ZAKES MDA: Music to die to and mourn for

The concertina keened across the gorges and was echoed by boulders on the hills and cliffs on the mountains. Even the rock rabbits stirred, and women gathering firewood in the bush stopped their gossip and paid attention to the song undulating from the bellows. They must have muttered, there he goes, the boy-child whose body will end up being food for the vultures, Moliehi’s brother, there he goes, giving himself to the land.

Usually, giving myself to the land meant rambling, without any specific destination, heading where the wind blew me, until the smell of fermented sorghum stopped me in my tracks and led me to a place of abandon where buxom women performed focho, the dance that young South Africans have appropriated and call vosho. This time it is different. The road has a destination. It leads to Matelile Ha Sekhaupane. To pay my last respects to Famole, the greatest singer of hymns who ever lived.

Opinions will differ, of course, as they differ on everything else in life, but I have long worshipped at the altar of Famole. He was the greatest both in making the accordion moan with pleasure as his fingers tickled it and in the manner that he selected his words so that they went straight to your heart. Famole, in my opinion, was more talented than all hymn singers, including his own mentor, Mantša Mohale. But I am only allowed to whisper this out of earshot of some people in our villages of Matelile, Likhoele and Thabana Morena, which are pulsating with rival musicians, or even in our whole district of Mafeteng that is populated by followers who take such matters personally. Giving such praise to a singer of hymns can be a death sentence if the listeners are supporters of a different musician. I still want to live.

They say Famole prophesied his own death. The last CD he released contained a lamentation titled Lebitla le Nkemetse (“the grave is waiting for me”)  that followers (they prefer to be called follower, balateli, rather than fans) played over and over again because it spoke so directly of his final journey. After a searing accordion and drums that throb with the heartbeat, his voice — in a phefa tone, as Basotho would say when they describe the clarity and mellifluousness of a voice — creeps in and repeats that the grave awaits him, awaits him, awaits him. Jo nna oeee! He proceeds to sing that he knows for sure that the grave is waiting for him. Then he gets to the hymn part of the song where he recites poetry in that modulated space that exists between talking and singing. The singsong voice of an accomplished kheleke backed by a demented accordion. He tells us that everyone is born already with the number of his grave.

But no-one knows his or her number except Father God. He tells his followers they should not be angry or sad, for they are going to meet him in heaven. His final wish is that his old-time mentor, Mantša Mohale, should be the speaker who passes condolences at his funeral.

Jo nna oeee, these songs talk! Maybe that’s why their poetry is called lifela — hymns. Nothing to do with church hymns, though.

These are secular hymns that suppliants dance to. Most of the hymns, even from their origins, never had anything to do with religion.

Famole’s swansong, of course, had a touch of religion because it was about his impending death.

And people spoke at that funeral, each trying to outdo the one who spoke before. Basotho are a speaking people; they value the music that words strung together with care and love can produce and are competitive in the originality of their metaphors. People spoke, some calling him by his birth name, Teboho Lesia, to show that they knew him long before he was Famole, when he was still a herdboy looking after his father’s cattle, when his mother was an ardent believer of the Anglican Church, and how that instilled the love of Christianity in him. And, of course, his apprenticeship to the mentor of many musicians, Mantša Mohale.

The mentor was really the person I was waiting to hear as I stood at the margins of the funeral crowd, my concertina hidden under my donkey blanket, so named because of its grey colour. I observed people in different-coloured blankets. People were obviously not afraid to wear their colours because of the strong presence of the police and the military. The police from the nearby Ha Seeiso Police Station had been reinforced by those from the district headquarters of Mafeteng, and by a few officers from the Lesotho Defence Force.

The pretext was that law enforcement was here because of the heavy presence of government officials and political leaders. To look after their safety. But everyone knew that the main reason was to quell any fight that might arise from rival groups. A cynic might say even to take sides, as people have always said politicians and their minions are not neutral in this war of the musicians.

Opinions will differ, of course, as they differ on everything else in life, but I have long worshipped at the altar of Famole.

We wear our blankets even in the hottest of summers, hence most of the people here were in their colourful blankets, ranging from the thick qibi blanket, otherwise known as serope sa motsoetse — a nursing mother’s thigh — because of its warmth, to the ornate seana-marena, lefitori and letlama. All these are just elegant blankets to the rest of the Basotho nation, but here in Matelile and in Thabana Morena, the homes of famous musicians, and perhaps in the district of Mafeteng, these blankets, and especially their colours, represent feuding factions.

