Chapter Eight: The Rebel Granny

Ring! Ring!

I shifted nervously, perched on the edge of my seat…..ears angled, searching for the source of that sound.

Ring! Ring!

There it was again… then I felt the buzzing on my thighs – the sound was coming from me.  Who could be calling at this time? I wondered, looking around awkwardly, numerous stares piercing my back. No one enjoyed having their speeches interrupted by a phone ring. Heck, not even me, I thought. I smiled apologetically to the lady next to me and motioned for her to move back a bit, as I slowly made my way out of the auditorium. After a few shoves and steely glares, I was finally out in the hallway of the National Museum and House of Culture. I turned on my phone screen to find out who had been calling so persistently… It was my mother.

My mind began to race with numerous questions and concerns. She knew I was at the TedxDar conference today because that was all I could talk about over the last two months. I couldn’t stop rambling on about how excited I was to have a front row seat to witness some of the most inspirational minds share their insights and tips on issues that could save me and my crumbling music business.

I had dared to start something new.

To venture into the unknown and difficult area of taarab pop, and it wasn’t turning out as good as I had hoped. We had so few people with true talent in this province and I had come to Dar es Salaam to forget my troubles and refind my passion for my profession.

And here my mother was, calling me in the middle of my mini retreat.

I took a deep sigh as I pushed open the grand doors of the main entrance and dialled my mother’s number.

Hello? Mum? I said repeatedly, unable to hear what my mother was saying on the phone. I moved further away from the doors until I was standing outside the museum, still yelling Hello?! on the phone. It was only then I heard her voice: “My dear, I am so sorry to take you out of your conference but Aadila just passed by and dropped off her resignation notice. I know she was one of your best and had to tell you immediately. “

My heart sunk at her words.

Aadila My last female singer, had just decided that I was no longer good enough to represent her.  Overcome with emotion, I burst into tears. I wept, with my mother still on the phone. She tried to reassure me, but I couldn’t take it.

This was just too much.

I could feel my dreams being snatched away from me. After what felt like a lifetime of crying, I uttered a weak “I will call you back Mama, I need some time to think now.”  She responded with a soft “okay Busara, don’t give up. I love you.”

Then I hung up.

The National Museum and House of Culture

I stared out at the open space before me. So many people were going about their normal day. No one saw me. “Am I that insignificant? Am I really nothing?”

I trudged down the museum staircase, defeated. Was it really over?  Lost in thought, I almost ran into an older lady sitting on the staircase, humming to herself.  Flustered, I looked down to apologize to her as she turned in my direction. It was only then that I realized who she was. She was none other than the Queen of Taarab and Unyago herself – Bi Kidude! The Little Granny!

And – she was smoking?

The only Embassy I recognize, comes in a pack.

I burst out in a soft laugh, more amused than shocked. Everyone in Tanzania and Zanzibar knew about Bi Kidude’s infamous love of cigarettes, She was still smoking at 91 or so years! But here she was, just relaxing on the museum staircase, puffing laconically like an unknown figure – this Zanzibari Empress of Taarab. Our very own living icon!

She smiled, summoning for me to join her on the staircase. I nervously obliged, still unable to process what was unfolding infront of me. I knew Bi Kidude would be here for the final performance, but I never expected my first encounter with her to be on a staircase.

I politely accepted the cigarette she offered, and smiled as she lit it for me. A cool, relaxed feeling came over me as I dragged the smoke in. I hadn’t had a cigarette ever since I decided to quit a few years ago, but today I couldn’t be bothered to say no. I wanted to let go. I wanted to be free and forget all my troubles. No thoughts! Just me and this cloud of smoke. I turned to look at Bi Kidude and found her smiling at me.

She asked, “mtoto wangu, habari? Nini mbaya? ” , meaning my child, how are you?, what is wrong? in Kiswahili.

I responded defeatedly in Kiswahili, suddenly tired of holding back, “Bibi (grandmother), I feel like my world is crumbling down. nimechoka ( I am tired)… How do you do it? How do remain so happy and hopeful? Here I am not even willing to think of tomorrow how much more my future… everything is so dark… Sielewi (I don’t understand)”

She took one draw of her cigarette, placed her small hand on my shoulder and – beaming – replied in Kiswahili:

You remember my song Kijiti, even with Siti Binti Saad’s pioneering Taareb singing by women in the 1920s, you would think in this day people may be more welcoming to it but it is still almost as bad as it was in the beginning.

I still perform Kijiti using the drums, shaking my waist and leading unyago ceremonies. People still stare at me in amazement but it is because they don’t understand. They don’t understand how important it is to do what makes you happy and makes you free. What I do in public is nothing like the unyago ceremonies we do in secret…

Did you ever do unyago?

I shook my head and added “No, never had the opportunity. You see I am yet to marry.”

Bi Kidude then let out a loud exclamation and continued in Kiswahili:

Oh! Then you have never experienced being a free woman. Learning about sex, the positions, learning about taking control of your own body.

Knowing your body intimately.

