Friday, 9 May 2014

Music is an emotional thing

Yes I can cry like a child with music. It is not always happy.... music is part of my life, my heart goes into it and it is from there it becomes audible.

I am finalizing a song for my childhood best friend in another "Classical African" album. What I thought was going to be a jolly and happy piece became laced with haunting memories of two little girls, torn apart by politics. Apartheid in South Africa, nearly fifty years ago, horiffic.........

I found out that Mmahidi did not go to school and I so much wanted that she could come live with us and go with me to my school. How nice it would be to travel together on the schoolbus, singing and playing, and we all would play the games she taught me.

Then the adults told me that she was not allowed to go to my school. I learned for the first time that some 'white' people have no concern for anyone with a skin colour darker than theirs. I couldn't see the difference, I didn't accept what was the rule of the 'white people'. For me there was no difference. I loved my friend. I argued but was told firmly NO. I cried, I was terribly saddened.

There and then I decided that adults can be very stupid. Why could we not call someone Uncle and Auntie when our skin colour differs? That is only respect. I kept my ears open and my mouth shut. I learned about Mankind's little games called politics. I hated politics and still do. It is a greedy manipulative game that already begins at school with little school gangs of a 'we are better than you' attitude, regardless of course of skin colour. Then it becomes a profession for some who wants to make money out of it, calling it to earn a salary.  I vote to live by the Holy Law of my Creator, not for man.

As I grew up I realized there are super white people who try to own everything. Titles, property, image and goodness knows what more. I never wanted to be part of those. I rather have and do at my own record for no-one can take that away from me. I am me.

While I was waiting at my dentist on 30 April 2014 (always keep notebook & pen, it seems music hits me when I have nothing to do) a memory of Mmahidi's hands and mine, playing our usual little rhythm games and the shape of our hands popped the cork on this one, and how we, our elbows hooked into each other, would  gallop down to the river to play there. I jotted the picture down in my own 'music shorthand' and started working on it when I was back home. I first began 'painting' Mmahidi's face with notes.

At the time, I just came out from a surge of a new music that began on Easter Monday that lasted for a week, in which I couldn't stop composing and used all possible sparetime and time I could stay awake in stead of sleep - I was dead tired but the prospects of our childhood together, a song for Mmahidi had me all very excited. I was going to compose that song and send it out into the world, hoping she can one day hear it again and we can be reunited.......

During the following days, the previous surge flared up again and by then I was like a zombie, lack of sleep, totally vulnerable, too weak to object or reject. I had to answer it.

It was scary, yet it was necessary. It was preparing me for what was going to be the song for Mmahidi.

I finished the fourth part of "Petals", new parts shaped but made space for Mmahidi and I was happy to spend time with my childhood friend and our memories. Alas, it were the horrors and awful ghosts that existed those days that were haunting me, hunting me and mauling me. Yet I was strong in my fight and didn't give up until the last notes.

When I finished Mmahidi a little while ago this morning, (only need a few drums still that want to talk there) I cried when I listened, the pain was all over again, remembering each detail of that terrible day - it ripped the gut out of me. I took a break, dropped by here to pour my heart out.

I am a bit jumpy after this, nervous, anxious and have to try a clinical playback to listen if all is okay and still add the last few drums (bush telegraph) that called at night between the villages,  it were those nights when I heard the drums sending messages, I'd see my friend the next day.

I'm pushing through, it is for my friend and I hope to find her. May the drums speak again, calling Mmahidi.

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