BIGINNEN
I'd been looking forward to this event
since the last rains, and the day had finally come. Last year, I was at the
Kariba Music Festival for but a night and I had resolved to gorge on the
festivities in their entirety this time around. My tribe had assembled and our
brother, Yosa ferried us to the land of sun and sand in his metal chariot.
I still did not have my press permit and I
needed to meet with one Dan Hartwright to rectify this. My email attempts had
been futile, but I was still determined.
We arrived at the mighty Eagle’s Rest just
as the blistering sun was setting, and Karen, overseer of the fabled lodge, saw
to it that we had a place to rest our heads. Brother Dabz and I would be
resting in a tent by the lakeside. But sleep was for the weak. We were weekend warriors;
we were there to feast and be merry, to dance to the sounds of the bandsmen and
women! We were there to be mighty!
As we marvelled at the beauty of the beach,
friend Mutale, an acquaintance of brother Dabz told us the tale of his time
there last year. He was looking forward to hearing the enchanting music of
Mumba Yachi.
“I was drunk and sleeping at around 4 AM,
in a Ford right over there, and I heard Mumba Yachi playing. I was like, ‘What
IS that sound?’”.
Mumba Yachi’s sound is deeply rooted in
traditional Zambian music. His ballads had even me, who is more inclined toward
the music of the west, anticipating his set.
The people had already begun to sip on
their ales when Pompi, the Giant Killer was executing his sound check. “The keyboard artist needs more vocals... We
can hear more of the instruments than our own voices,” he said sending commands
to the stagemen. The brew-thirsty crowd demanded more music and called for an
encore. The Giant Killer obliged.
The stars studded the sky and J-bus
officially struck up the acquaintance with, ‘Nice to know ya’. The crowd had
multiplied in number and danced merrily to the reggae sounds of J-Bus as the stage
strobe lights stroked their sunburnt skin.
“WE LOVE YOU, MUMBA YACHI!” was the call
from some nubile female in the audience. Clearly his song and act was the stuff
of legend. The stagemen employed their sorcery and a cloud of smoke floated up
from behind Mumba while he strummed his guitar and told the tale behind his
song, ‘Tute’. It was a metaphor for how like cassava, some relationships can be
bitter to taste.
Brother Dabz spewed something about music I
cannot quite recall. It was mostly inaudible and my mind would drift to the
bodies on the sandy beach. Unbeknownst to us, the Poet PilAto was also among us. “I just want to be here as one of the
people,” he told me. He would not be performing at the festival this year. He
was not dressed in his usual performance attire, and if not for his black bear-size
beard, I would not have recognised him.
Sometime before the witching hour, a three
man band took the chaflet. They played a trance inducing form of rock, whose
techno-colour sounds you could almost see. The lead came from a bearded man
playing some mystic instrument. Shamus of Shamrock, whom I had met many moons
ago at the Siavonga Canoe Challenge informed me that this instrument was an
electric violin and that the men hailed from Southern Africa. They answered
to the name, Albino Beach.
Albino beach cared not who was awake at
that hour. They played on until I stumbled into our tent and yielded to the
sandman. Karen the overseer had handed me my scribe’s permit by then. She had
managed to acquire it from Dan, he whose Heart is Right. The next day had more
in store.
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| The Mystic Mumba Yachi |
Benny Blow is a weekend warrior that has never lost a fight to a bear or beer. Follow his tales on twitter HERE, and read of his adventures on The Best of Zambia HERE.
