 I'd asked Young Chilaga to perform with his traditional drum and dance group. It was one of the most amazing moments as he called me to the stage and presented me with a kind of crown made of local leather. In the beat of the music he did some kind of ritual, all in very good humour, where he called upon spirits and ancestors and welcomed me into the tribe. It was deeply touching. It felt so special. I hadn't even been in Malawi that long by then, but Young had obviously felt something in me, and wanted to show me that it was known, that I was participating in their world, and that I was welcome.
Over the years we interacted very much, especially with regard to younger bands and how to move things forward. He was a huge hearted man and his efforts were recognised by a national outpouring from all corners of the musical spectrum. I was grateful when his son, also a great musician, asked if he could carry on the rehearsal space at my arts venue, Grittah's Camp. It means a lot that the legacy is continuing so close to home.
I was just on the porch a few hours ago and was thinking about some of the older musician friends who are still around. Someone is losing his eyesight, still providing for a family on a meagre working musician's salary, despite being nearly 70 and having played in popular bands throughout his whole life. There are no pensions here. Life here is at times amazing. But this thing can sometimes make you so sad.
It's reality I know. And in some ways it's good to be living in a world where reality is real. There are no safety nets. And life is a sheer cliff face. Let me end here, but let us take today as an important day to get things done. Let's not wait again until tomorrow becomes yesterday.