The things that the big people nowadays say are too intense for public consumption, but we all know it is what makes us free. That is why I twirl my hips and sing even now that I am 102… or is it 110?

She laughed heartily because no one knew her true age; it was almost like the age itself was mythical. Just like she is, I thought warmly.

This is how we unyago… can’t touch this!

“That is why I cannot stop singing – music is my life. If I stop singing, how do they expect me to survive”,

She added.

I couldn’t help but smile. This woman was breaking barriers even at such an old age. I still couldn’t get why it had taken us so long to appreciate her – she was such a treasure.

She was always giving and helping others. It was even rumored that once in Stone Town, her hometown, many people came knocking on her door with problems to be addressed, and she gave them so much money that in 10 days she was penniless.

Why did we have to wait for rumors of her death during an overseas tour before we noticed what a diamond she was? How could we have ignored such a generous and unique soul?

Beating it up!!!!

Bi Kidude began to stand up slowly and motioned for me to join her up. Then she stretched out her hand and said: “ Join me” in the warmest Swahili I had ever heard.

I took her hand gladly and we began to twirl around slowly as she broke into one of her famous songs: Alaminadura.

She sang with so much passion, in such a gravelly voice, that it sounded almost magical. The universe was round as we twirled, and so were we.

I felt like I was being transported to another time, another place, another galaxy – a peaceful space. She sang for what seemed like a lifetime, but was really just a few minutes. Then we settled back down on the staircase.

I say move your waist! We are moving it Bibi.

She took another cigarette from her Embassy pack and went back to smoking as I stared at her in amazement and admiration.

Then two event reps rushed towards us to tell her that she was up next.  

It was just then I realized that the Tedx event was almost over. I had lost track of time and missed almost the entire conference here sitting and singing with Bi Kidude. But it was totally worth it, I said to myself smiling.

She smiled at me with her worn and aging lips and added, Shall we? I got up and helped her up and we both made our way back to the museum for her performance. But at that time, I had no idea that that would be one of her last public performances ever.

• 

But wow! What a performance it was!!

YOU ARE FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS FATIMA!

REST WELL LITTLE SINGING GRANNY!

REST WELL BI KIDUDE!

Chapter One: Saving Africa and Full Course Meals

I was nervous.

Not the butterflies-in-my-stomach but thinking-of-the-ocean-will-calm me down kind of nervous, No,not that one. This was a dizzy feeling. the anxiously chomping at my almost non-existent fingernails and quizzing my sanity when I even agreed to this rendezvous with a ship of doubt firmly anchored in my abdomen – kind of nervous.

Yup! that about covers how I felt.

As I strode purposely toward the restaurant, the Restaurant de la Révolution nestled between (Upper Volta House and 1984th street), i was giddy with excitement, almost gliding along the sidewalk in a reverie. I still couldn’t believe it. I was about to meet HIM. My favourite African, the numero uno on my list.  I know I’m Ghanaian so you will automatically assume it should be a Kwame, my numero uno had to be Thomas (Sorry Kwame, you could be second place though)

I tried peering in from across the street to see if Thomas was already there, but I guess the waiter sensed my presence …..and  just then, he pulled the curtains together shut and I was confronted with stark, glaring darkness behind the clear glass windows.

“Don’t be ridiculous girl, it’s just ONE meeting.” I mumbled halfheartedly to reassure myself, totally not convinced still. So I mustered up the courage and finally started to cross over. Just then I heard the blare of sirens and turned to see flashing lights heading my way, I jumped out of it’s way and in a split second I thought that could be Thomas with a police motorcade. “ That’s impossible!” quickly dismissing the thought as fast as it had occurred to me. Thomas is not the showy kind and I was right because it was just an ambulance. Then I turned back towards the entrance of the restaurant, took in a deep breath, breathed a quick sigh of relief and pushed the door open.

Light flooded my vision…and the warmth and richness of human bodies. Wafting aromas assailed my nostrils.

I entered to see the restaurant filled with people, but they were all staring at one corner and listening enraptured to a man speak. Before I heard his voice, I knew that was HIM. It had to be Thomas. I followed their lingering gaze, and there he was. 

  

My African.

He was speaking passionately about social change and fighting neo-colonialist forces. He said, that rich baritone voice of his reaching a crescendo, assertive yet firmly caressing your ears,

“Our country produces enough to feed us all. Alas, for lack of organization, we are forced to beg for food aid. It’s this aid that instills in our spirits the attitude of beggars”

in his lovely French accent- a man accustomed to charisma.

I couldn’t take my gaze off him. His voice continued to trail off.

This man.

He who had inspired so many with his humble approach to life, his Pan – Africanism and African unity, his commitment to African values and his candid ability to speak his mind regardless of the ramifications. He really was a vision to behold and everyone in Burkina Faso revered him. Okay, obviously not the corrupt elite and those who were benefitting from neo-colonialism and spoils of a skewed economic system but  at least those that mattered did;  the poor, average and working class Burkinabe. Even Fela agreed that Thomas was an inspiration and made him a friend for life conferring on him this honour by holding audience and inviting him- the only African president to visit the African Shrine in Lagos.