At the margins of the crowd, close to where I was standing, I spotted a strange-looking couple. Neither was wearing blankets of any kind, which made them stand out. But it was what the man was wearing that made him even more conspicuous. A black cape and a black top hat. The pants and shoes were also black. He was quite short and broad-shouldered, with a yellow-coloured face and sorrowful eyes that were glassy with unshed tears. Perhaps one of Famole’s followers from the Land of Gold, people nearby speculated.

Perhaps himself a musician. You know how musicians like to call attention to themselves by dressing and behaving differently from the rest of humanity. He could not be from here. The woman too looked strange, but in a normal way. She was tall, dwarfing the man, and carried herself with so much dignity you would think she was the reincarnation of Queen Mamohato, the queen-mother who passed on a year before. Except for the fact that the queen-mother was of a much shorter stature than this long-limbed beauty and would certainly be wearing a blanket like all her subjects.

I was staring at this strange couple when Mantša finally took the podium and spoke the words that later became his popular recording called Lerumo la Nthlaba — the spear has stabbed me.

Jo nna!! Jonana oeee! A spear has stabbed me, he wailed to the sound of the accordion and drums. The death of Famole has touched me so painfully. Where do you go when you feel the pain? The child of Lesia has left us. Then Mantša wept like a woman. No, not just wept, he wailed like a widow after being informed of the death of her husband. Then he spoke the hymn part of the song, the singsong poetry, repeating that the spear had stabbed him in the heart, and consoling the children of Lesia and all Famole’s followers. He went on to appeal to the chief of the area, Morena Selomo, to look after Famole’s children, so that their life was as good as when Famole was still alive. He ended his hymn by warning Famole’s wife not to listen to people’s gossip but to focus on raising Famole’s children.

It was as if he knew that gossip would begin even before people left the funeral that day. When I, boy-child, was in the queue to wash my hands in the water mixed with aloe, part of funeral etiquette, the people behind me could not stop jabbering about which funeral orator was good, which one lied, how did the Nurse know how Famole died since he was not in that car accident, or if it was true at all that Famole died in a car accident and was not killed by rival gangsters.

This one about the Nurse was nit-picking really. We all know that these days the Nurse at a funeral can be any orator who can share the details of how the deceased died, not necessarily someone who was personally there as a nurse — mooki — when the deceased was sick, as it originally used to be.

We of the margins were served samp in a big basin, I suspect someone’s bathtub though no-one would ever confess to that, or it was just my ungenerous thought, and a whole mountain of meat in yet another giant basin. We dug in with our own hands, while a man with an accordion played what passed for a church hymn. I noticed that the strange couple was sitting on the grass, a few feet away, and was not partaking of the food. Perhaps they felt they deserved to be in the tent where important people ate from plates with spoons, knives and forks, and even had green salads, chakalaka and beetroot. Perhaps where they came from they were not people of the margins like us.

The gossip continued about Famole’s death. He didn’t die like a warrior in war, a man said. Anybody can die in a car accident. Nothing special about it. It seemed the gossips despised Famole for dying in a mere car accident instead of being mowed down by the bullets of rival musicians.

I could not hold myself any more. You, I yelled, who are you to hate a man because he died a peaceful death? A car accident is not peaceful, said one of them, with a is-it-of-yours sneer in both his voice and on his face.

You despise him because he did not die in a gunfight. You heard from funeral orators that he was a gentle soul, not involved in the war of the musicians.

The gossip broke into a mocking laughter. You pretend that Famole was holy, he said. Yet he was one of the leaders of MaRussia gangs in Soweto. Ask anyone from Senaoane, Phiri and Mapetla. They will tell you he was a gang leader.

When the funeral scones and the gemmer, or ginger beer, were brought, the gossip became even more animated, crunching the hard scones with the noise of an industrial grinder. I glanced at the strange couple. Now they too were eating the hard scones. They were dunking them in the gemmer first, hoping to soften them.

You don’t mess with funeral scones.

You can’t tell lies about a man in his own homestead at his own funeral, I said in disgust.

Jo nna!! Jonana oeee! A spear has stabbed me, he wailed to the sound of the accordion and drums. The death of Famole has touched me so painfully.

It was Famole these clowns were talking about; the man on whose hymn-singing career I aimed to model mine. Thebe e seheloa holim’a enngoe. A new shield is stencilled from an old one. Everything is built on something that came before it.

Take it from me, mate, there is no musician who is totally clean of blood.

