The Soundtrack To My Life

If you’d have asked my brother, Mulatya, a couple of years ago, what his favorite music or musician was he’d have told you he doesn’t listen to music. And it was oddly true. Now, he listens to Trap music, spawn of the Devil’s Hip Hop. My brother is different, you see. We question it all the time, our shared DNA. He doesn’t read, he’s apolitical, he doesn’t see the sense in feminism, he abhors Nigerian music, he’s very artistically talented. I, on the other hand, am an avid reader, aggressively interested in politics, a feminist — a tired one, a self-professed expert on Naija music and the only artistic thing I can do is write in cursive and color inside the lines. It isn’t surprising therefore, that our musical preferences are different.
The problem with music, or rather, our attachment to particular genres, artists and songs, is that it is notoriously malleable.
Musical ‘phases’ define periods in our lives in which we most resonated with a said genre. The songs, artists or genres we love become woven into a neural tapestry entwined with the people, seasons, and locations throughout our lifespan. Music, like scents, has an uncanny ability to trigger memories, good or bad that happened to us — and said music was loudly or subliminally a part of the experience. Therefore, the requirement that has been made by today’s writing prompt of identifying the soundtrack of my life and its significance to my current identity is impossibly wrong.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
In chronological order, the following is a perverse opening up session, that unabashedly exposes my perception of my history that will be peppered with tears, the occasional laugh and the overpowering, unwarranted embarrassment of an event that happened in 2006.
After all, perception of reality is often greater than reality itself.
Nchi Ya Kitu Kidogo — Eric Wainaina
I was in standard 1, way back when we studied G.H.C, Homescience, Art and Music. When Moi was still president. There’s a line that rendered me haplessly joyous, ‘Ukitaka chai enda Limuru’, because of the sheer fact that we lived in Limuru. Later, the realization later in life that ‘chai’ was the Kenyan euphemism for bribery has never deterred me. Never. In 2001, I believed that there were only 3 countries in the world: Kenya, Mombasa and America. We used to dance to this song in Bishop’s run-down matatu, (a collective means, organized by our parents, to take us to and from school everyday) and shouting especially loudly when he said, ‘nchi ya watu wadogo’, and I’d imagine that residents from Mombasa and America were significantly bigger and taller than us. My father fueled my finger-sucking habits by washing my hands every time my mother, the antagonist, at the time, rubbed pepper all over my right thumb.
Ignorance is bliss: that’s what this memory is.
E-Sir — Boomba Train and Tukawake — K-Rupt and of course, Kenyan Boy — Necessary Noise
5 East, Tigoni Primary School. Despite the fact that this song is reminiscent of E-Sir’s death and the rumor mill declared that you’ll go to hell if you continued singing along, a lot of what I associate with it happened later, in Standard 5, when Mr. Mwangi, my first subconscious crush, became my Science teacher. My fetishization of bespectacled men began with him. He smoked during school breaks and I thought that was ethereal. A classmate died the same year, she was in 5 Central, and she and all her siblings died in a controversial fire. The Supa Strikas card game, Shakes Makena and Cool Joe filled my life with unexplained joy. The female fans of El Matador astounded me because he still got all the girls to swoon over him while his English was rubbish. Supa Strikas was the only reason I understood football. If only there was one for Cricket.
It’s also the year someone who wasn’t my parent, or in their age bracket, kissed me.
Ojuelegba(Remix) — Wizkid, Drake and Skepta, Shakiti Bobo — Olamide, Telemo — Gasmilla and Capasta and Reggae Blues — everyone that mattered in the Nigerian music scene in 2015
The searing heat. 15 pesewas water sachets. Lumi’s T-shirt aptly inscribed Music, Weed, Alcohol and Sex. Pol’s neck kisses. Cheick’s vulgarity and smile. Tisha’s subtle and naive racist remarks. Olivia’s and Frank’s food — attiéké and prawns and jollof. Hunter’s Gold, Kasapreko Gin, Alomo Bitters, Papa Lachu’s bar and the wine that made me crawl to my bed laughing. Pepper. Pepper that made Shun and I cry and cough while eating. Ibrahim’s surprising knowledge in Japanese. Prince, Godfred, Isaac and George of class 4A. Quartey’s skin. Skin that touched the hem of Jesus’s garment. The selective amnesia during the day. The bottomless darkness that shook my body at night. 2015. To strangers who were confused about my accent, I was Malawian, Zimbabwean, Ugandan, Rwandan, anything but not Kenyan, because I’d have to remember home and the demons that waited for me and the question of corruption and whether I can run always arose. Tamba. Malamine Tamba.
‘How many languages can you speak, Tamba?’
‘Apart from French, I can speak English, Wolof which is spelt in two ways, W-O-L-O-F or O-U-L-O-F, Diola, Pulaar, Mandinka and some passable German. I’ve been to Tunisia but my Arabic is very very basic.’
‘You speak 7 languages. 7 languages.’
‘I hadn’t realized they were that many.’
Dancing, dancing and then dancing to salvage my sanity. Screaming at Kakum. Crying at Cape Coast Castle. Laughing at Kwaprow. On repeat.
Freedom. Healing. Sometimes, fleeing.
Give Me Faith — Elevation Worship and all the Hillsong’s Albums
I had ‘Ibada yangu ni maisha yangu’, Rigga’s line blasted across my new bedroom wall. I had a nasty stint with pneumonia whilst living in Banana with Njambi, my favorite cousin and her 2 week old son. Obviously, currently my favorite nephew. I’m unapologetic in my favoritism. And Caleb brought me a Bible as a gift. A beautiful purple KJV Bible. At the moment, it was the best possible gift I could get and I still count it as one of the best displays of friendships. We grew apart, of course. Charles Spurgeon’s sermons. Spurgeon’s first sermon, the Immutability of God shook me. Read it for the impeccable grammar and speaking prowess, if not for the concrete reference to the Word. Fire, brimstone and sober theological knowledge. Half of the passages in Romans in my bible are highlighted with little neat notes on the sidelines, because I don’t think I’ve battled with any theological concept as much as predestination and free will. I had a LIT playlist. LIT. I still have John Piper’s Desiring God: Meditations of a Christian Hedonist in my room. If ever you want to understand Calvinism and the infamous T-U-L-I-P reference, lemme know. All the artists signed to Humble Beast record label are amazing, especially if you want theologically sound and lyrical depth in your hip-hop. My personal best: Propaganda’s Excellent and Crimson Cord albums. He gives them free. I heard the Amen from the corner, thanks for that.
I met some of my favorite people through a Sunday afternoon fellowship I attended. They are winning in life and I can’t be any happier for them. Getting married and engaged, graduating, starting their own businesses, travelling, charting their paths. It’s beautiful to watch someone you care for bloom into who you’ve always known them to be.
Did I stop believing? I’m not sure. That’s a stupid answer, I know. But I’m not certain about the path I’m charting, so show me some grace.
Redbone — Childish Gambino
This song is subtly heavy. I’ve been dissecting the anatomy of adulting for a while now and this song is a liberation song. It is a recent song, the memories are subsequently recent and the emotions attached still raw. Hopefully, it won’t craft out a phase that I’ll associate with inability to do anything concrete, perpetual discontentment with my growth and always feeling like I’m stuck in a rut.
I wonder how Mulatya remembers his past. How can you not compartmentalize your past with music? Did any songs listed above have any impact on your history?
What songs bring back strong memories from your past? What is the soundtrack of your current state? Share with me in the comments!
I’m trying to reinforce a writing culture, so validate my dreams by clicking the heart and maybe someone will stumble on it.
