The Corporal’s masenko tickled Kidane, and she laughed her snort-filled laugh, a freed laugh that became part of the music. She gestured at her bandmates to say thank you. And then, when she found an opening after a few minutes, she started singing, as Mr. Selassie translated into my ear, sometimes pulling it, to my irritation. ‘By the way, this is a new Tizita,’ she repeated.
I see a woman out in the mist of the waterfall
She spins and spins and spins her Tizita
But her Tizita was here and now it’s gone and she spins
Here, my trusty translator gave several versions of ‘spins’: ‘out of control,’ ‘turns around really fast,’ ‘creates, as in spinning a world,’ and he would have continued, but we were pulled back in by Kidane.
Naked but dressed by moving mist
I used to stand by the waterfall and let the water
Keep me warm, keep me warm and hold me
I am standing balancing between being
Born and dying, crazy, but to be born is to live
And to die at the same time, but the Tizita,
The Tizita, this Tizita — my lover yesterday
This Tizita keeps me spinning by the waterfall, naked
But dressed in an armour of silvery mist
I could imagine this violent water, in Victoria Falls for example, hitting its bed and rocks, and me standing there, naked, feeling alive and terrified at the same time.
This water moves, this water finds more water
Down the steep hill and into an ocean. I hurled
Myself into the ocean, hurled myself into the ocean
And I swam in God’s salty tears, and every time it rained
I knew God’s sorrow, God’s love had flooded the
Heaven gates overflowing into my Tizita
Ocean or river? Poured or rained? Threw, hurled or gave myself into the river? My translator threw all of them at me, but I ignored him and the multiple directions. Instead, I listened to The Corporal with his masenko — his violent energy, anger and terror coming to you as a fine, titillating cold mist that envelopes you; imagine that now coming at you as a voice singing this Tizita. Imagine an erupting volcano with all its terror, but now contained and squeezed through the one-stringed masenko.
Tizita, Tizita, I will keep dying so that I can live,
Tizita, Tizita, this song of many loves in the past,
And many loves to come, Tizita, the only river
They called Miriam to the stage. She got to the ring and started looking around. I walked over and helped her onto the stage. I rushed back to Mr. Selassie. And then, in a gesture that made the whole ABC tear up, Miriam sang The Corporal’s last verse from his failed Tizita in a fierce and protective way.
Oh, Tizita, will I find warmth in the cold waters of the Nile?
Oh, Tizita, will I find light in the dark cold waters of my sins?
Tizita, Tizita, do not come with, here, even though we cannot
Must part ways, I am drowning, I cannot breathe
And then The Diva came in:
Tizita
Tizita
Tizita
A trickle of rain — last drop hanging on, water drop on icicle, last drop the suspense, hanging — this was the distance between the letting go of the wet, cold drop and the muted yet enunciated splash of the heavy, rushing drop hitting the wet ground. Trickle of rain — last drop hanging on, water sweating on icicle; last drop — hanging, that long, slow release and the rush to the ground. And they all came in with everything they had, instruments and voices, a slow rush to give an open conclusion.
Tizita
Tizita
Tizita
Tizita, Tizita, Tizita — each time, the same word sounded different. The first time, it sounded like they were asking the Tizita to come; there was some longing, some welcoming a broken heart because it still knew what love was. The second time, it sounded more like the distant beckoning of something soon to be lost — a memory of a loved one, details and memories getting lost in the distance of living with the dead behind us. The third time, it was a yearning, an unresolved recognition of something. In all the three invocations, the word — really, a phrase — went just beyond the form, yet the Tizita managed to pull it back. I couldn’t say what Tizita was, but I finally knew it; I had felt it. I knew it, and yet the hunger hungered on, both complete and broken.
It was perfect — they were not gladiators and, more than that, it was the music that counted, and we could not have asked for a better grand finale. We, the audience-participants, the perhaps manipulated but malnourished faithful, we had won too.
