In response to all the requests I've received for the text of Drum Rider, the poem I performed at the Zanzibar premiere of
As Old As My Tongue, and at the World Social Forum - here it is.
Please note that this poem is copyrighted and all rights are reserved. You may not use, print, or reproduce it, in part or whole, online or in print, without
permission from me. I am delighted to have you share it with others, by sending them to this website, or by forwarding the link to this page to them.
Please contact Sally Qazi at
sallyq2000@yahoo.com, for permission to use any part of the Kiswahili translation.
DRUM RIDER: A TRIBUTE TO BI KIDUDE
I.
The woman placed a drum on the grass before her.
Twisted a soft worn khanga round her hips.
As if she was going to wash clothes, chop vegetables;
hike a child to her back to go to market.
None of us really paid any attention.
The woman harnessed her hips to the drum.
Chest-high, foot-in-diameter msondo drum.
Rocked it aslant between her straddled legs.
Settled into position.
Sunken chest erect.
Shoulders, neck, at the ready.
Mouth set over gaping gums.
Khanga hiked up skinny strong legs.
Feet planted in the earth
like it was time
to do business.
Like she was going
to work.
Suddenly, we are on
Planet Kidude.
Where men scurry across the mat:
place mics, arrange wires, jostle for camera views.
Where the woman ignores them all.
Because she did this for eight decades
before there were cameras, mics.
Decades she hoisted her drum
trudged rich dirt
the length and breadth of Tanzania
to perform.
Decades she fought off
terror, insults, mockery
the soul-destroying silence
only the strongest fire survives.
Decades she t ravelled deep and deeper
to the heart of her own rhythm.
This is Bi Kidude.
Virtuoso of Taraab, Unyago.
Woman who at ninety-five,
has walked more miles
than most of us have driven.
Claimed a lineage
of music rooted
in the lives of the powerless
stories unfurled in language of street and market
poetry buried in the bodies of women.
II.
I have never seen a woman ride a drum before
like a goddess rides a tiger
like creation rides the cosmos.
I have never seen a woman ride a drum like this.
I have never seen an artist
male or female
anywhere across the globe
own their instrument
like it grew
out of their belly,
like it was welded
to their thighs.
III.
Then, there were the dancers.
The dancers moved lazily.
Dropped their cellphones, shook out their khangas.
Gold at their ears, their necks, their wrists;
gold gleamed in their mouths.
The dancers slipped into movement
as a bhajia slips into hot oil
rises to the surface
starts to sizzle.
Now the dancers work their hips
with precision of balance, control
potency of strength, of muscle isolation
Olympic gymnasts would envy.
They shake their hips
for all of us
who have been taught, coerced
to disown our bodies. For all women
whose bodies
have been stolen from them.
They thrust their succulent buttocks out
with democratic largesse.
Tease the old woman in the black buibui.
Taunt the white-boy, dreadlocked tourist
who feigns coolness
behind his wraparound sunglasses
while I watch his neck turn scarlet
drip with sweat.
The dancers work their hips
for the waitresses
at Africa House hotel. Caged
in the most godawful
ugly, cheap, confining
sweat-producing black skirts, white shirts
to serve drinks to tourists in shorts and bikinis.
Because heaven forbid those who serve
should ever feel breeze on their skins
heaven forbid those who serve
should move their hips
and torsos freely
in clothes that flow
in colours that hum.
We might forget
they are servants.
We might
see them.
The dancers shake their hips for the women
those waitresses serve. Waxy-pale bikini-clad tourists
at Serena's poolside.
Women who check their bodies daily
for forbidden fat
outlawed abundance of flesh.
Women of the tragic sisterhood
of liposuction, surgical alteration
silent epidemic of anorexia deaths.
Women taught that beauty
equals self-annihilation.
These dancers swivel their hips
for the six-thousand girl children who today
were held down, legs spread, hands tied,
gagged, blindfolded, tortured
beyond screaming, violated
beyond horror, circumcised
for the crime
of a clitoris.
They move their hips for every woman
infected with HIV
by a man who valued her life
less than his gratification.
These women who circle Bi Kidude
as planets orbit the sun
circle like temple snakes
sinuous panthers
the source where sound begins;
they are shaking the bounty
of women's bodies
back into the world.
Their hips and butts are saying: YESS!!
YES
to largeness that does not apologise.
YES
to power, knowledge,
that do not disguise themselves.
YES
to pleasure,
claimed and vested
in our mortal beautiful bodies.
III
I will never fear aging again
because now I have heard Bi Kidude
belt out
at ninety-five
without a mic
tobacco-stained waves of sound
sandpapered down to coconut fibre
stronger than cables of steel.
I will never fear aging again
because now I have seen Bi Kidude -
whose face has never touched
an anti-wrinkle cream
an age-defying glycolic acid enzyme peel
who knocks back whisky, cigarettes
for every ounce of moisturizer I consume -
hypnotise a hundred cameras.
I have felt the power of this woman's neck.
Her shoulder muscles
surge thunder
down arm to hand to drum ;
generate more electricity
than ten Madonnas
twenty Fela Kutis with sixteen-piece bands
take us back to the center of fertile creation
where sound begins.
