A Trip to Nairobi, Kenya Pt. III
Poetry Night at Cheche Bookshop & Café
White plastic chairs fill the room and a small pulpit hosts a shuffle of poets and an MC. Their voices spill from a black standing speaker that accents the white walls. Walls littered with several books and posters. It’s an intimate fellowship at Cheche Bookshop & Cafe this evening.
“—Redemption
is your face
softening into a smile
with a glimmer of sun tossed across your cheeks, like glitter.”
“Mmhmm, mmhmm, mmhmm”, we all hum and snap our fingers.
Seated at the back on high bar stools, my friend and I watch as poet after poet step on stage, and grace us with their poems. Enjoying the poetry night I was fortunate to come across on Instagram.
Soon the MC—a bubbly lady with luscious whirled dreads, a sweet smile, and glasses on—steps on stage. She reminds us that part of the program will be about honouring the late Grandmaster Masese, who was a well known Griot in the community, but was ushered into the next life too soon.
As she steps off the stage, an older man in black Dashiki and a black hat with blond hair draping from its top, replaces her. In his hands lie a makeshift guitar—a round wooden base connected to a wide wooden hanger by strings. Strings that hang bare like the wires of an electric pole. The Obokano—a traditional kisii instrument.
The older man—Grandmaster Masese’s uncle—starts to play.
He plucks the strings in what must feel like a familiar pattern, fingers springing back and forth with ease. The timbre both foreign and alluring it’s difficult to ignore, like someone turned the sound of snapping rubber-bands into something musical. Much like Fela’s instrumentals, the rhythm insists on itself. Its percussive repetition pulls me in, closer and closer, until I’m grounded in the moment.
And when he starts to sing, it’s hauntingly beautiful—like the song is oblivious to where the Obokano is taking us. He goes on like this for a while, switching between songs and chants.
Somewhere in between his performance, a lady in a yellow patterned jacket, low hanging earrings, and a solemn demeanor, steps on stage. She’ll be reading one of Grandmaster Masese’s early poems, she declares. Then in silence, her head moves to the whims of the Obokano that’s still playing.
“Ninajongea Wendani,” she starts with a smile. Obokana fades to the background. “Ugani najaajaa,” her voice breaking on some words, but finding strength in others. She speaks with care, and with fondness. Smiling between words, like she’s being hugged by a memory. I understand none of it, but I feel it all the same.
Then she pauses. The Obokano slides to the foreground. The chants follow. And again her head bops and body sways to the rhythm of the instrument. The emotion in the room is palpable. The sound and the feeling it conveys, similar to the Tizita—one of pain and one of joy, one of death and one of life, one of longing.
The performance continues for a few more minutes, oscillating between stanza and Obokano fueled chants.
When it ends, it’s met with applause, but she’s not done. She asks if she can do something of hers, the MC signals okay. Then asking the crowd to join her, she breaks into singing, “Niko njaa hata siezi karanga—”, they oblige. And for a minute or two, the whole room jives in harmony.
“Do not listen to the voice, listen to the words,” she says at the end of her rendition, and we all chortle. Then she continues. “All sovereign power?”
Silence. Awkward silence as she looks at us expectantly.
The silence breaks into giggling, which grows into loud laughter. “Yes,” she titters. “This is a question. So I’ll eh, test your knowledge if you were at the protest or not.” Then she tries again. “All sovereign power?”
“Belongs to the people,” the room responds.
“The people?”
“Shall.”
“Thank you!” she says, and we all chuckle. When the laughing dies down, she continues. “Do you know what they do to young people in this country?”
She pauses, as though expecting a reply. When there’s none, she continues:
“They shackle your arms and feet to central and industrial cells
throw your flaccid limbs into wells
and abandoned queries—”
Pain from the previous performance is now channeled into something different. I’m tuned in. Taking in as much as I can. “—they cannot arrest tongues whose strength lies behind bars.”
“Mmhmm, mmhmm, mmhmm,” we hum and snap our fingers.
“All sovereign power?”
“Belongs to the people.”
“The people?”
“Shall.”
“Do you know what they do to storytellers and artists in this country?”
“Yes,” someone answers in a low tone.
“They smother your feet with State House stages
Your lips with Orders of Burning Spears
Your hands with Jomo’s papers—”
I get some of it, the rest goes over my head. What is clear is that she’s spitting bars. Bars quoted in hot truths.
Soon she breaks into singing, and the room joins her. When the singing ends, she goes again. “All sovereign power?”
“Belongs to the people.”
“The people?”
“Shall.”
“Do you know what they do to thinkers in this country?”
Again, her eyes search the room for answers. Finding none, she continues:
“They tackle your raw and rugged minds
with A.I.
and B.U.I.
bots,
loop your life into a diet of nothing but screens and scrolls
screens and scrolls—”
She goes on and on, as we listen with intent. When the stanza is done, she again breaks into singing. When her rendition is over, she ends the same way she began. “All sovereign power?”
“Belongs to the people.”
“The people?”
“Shall.”
Part of the Obokano performance
Notes
The opening poem about redemption is by Kofi. Here’s the full poem.
The lady who recited Grandmaster Masese’s poem and hers: Njeri Wangarĩ.
Grandmaster Masese’s uncle, Mwalimu Ogari Dominic is a music educator and highly regraded for his mastery of the Obokano.
The event itself was a book tour for Togetherness, a book by Poetrymeets.
The founder of Poetrymeets and the MC of the event: Jumoke Adeyanju.
You can learn a bit more about Grandmaster Masese in Remembering Grandmaster Masese, King of the Obokano by Stanley Gazemba.
Checkout Grandmaster Masese’s last album.
See you next week.
Song of the day - Utawala by Juliani