Mokoomba killed me. I write this memoir from limbo. The murder weapon—a chair; such a mundane object…
I am getting ahead of myself, so let me backtrack, for those who are confused. For those who are scared of reading from dead people, do not fret, I am a ghost as friendly as Casper.
Right, where was I? Ah yes, so I am a certified Mokoomba groupie, unashamedly so. Naturally, when I heard that they were playing at Alliance Francaise, I went.
Now in my head I imagined the outside set-up Mokoomba used to have at Alliance when they were still fresh on the scene. These shows would happen outside, way before Chez Zandi, and the entire space would be filled with dancing revellers.
On the night of Friday December 2, 2016 they led us (lambs to the slaughter) into the Old Mutual Theatre. The space is great, but for Mokoomba!? Did anyone write to my impulses to tell them to remain painfully dulled? Making me sit in a chair while Mokoomba played was like setting a bomb to explode then stifling it in a tiny container forcing it to implode in the most vile of ways.
I sat and thought to myself, as the beat of my heart began to slow down inversely to the fast-beating drums, this is not freaking Tchaikovsky. If I had wanted to experience Piano Concerto No.1 in B-flat Minor, I’d have come prepared to sit and take in operatic brilliance with only my brows and pinky finger dancing. Instead, I attended a show of African music in its glorious, gyration-inspiring beauty.
Why would anyone try to bougie-fy Mokoomba by making us sit down and act like ‘dignified’ people? This ‘civilised’ nonsense is not for every mood, sometimes you’ve got to turn off the Puccini and move your body to syncopated drum beats. There’s serious civilization to be found in self expression.
Sometimes, that crazy African ancestor needs to be unleashed until the sweat beads become a deluge and dry into a salt layer thicker than dessert sand.
Even the lead of the band said “Space yaita shoma kuti titambe” (This space is insufficient for us to dance). He knew some of us were dying…imprisoned by the chairs, by our attempt to experience African music in a European way. Seriously, imagine going to the opera and twerking? This is that same feeling only the opposite circumstance.
To not dance to Mokoomga is to die. Slowly. Painfully.
Mokoomba talks to a spiritual part of you without your logical self’s permission. As I sat there, dying in my chair which imposed by The Man, the all-too-familiar establishment, I had but one wish—to dance a final time.
P.S. Mokoomba Responds
Mokoomba has since responded to this article and told us they will be doing another show this weekend, December 9, at the New Ambassador Hotel rooftop. Yay! #ComeDanceWithUs
Many thanks to all for coming and supporting us on our homecoming concert at Alliance Francaise. It was such an amazing concert for us and the only regret is that people had no space to dance. We are doing another concert this Friday 9th of December at The New Ambassador Hotel rooftop. There will be plenty of space to dance and cover from the rain. Kindly spread the word!!
https://www.zimbojam.com/mokoomba-killed-me/