IV.
I believe in Bi Kidude
the way I don't believe in god.
But if god were a ninety-five- year old,
ebony black
Swahili woman,
who claims to be one hundred and twenty,
with a mouth full of broken and missing teeth
hands veined like banyan trees
a drum between her legs
a kijiti at her defiant, all-knowing lips
a shillingi-mia-kumi note
flapping out of her neckline;
if god embraced irony, lust, contradiction
heartbreak, imperfection
flaunted her struggles like a velvet cape,
rearranged the atoms of the world
with the rhythm of her gut
then maybe I would believe
in that god.
That god who is only a name
for the genius in all of us
that makes us our own imam and prophet
our own divinity.
I would call the faithful to prayer:
Bomba Kidude! Kidude Saafi!
And they would holler back: Saafi!
They would holler back: Saafi!
They would holler back: SAAFI!
And we would all be
god.
Copyright Shailja Patel, 2006. All Rights Reserved. MPANDA NGOMA: KUMUENZI BI KIDUDE
I.
Mwanamke kasimamisha ngoma mbele yake nyasini.
Akaikunja khanga yake laini kiunoni.
Kana kwamba ajitayarisha kufua nguo au kukatakata mboga;
Kumbeba mtoto mgongoni, kwenda sokoni.
Hakuna aliyemwangalia kwa makini.
Mwanamke aliipanda ngoma.
Kifua mbele, mguu pembeni mwa ngoma ya msondo.
Ilowekwa imeinama kidogo kati ya miguu yake.
Akajiweka sawa.
Kifua kilichobonyea, mbele.
Mabega, shingo, tayari.
Mdomo wazi juu ya mapengo.
Khanga iloinuliwa juu ya miguu yake miembamba.
Miguu juu ya udongo
Kana kwamba ni muda
Wa shughuli.
Kana kwamba alikuwa tayari
Kwenda kazini.
Ghafla tunajikuta juu ya
Sayari Kidude.
Ambako wanaume wanatawanyika sakafuni:
Waweka vipaza sauti, wapanga nyaya, wasukumana kupanga kamera.
Mwanamke wala hawatazami.
Kwani amefanya hivyo kwa miongo minane
Kabla ya kamera, na vipaza sauti.
Miongo ambamo amekalia ngoma yake
Amekanyaga udongo bora
Kwa marefu na mapana ya Tanzania
kucheza.
Miongo ya kupigana dhidi ya
vitishio, matusi, dhihaka
kimya kiuachao roho
moyo wenye nguvu peke humudu.
Kwa miongo mingi kasafiri kwa kina zaidi
Katika moyo wa mdundo wake mwenyewe.
Huyu ni Bi Kidude.
Mahiri wa Taraab, Unyago.
Mwanamke wa miaka tisini na tano,
Ametembea maili nyingi zaidi
Kuliko wengi wetu tumekwenda kwa gari.
Anadai urithi wa muziki
katika maisha ya hadithi zisizo na uwezo
katika lugha ya mitaani na mashairi ya sokoni ilozama ndani ya miili ya wanawake.
II.
Sijawahi kumuona mwanamke akipanda ngoma hapo zamani
Kama mungu aliyepanda chui
Kamba muumbo unaopanda kosmo.
Sijawahi kumuona mwanamke akipanda ngoma hivi.
Sijawahi kumuona msanii
Rijali au mwali
Popote katika sayari
Aliyemiliki chombo
Kilichotokeza tumboni mwake, kana kwamba
Kimeunganishwa na mapaja yake.
III.
Halafu, walikuwepo wachezaji.
Walicheza kwa madaha.
Waliangusha vimeo vyao, alifunua khanga zao.
Dhahabu masikioni, shingoni na mikononi;
Dhahabu iliwaka midomoni mwao.
Wachezaji waliingia ngomani
kama bhajia ziingiavyo katika mafuta ya moto
zikaelea
na kukaangika.
Sasa wachezaji wanakata viuno
Kwa usawa wa mizani,
kwa kutenga misuli
ambavyo wanariadha wa Olimpiki wangehusudu.
Wanatingisha viuno vyao
Kwa ajili yetu sote
Ambao tumefundishwa, na kulazimishwa
Kukana miili yetu. Kwa ajili ya wanawake wote
Ambao miili yao
Imenyakuliwa kutoka kwao.
Walisukuma makalio yao matamu nje
Kwa ukarimu wa kidemokrasia.
Wakamchokoza mama mkonge aliyevaa baibui.
Wakamkebehi kijana mweupe, mtalii mwenye rasta
Aliyejidai kuwa amepoa
Nyuma ya miwani yake iliyomficha uso
Nilipomuangalia niliona shingo yake ikibadilika rangi ikaiva.
Jasho linamtoka.
Wachezaji watikisa makalio yao
Kwa ajili ya dada maweita
Wa hoteli ya Africa House.