Another man, wearing a similar-coloured blanket, added, It is the money, the recording contracts that make them insane.

It is jealousy, said the gossip. Jealousy eats them all.

A Mosotho does not want to see another Mosotho succeed, declared his friend.

Not Famole, I said. He was the most successful. He was well trained by Mantša, who is also a man of peace.

Was it not this very Famole who shot Khosi Mosotho Chakela because Chakela was now overtaking him in popularity?

I knew that story. Everyone in Matelile, Likhoele and Thabana Morena knew that story. Chakela claimed that he was shot by Famole in Phiri, Soweto, and had to escape to his headquarters in Bloemfontein where his people nursed him back to health. Brought him back almost from the throes of death. I never believed that Famole was capable of such brutality, judging from the gentleness of his music. And if you heard the wonderful things they were saying about him at his funeral you wouldn’t believe it either. I am not saying Chakela was lying when he accused Famole. I am saying maybe, just maybe, he was mistaken. Maybe it was not Famole but somebody who looked like him. Maybe the gangs used Famole’s name to terrorise Chakela out of Phiri. Maybe. Maybe.

Canonise Famole all you want, said the gossip, leaving me standing there, obviously to equip himself with more hard scones. Funeral scones are toothsome even though they tax your teeth. They tempt you to crunch one after another till your stomach threatens to burst.

My curiosity about the strange couple got the better of me and I worked my way towards them. I greeted and sat down without waiting for them to invite me to join them.

Famole’s friends, I guess? I asked.

We know his music, said the man. What you people here call hymns.

But we never met the man.

Hymns are the recitation part of the music, the rap part, the singsong poetry part. Of course, the whole song can be a hymn from the beginning to the end if it all comprises poetry and accordion.

Thank you for the lesson, said the man. I was not sure whether he was being sarcastic or genuine. I didn’t mean it to sound like a lesson.

You must have really loved his hymns for you to come all the way for his funeral, I said, hoping they would tell me where all the way was.

I am Toloki the Professional Mourner, the man said.

I think the woman saw the puzzlement on my face. She came to the rescue and said, Toloki mourns the dead. The bereaved pay him to sit on the mound to mourn the deceased.

She is Noria, the love of my life, said Toloki. The only lover I have ever had from the time I was a kid back in our village. She, on the other hand, has a different story.

That is oversharing, said Noria. The man did not ask for our history.

I’m sure it’s an interesting history, I said. But this business of being paid to mourn is difficult for me to understand. The bereaved mourn for themselves and the whole community mourns with them; why would they pay someone to do it for them?

Toloki cleared his throat and adopted a sermonic tone. Where death is plentiful, the community gets exhausted by mourning, he said. They merely go through the motions to fulfil expectations, but their hearts are not really in it. A professional mourner relieves them of the burden of mourning. Of course, in this part of the world they must first learn how my services can be of great use to them since professional mourning is not part of their tradition. It was like that too in the coastal city from which we have migrated. At first they said ubuntu would not allow them to pay someone to mourn for them because they believed that they, their friends and their relatives had the obligation and the capacity to mourn for one another’s deaths. But soon enough, because death was so plentiful as a result of political upheavals, I was doing a roaring trade mourning for victims of different kinds of death. There are many ways of dying.

Then why did you leave? I asked. Did death get finished?

Even at this funeral I have heard your people say death is the daughter-in-law of all homesteads, Toloki said. This means that death lives with us every day. It will never get finished as long as human beings exist. Of course, in our coastal city deaths are fewer than they were in the days when people were fighting for freedom and were therefore killing one another in their hundreds. But there is still enough of it to keep me busy for years to come.

I think Toloki is bored with mourning in the same townships for so many years, said Noria.

Yes, I am in search of new deaths, new ways of dying and new ways of mourning.

That was why he came to this area that encompasses such villages as Matelile, Thabana Morena and Likhoele — all famous throughout southern Africa for the musicians they have produced. But now notorious because of the wars among musicians which happen mostly at the gold and platinum mines of SA, but overflow to these villages since they are the origins of the musicians who then must be buried at their ancestral homes.

We came to mourn here because these are different deaths from those we have been used to. Death by music.

Where we come from music uplifts, said Noria. Here it kills. I decided Toloki should set up camp here for some time and mourn the musicians and their followers. Until he has had his fill. Then we’ll move on to the next destinations that will give us more exciting ways of mourning.

It occurred to me that Noria, who Toloki said was the love of his life, was also his manager.

Music that kills. Music to die for. Music to die to.​