Blues and Roots, by Jeff M.

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 notes pulse towards the window and spill out into the night. I sent the kids home around eight and now have some time to myself. The day’s highlight: Ono—my five-year old neighbor, perpetual house guest, and adopted daughter—put on my -8 prescription glasses, walked cautiously to the center of the room, lowered herself to the floor, and exclaimed in blissful confusion, “Where am I?!” Now the only company I need is Horace Silver and some syncopation, that delicious idea that, while time marches forever on, it need not be divided into equally metered ticks. It is time, not pitch, which is the greatest governing factor in music and the primary plaything of any composer—of any artist for that matter.

            And here I sit, in Africa, rolling out hard bop’s interpretation on the passage of time. Gives a whole new meaning to bring that beat back. Fortunately for me, the beat has returned of its own accord, instead of being dragged across the sea, forever pounding against the chains that brought it to the New World, eventually helping to break them. Following its Garvey-esque journey, the beat has found that, back home, syncopation is alive and well. And everywhere. Hands, feet, guitars, pianos. I’m surprised the rain doesn’t fall on the off beats. While the sun rises and sets at the same time every day, year round, every other rhythm is unpredictable.

            This idea has an obvious foothold in music. My favorite days are when the power goes out during choir practice, silencing the tinny, synthesized drums from the keyboard and 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. The choir continues, unphased by the absent instrumentation, and claps out the rhythm behind many of our songs, claps on beats one and three, with one more clap in triplet time following soon, but not too soon, thereafter. It is a simple counter-rhythm that is echoed in nearly every blues guitar or swing drum kit, albeit in different form. From this base, individual members of the choir are free to clap out their own rhythms as they see fit, often receiving a response in kind from another set of hands. The group continues to collectively measure and re-measure time as the melody comes in, sometimes call and response, sometimes all together. I do not mean to imply that this is jazz, far from it. Out songs sound no more like Charlie Parker than Mozart or Motown. This is simply where that music springs from, a place where rhythm and collective improvisation are held in a place of musical honor. But there is another place I’ve found where these concepts are even more pronounced.

            Prayer. A Rwandan prayer session is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. In all this imported Christianity, it is one thing that comes from nowhere but the ground beneath me. Occasionally, prayers will resemble something from my own religious idiom, a leader intoning over the congregation, who silently push the singular call heavenward. However, more often than not, the practice is something else entirely.

            The elder’s baritone floats out over the congregation, slowly rising and falling, the bass setting up a motive, calling ears to attention. He continues, rising a little more here, adding some extra stress to his words there. Other members of the congregation join in, softly at first, brushes skittering over the hi hat and cymbals. The leader continues, both setting the pace and pushingit higher. More of the congregation, loudernow, as the piano starts comping and the melody becomes collective. The elder pushesfurther, addingspeedand emphasis to his words. The congregation followssuitaddingmore of their owncontributionsaswords, sounds, pileontopofeachother and spilloutthewindows. Fasterstronger, theoriginalmelodyhasdisappearedintothe symphonic cacophony asthecollectivelinescarryeachotherhigherthantheyAND A SHOUT RINGS OUT AT THE BACK, the soprano sax takes over as one of my senior five students (I still don’t get that much participation from her in class) is borne up by the surrounding sound 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 her owntones and starts thecongregation in a new direction “Oh, imana nyiringabo…”

            Hold up. Imana nyiringabo? I’ve heard this phrase 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 not surprising, we have similar phrases in English, but it strikes me that the root word for “man” (-gabo) also carries through in Kinyarwanda. I once had a women’s studies professor underline my use of “seminal” in a paper, presumably as a gendered word. The root for seminal is, in fact, “semen” which is Latin for “seed.” Now, I made no mistake in my use of the adjective in my paper, and I highly doubt I would have received a higher grade if I had changed my wording to include some kind of ovulation metaphor. However, my cultural sense of political correctness kicks in as I see a familiar face speaking a different language. How deep does this gendered system flow in Kinyarwanda, what effects does it have? Unfortunately, my linguistic knowledge is far from sufficient to even guess at these questions. I do know that the roots for man (-gabo) and woman (-gore) are not inseparably linked as they are English, but -gabo seems to possess certain connotations, as the adverb “bravely” translates as “bya kigabo,” using the same root. I also realize 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 but wonder how deep the rabbit hole goes. It’s obvious that the categorization, the connotations, of “woman” and “man” are stronger here, more fixed. How much does language play into it? Does my student realize what she’s saying? If no, what would happen if she did? If yes, what could she do to fight it? How could she change the melody into a new take on Charles Mingus’ “Haitian Fight Song?” After all, these are not my songs to write. Rwandan women can borrow influences, infuse their own fight with far flung rhythms, which I can help provide, but the consciousness must be theirs.

            The prayer is winding down now, as Betty carries us back down from the heights she’s reached. The bass returns and brings us back home. I don’t know if God understood it all, but somewhere, Sarah Vaughan is smiling.