Waliotiwa katika tundu
Katika nguo mbaya haswa, rahisi,
zilizobana sketi nyeusi zenye kuleta jasho,
mashati meupe
kuwahudumia watalii walova bukta na chupi na sidiria za kuogelea.
Kwani Mungu apishe mbali wao wasipate kuhisi
Upepo mwanana juu ya ngozi zao.
Mungu apishe mbali wao wahudumiao
Wasitikise makalio yao wala vifua
Kwa uhuru katika nguo zao, zitiririkazo kwa rangi ziimbazo.
Twaweza kusahau kuwa ni wahudumu.
Twaweza kuwaona.
Wachezaji watikisa makalio yao kwa ajili ya wanawake
Wanohudumiwa na dada maweita.
Watalii walopauka walovaa chupi na sidiria
Kwenye bwawa la Serena.
Wanawake wakaguao miili yao kila siku
Wasipate unene usiotakiwa
Wingi wa minofu ya ziada.
Wanawake wa udada wa kusikitisha
Wa mabadiliko ya mwili wa kuondolewa kwa sindano za kunyonya
mafuta ya ziada
janga kimya la vifo vya njaa ya kujitakia.
Wanawake walofundisha kuwa uzuri
Ni sawa na kujigharikisha.
Wachezaji hawa wakata viuno vyao
Kwa ajili ya mabinti sita elfu ambao leo
Walilazwa chini, miguu imepanuliwa, mikono imefungwa, midomo imebanwa, macho yamefungwa, waloteswa hata wakashindwa kupiga mayowe
Kupita maovu yote, waliokeketwa kwa kosa la kuwa na kisimi.
Wachezaji hawa wakata viuno vyao kwa ajili ya kila mwanamke
Aliathirika na virusi vya Ukimwi
Kutoka kwa mwanaume aliyethamini shauku yake zaidi kuliko
Maisha yake mwanamke.
Wanawake hawa wamzungukao Bi Kidude
Kama sayari zizungukavyo jua
Wazungukavyo kama nyoka za hekaluni
Kama simba wanyumbukao
Vyanzo vya sauti;
Wanatikisa jaala ya
Miili ya wanawake
Kuirejesha duniani.
Viuno vyao na makalio yao vinasema: NDIOO!!
NDIO
Kwa ukarimu usio omba radhi.
NDIO
Kwa uwezo, uwezo,
usijificha.
NDIO
Kwa raha,
Inayodaiwa na iliyovishwa
Katika miili yetu mizuri ya ulimwengu huu.
IV
Uzee sitauogopa tena kamwe
Kwani sasa nimemsikia Bi Kidude
Akipiga
Katika umri wa tisini na tano
Bila maiki
Mawimbi ya sauti zenye madoa ya tumbaku
Yalipigwa msasa kama kamba za makumbi
Zenye nguvu kuliko chuma.
Sitaogopa kamwe uzee tena
Kwa sababu sasa nimemuona Bi Kidude -
Ambaye sura yake haijagusa
Mafuta ya kulainisha mikunjo
Tindikali isiyozeesha mikwatuo ya vimengeyo
Abugiaye wiski, sigara
Kwa kila aunzi ya vilainishaji nitumiavyo -
Hubumbuaza kamera mia.
Nimesikia uwezo wa shingo ya mwanamke huyu
Misuli ya mabega yake
Ikishindilia radi
na kupitia mikononi hadi kufikia ngoma;
ikizalisha umeme zaidi
kuliko makumi ya Madonna
mamia ya Fela Kutis mwenye bendi ya vyombo kumi na sita
akiturejesha kwenye kiini cha muumbo
sauti inakozaliwa.
V.
Ninamuamini Bi Kidude
Zaidi kuliko nimuaminivyo mungu.
Lakini kama mungu angekuwa mwanamke Mswahili mkongwe wa miaka tisini na tano,
Mwenye weusi wa mpingu,
Anayedai kuwa mwenyeumri wa miaka mia na ishirini,
Mwenye mdomo ulijaa vipande vya meno na fizi tupu
Mikono mithili ya miti ya mbanyan
Mwenye ngoma mapajani
kijiti kati ya midomo yake yenye dharau
mwenye noti ya shillingi-mia-moja katika shingo ya gauni lake
kama mungu angekumbatia kebehi, ashiki, upinzani
uvunjaji moyo, na kutokamilika
kama mungu angeivaa kwa madaha mitihani yake kama joho laini
angalipanga chembechembe za ulimwengu
kwa sauti ya tumbo lake
basi labda ningemuamini
mungu huyo.
Mungu huyo ambaye ni jina tu
Kwa umahiri uliomo ndani mwetu
Anayetufanya kuwa imam wetu wenyewe na mtume wa
mungu wetu mwenyewe.
Ningewaita waumini kuswali:
Bomba Kidude! Kidude Saafi!
Nao wangeitikia kwa kishindo: Saafi!
Nao wangejibu kwa kishindo: Saafi!
Nao wangejibu kwa kishindo: SAAFI!
Na sote tungekuwa mungu
Hatimiliki ya Shailja Patel na Sally Qazi, 2006.
Haki zote zimehifadhiwa.
