Jeff Monsma
Education 2 -- Kamembe District, Southern Province
fun fact: Jeff lives the farthest and hottest part of Rwanda near the Congo border. We see him once in a blue moon. He's known as "the Dutch Diamond" in his village.
Piano notespulse towards the window and spill out into the night. I sent the kids homearound eight and now have some time to myself. The day’s highlight: Ono—myfive-year old neighbor, perpetual house guest, and adopted daughter—put on my-8 prescription glasses, walked cautiously to the center of the room, loweredherself to the floor, and exclaimed in blissful confusion, “Where am I?!” Nowthe only company I need is Horace Silver and some syncopation, that deliciousidea that, while time marches forever on, it need not be divided into equallymetered ticks. It is time, not pitch, which is the greatest governing factor inmusic and the primary plaything of any composer—of any artist for that matter.
And here Isit, in Africa, rolling out hard bop’s interpretationon the passage of time. Gives a whole new meaning to bring that beat back. Fortunatelyfor me, the beat has returned of its own accord, instead of being draggedacross the sea, forever pounding against the chains that brought it to the New World, eventually helping to break them. Followingits Garvey-esque journey, the beat has found that, back home, syncopation isalive and well. And everywhere. Hands, feet, guitars, pianos. I’m surprised therain doesn’t fall on the off beats. While the sun rises and sets at the sametime every day, year round, every other rhythm is unpredictable.
This ideahas an obvious foothold in music. My favorite days are when the power goes outduring choir practice, silencing the tinny, synthesized drums from the keyboardand passing the task of time-keeping off to the choir at large. Here “Rwanda’s beat,”as our bass player once described it to me, comes out in its purest form. Thechoir continues, unphased by the absent instrumentation, and claps out therhythm behind many of our songs, claps on beats one and three, with one moreclap in triplet time following soon, but not too soon, thereafter. It is asimple counter-rhythm that is echoed in nearly every blues guitar or swing drumkit, albeit in different form. From this base, individual members of the choirare free to clap out their own rhythms as they see fit, often receiving aresponse in kind from another set of hands. The group continues to collectivelymeasure and re-measure time as the melody comes in, sometimes call andresponse, sometimes all together. I do not mean to imply that this is jazz, far from it. Out songs sound nomore like Charlie Parker than Mozart or Motown. This is simply where that musicsprings from, a place where rhythm and collective improvisation are held in aplace of musical honor. But there is another place I’ve found where theseconcepts are even more pronounced.
Prayer. ARwandan prayer session is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. In all thisimported Christianity, it is one thing that comes from nowhere but the groundbeneath me. Occasionally, prayers will resemble something from my own religiousidiom, a leader intoning over the congregation, who silently push the singularcall heavenward. However, more often than not, the practice is something elseentirely.
The elder’sbaritone floats out over the congregation, slowly rising and falling, the basssetting up a motive, calling ears to attention. He continues, rising a littlemore here, adding some extra stress to his words there. Other members of thecongregation join in, softly at first, brushes skittering over the hi hat andcymbals. The leader continues, both setting the pace and pushingit higher. Moreof the congregation, loudernow, as the piano starts comping and the melody becomescollective. The elder pushesfurther, addingspeedand emphasis to his words. Thecongregation followssuitaddingmore of their owncontributionsaswords, sounds,pileontopofeachother and spilloutthewindows. Fasterstronger,theoriginalmelodyhasdisappearedintothe symphonic cacophonyasthecollectivelinescarryeachotherhigherthantheyAND A SHOUT RINGS OUT AT THEBACK, the soprano sax takes over as one of my senior five students (I stilldon’t get that much participation from her in class) is borne up by the surroundingsound to heights unseen. She takes over the melody and tells us what she sees,describes the view from atop this mountain of vocal momentum. She picksup herowntones and starts thecongregation in a new direction “Oh, imana nyiringabo…”
Hold up. Imana nyiringabo? I’ve heard thisphrase in church many times before, but suddenly it hits me. That translates to(more or less, I’ve talked to a few friends and can’t get a concise translation)“God of mankind” or “God who is greater than all men.” This in itself is notsurprising, we have similar phrases in English, but it strikes me that the rootword for “man” (-gabo) also carriesthrough in Kinyarwanda. I once had a women’s studies professor underline my useof “seminal” in a paper, presumably as a gendered word. The root for seminalis, in fact, “semen” which is Latin for “seed.” Now, I made no mistake in myuse of the adjective in my paper, and I highly doubt I would have received ahigher grade if I had changed my wording to include some kind of ovulationmetaphor. However, my cultural sense of political correctness kicks in as I seea familiar face speaking a different language. How deep does this genderedsystem flow in Kinyarwanda, what effects does it have? Unfortunately, mylinguistic knowledge is far from sufficient to even guess at these questions. Ido know that the roots for man (-gabo)and woman (-gore) are not inseparablylinked as they are English, but -gaboseems to possess certain connotations, as the adverb “bravely” translates as “bya kigabo,” using the same root. I alsorealize that my probing is flawed from the start, using my own clouded,cultural microscope to analyze something I know not of. I still can’t help butwonder how deep the rabbit hole goes. It’s obvious that the categorization, theconnotations, of “woman” and “man” are stronger here, more fixed. How much doeslanguage play into it? Does my student realize what she’s saying? If no, whatwould happen if she did? If yes, what could she do to fight it? How could shechange the melody into a new take on Charles Mingus’ “Haitian Fight Song?”After all, these are not my songs to write. Rwandan women can borrowinfluences, infuse their own fight with far flung rhythms, which I can helpprovide, but the consciousness must be theirs.
The prayeris winding down now, as Betty carries us back down from the heights she’sreached. The bass returns and brings us back home. I don’t know if Godunderstood it all, but somewhere, Sarah Vaughan is smiling.
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