Why are you bringing the food now, can’t you see we’re talking… I asked you to wear clothes when we receive visitors naw!

So Fela, which wife will it be today?  Ah Sankara, this guy… don’t you know about all at once?

Thomas turned in my direction mid-sentence and he smiled… the lingering fire of his passion simmering down in his eyes as he held my gaze. He quickly wrapped up his speech and strode purposefully towards me in a deafening roar of applause. In a few strides he was standing right in front me.

Larger-than-life, then he extended his right hand and said in mellifluous French “Ah you have arrived…now we can eat.” I nodded eagerly, then he guided me to one of the tables, got me seated then followed suit. “Mademoiselle, I hope you’re good” he enquired again in French. I responded in the affirmative in my halting rustic French and he added “So what exactly would you like to know?”

I was so overwhelmed with nervousness that I fumbled to take out my notepad and a pen and mumbled inaudibly in response to his question. He smiled… and encouraged “Go on, ask away.”

Those eyes though

With that, I took a few deep breaths, heady with excitement and asked the questions I had always longed to ask.

“ I know what the politicians and social commentators everywhere are saying about you. I know about your passion for female empowerment, for effective and accountable leadership, your fight against exclusivity, your promotion of an Africa for Africans and your intolerance of neo-colonialism. But I just want you to give me in a few sentences, what best describes your vision for Burkina Faso and Africans as a whole. Tell me who REALLY is Thomas? ”

He nodded and replied

That’s simple. I believe that Africans are enough. That our values are enough and we can be self-sufficient. We don’t need any external or internal forces trying to convince us that we are any less.

I believe in the power of ideas. Ideas go beyond the death of any man. Remember what Che Guevara said when he was being attacked?- I know you’re here to kill me. Shoot coward, you’re only going to kill a man. This just shows that while revolutionaries as individuals can be murdered, you cannot kill ideas. Ideas are eternal. Why else do you think we changed our name from Upper Volta to Burkina Faso, the land of upright men?

I believe in change by word, by deed and by a revolution of ideas. And who better to cultivate this code of honour and uprightness than the masses. Whenever the masses are mobilized for development, true self-sufficiency is possible.

My vision is quite simple my dear. I want to spread these ideas of self-sufficiency across Burkina Faso and the entire African continent. You do know that he who feeds you, controls you right? Whoever said Africans can’t feed themselves are our true enemies. They are those who want to keep the people in ignorance. You see it’s all in the mind. It’s our mentality that holds us back. We have to recondition our people to accept themselves as they are, to not be ashamed of their real situation, to be satisfied with it and to glory in it, even.

He paused to let that sink in, the conviction is his eyes so poignant – willing you to believe in every single word he uttered.

I mean how can you not believe him… Pausing like a boss!

Then he added

That’s why ideas are so powerful. They bring both the mental change necessary for a revolution and the madness to sustain that change. It took the madmen of yesterday for us to be able to act with extreme clarity today. I want to be one of those madmen. We must dare to invent the future. And even if I perish or my blood is spilled during that mission, I want people to remember me as someone whose life has been helpful to humanity. I hope that answers your question…..

winking conspiratorially at me…an act seeming almost charming in itself.

Inviting you to agree with him – seemingly hinting, that of course, we strode around everyday starting revolutions and political movements for the betterment of our people.

“Those were a lot of sentences” I replied, still struggling to put everything down. “With policies such as the day of solidarity for housewives and the replacement of the government’s fleet of Mercedes-Benzes with more economical Renault 5s, I doubt you will ever be forgotten Mr. President.”  I added,  “Especially by those men that now have to do the market shopping and take over household duties on that day. I also doubt that those government officials who lost their ‘luxuries’ might ever forget your pragmatic leadership.  People have already began referring to you as Africa’s Che Guevara. how does that make you feel?

“Africa’s Che Guevara?” He replied,

That’s an honour. Che Guevara taught us we could dare to have confidence in ourselves; confidence in our abilities. He instilled in us the conviction that struggle is our only recourse. He, was a citizen of the free world that together we are in the process of building. This just shows Burkina Faso is on its way to becoming a pillar of the free world. I hope the world is ready for that – that and my red beret, my fashion style i owe it all to Che

– with a soft self-deprecating humour.

He glanced at his watch and added.  “We have been sitting for over 20 minutes and we still haven’t ordered. Honestly when you first asked about this dinner, I thought you were going to ask me about my favourite meal, car model, or all those other ridiculous stuff I usually see in other presidential profiles. But here we are talking about my vision for Burkina Faso. You journalists are full of surprises. Now who knows, If more journalists turn out to be more like you, I might actually consider lifting that ban on free press. Now honestly Mademoiselle, we must eat. You must try the babenda. I assure you, it’s almost as good as my mother’s.

Now shall we order?…”

And that what a night that was… the night I dined with Thomas Sankara.

You like berets too? Aren’t they the best things to ever happen to us revolutionaries

P.S.  JJ Rawlings expression here sums up how I felt…

Learn more about Sankara here:

Biography

Video Documentary