I was going to take all the devils I had found in me, all that was in me, and I was going to make them fight and rage. But for what, though? Something in me, in all of us, had irrevocably shifted; yes, certainly for better and worse, because the slummers might not know what to do with feeling raw emotions, but we were not who we were just a few hours ago. Messy, but it was movement nevertheless.
Logically, I knew no one could script such an ending — it was as spontaneous as they come. It was a group of musicians who, even though speaking different languages of music, were true enough to grope their way to each other, sure that when they found each other, each throwing in a sliver that might clash with others, beauty would be theirs — a bunch of geniuses open to each other for that moment. And we got to listen, not just to listen, but to be recreated.
Mr. Selassie, my translator, was holding his head in his hands, and I put my arm around his shoulders.
‘Doctor, translating for you, I experience the Tizita two times. I am a much poorer man — but I am also a much richer man,’ he said. Then, looking up at me, he asked soberly, concerned, ‘How are you going to write about this?’
‘Mr. Selassie,’ I said to him, ‘I honestly don’t know, but this, what we have seen, this could only have happened here. You made it happen.’
I did not get to hear his response; he was quickly whisked away, hoisted on shoulders and dumped onto the stage.
There was only one possible outcome, Mr. Selassie said, overwhelmed with emotion — they had all won or no one had won. They would divide the cash prize. To make the purse worth it, he was going to add another one million Kenya shillings. Some of the slummers, carried by emotion, pledged thousands of Kenya shillings. If they all came through, the Tizita musicians would take a tidy sum of money home.
Yet, the journalist in me was not satisfied — it felt too easy. Logically, if it was a boxing match, you could rule out The Corporal on a TKO. The Taliban Man was the future that was not yet fully here. So that left Miriam and Kidane. Kidane had invited others on stage, so she too was out on a TKO. That left Miriam. But I also knew no one wanted a winner — not us, the audience, and most certainly not the musicians.
It is hard to convey the feeling at the ABC, so let me put it this way, you cannot divide light; you can trap it, but you cannot divide it; you can work within infinity, but you cannot out-infinite it — an absolute is an absolute, and we had just been given, had shared and helped create, absolute beauty. A once in a lifetime witnessing — no one could win, and no one could lose.
I texted Maaza saying it was a tie. She texted me back: Love Wins.
A few seconds later, another text from her: Tizita Wins.
I replied:
One day we will be dead and gone
Our graves untended, date of birth
And death from centuries past.
Only our Tizita will remain….
Acknowledgements
This novel would not be alive without the help and interventions from Dagmawi Woubshet and Zerihun Birehanu who helped me listen to the Tizita with my heart; Layla Mohamed and Bibi Bakare-Yusuf for pushing me to the porous borders of my imagination; and to the many (my family included) who let me sink into the Tizita world. I have never believed we write alone. This is a chorus.
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PRODUCTION CREDITS
Transforming a manuscript into the book you are now reading is a team effort. Cassava Republic Press would like to thank everyone who helped in the production of Unbury Our Dead with Song:
Publishing Director: Bibi Bakare-Yusuf
Editorial
Editor: Layla Mohamed
Copy Editor: Ibunkun Omojola
Proofreader: Uthman Adejumo
Design & Production
Illustration & Cover Design: Chinyere Okoroafor
Layout: Adejoke Oyekan
Marketing & Publicity
Talent & Audience Development Manager: Niki Igbaroola
Publicist: Fiona Brownlee
Sales and Admin
Sales Team: Kofo Okunola & The Ingram Sales Team
Accounts & Admin: Adeyinka Adewole
Copyright
First published in 2021 by Cassava Republic Press
Abuja – London
Copyright: 2021© Mũkoma Wa Ngũgĩ
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transported in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher of this book.
The moral right of Mũkoma Wa Ngũgĩ to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978–1–911115–98–4
eISBN: 978–1–911115–99–1
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Bell & Bain Ltd., Glasgow
Distributed in Nigeria by Yellow Danfo
Worldwide distribution by Ingram Publisher Services International
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