Reggae for the Ravaged Soul

‘Would you like to attend a reggae music evening on Easter Sunday?’ I could not believe my ears when I heard my friend mention reggae music. ‘Reggae music in Juba?’ I asked incredulously. He laughed at my apparent ignorance.

Even though I have been in Juba for several months now, because of curfew restrictions and general safety concerns I hardly venture out and even if I go out with friends, never stayed beyond the curfew hours in the evening. I reconciled to the fact that there is no social life in Juba or at least after 7 pm.

So when my friend invited me, I accepted immediately. He said he can arrange me to stay in the hotel overnight as the concert is likely to stretch beyond 11pm. I immediately wrote to my manager that I will be staying the night out and gave him the mandatory details. Promptly it was accepted.

It must be quite popular event, for I found rows of cars already parked outside the venue. There was another crowd at the entrance –clearing security protocols. I awaited my turn and was ushered in after thorough checking of bags and physical frisking.

The venue was already filling up. The stage had a DJ console and strobe lights flashed with reggae legends’ posters adoring the backdrop. My friend had brought along his girlfriend and also her girlfriend tagged along so we were four. I was expecting some seats to be laid out in neat rows. But, no this is Juba and so I decided to wait. Meanwhile my friends mustered a round table and pulled up few chairs from somewhere and we were seated very close to the stage and the blaring music.

The cover charge was exchanged for drinks all around and we settled down. For me, it’s a new experience altogether as this is the first time, I'm going to stay after 7.30 pm in Juba. My friend introduced me to several friendly faces who greeted me with the now familiar South Sudanese ritual greeting. Hugs followed by several pats to the shoulder (ouch) and knocking of fists and sometimes elbows together. It was all a flurry of momentary but firm physical contact and though you don’t understand the ritual of repeated hugging and patting, you feel already part of the culture.  

I was waiting for the music to start. The ticket I had with me said Reggae evening 6 pm, but there were no names of artistes or any other details. So I was looking at my watch and the stage..my watch was showing 7.00 pm and there was no movement on the stage. My friends meanwhile were engrossed in their conversations momentarily leaving me alone with my thoughts and an empty soda can.

Over the commotion of Dinka, Swahili and Arabi Juba dialects I could also snatch few English words being thrown around. Unabashedly I started spying on almost each table that my eyes could cover. Every inch of space was occupied. Young and old alike shared tables and even sat on the empty beer crates after turning them upside down. I saw a couple sitting right on the kitchen counter blissfully unaware of the smoke and heat produced from the kitchen. For the South Sudanese every person is a friend, brother or sister so each table had at least 7 or 11 people. Even our table for 4 soon transformed into 8 or was it 9? I lost count as several people greeted all of us and some just pulled another chair and joined the party.

The tall and slender South Sudanese women with their short springy hair tied up in tight top knots accentuating their chiseled face structure and long necks, sashayed deftly in and around the crowded tables with practiced ease. LBD’s vied with the high slit evening gowns. Even the slightly heavy women carried off their looks in miniskirts with great panache. The men with their towering frames, dread locks and bulging biceps were walking around as if they owned the place. The best of Juba was on display on that day. Sandwiched between six foot tall people, I must have been almost invisible to them. I was not complaining, as I was still busy observing this complete wonderland scenario.

Smoke from the shisha pipes swirled and rose up to the roof catching the strobe lights and casting a kaleidoscope of colours across the stage. The DJ was mixing up tracks effortlessly as a sort of prelude to the main event. I could not wait to see what he’ll come up with when the singers take the stage.  

'It is time to order food' my friend declared. I asked for a menu and a burst of laughter from my friend (and his friends) made me realise that I had made yet another gaffe. He indulged me and with a deadpan face said, ‘you order just meat or meat with chips or chips with meat’. I nodded wisely and decided to play along. Soon enough the steaming plates of meat descended on our tables grilled to perfection and topped up with French fries (chips). I think it is goat meat, but maybe some beef thrown in for effect.

Meanwhile, in my neighbouring table a carnivore nirvana was unfolding. On a huge plate a massive piece of meat dripping with fat and smelling delicious was being served on a wooden platter. Just when I was wondering how anyone could eat this whole chunk of meat, the chef came with a big knife and without much ado started chopping away at the meat right on the table. In exactly two minutes he managed to cut the meat into bite size pieces. This was served with salt and finely chopped onions and green chillies on the side. Sensing my curiosity, my host explained that they are having ‘nyama choma’ Swahili for ‘roast meat’ a Kenyan delicacy.  Obviously you could order thigh, ribs or any other parts of the goat that you fancy and they will prepare it for you.

Engrossed in devouring the meat on my table, I forgot all about the reggae music – the main reason why I was seated at this table. As if on cue, a strain of familiar reggae beat started playing and this time I could see a man and a woman on stage with a mike. I was a tad disappointed at the sight of the two elderly singers on the stage. I was imagining much younger ' brothas' and 'sistas'  with dread locks, shredded jeans and ragged T shirts.  But these guys were dressed in their Sunday best (it is Easter Sunday, silly I reminded myself) . They did not have any electric guitars with them either, the DJ was playing all the music and they were singing or lip syncing along…

The music was a heady mix of Afro-beat reggae, interspersed with English, Swahili and Arabic. There was even gospel music thrown into the mix. “Take it to the Lord in prayer”  “How great thou art” mixed seamlessly with “No woman, No cry” and “One Love…” and the gathering lapped it all up. By now most of the guests had started swaying and dancing to the beats. “Macarena”, the music blared from the giant speakers. Macarena? Gospel songs? May not be 100% Reggae, but it is the mood, not the genre that the DJ was sensing and playing... and he got the crowd on its feet. 

Everywhere there were bodies thrashing and swaying in wild abandon. Some youngsters were trying out their own versions of Bollywood gyrations. The mood was wild and the party was in full swing as the hours raced past 11.30 pm. Around midnight, the music and dance reached a crescendo. I could see that the crowd has not thinned as the music played on. Nobody was in a mood to go home. I could see my friends almost jumping and bumping into each other and everybody else and having a good time, oblivious to the surroundings.

Suddenly, the opening bars of the song “We are the World” started playing… the people started looking at each other startled at this change and choice of song. Slowly they started to sing along. Soon everybody was singing the immortal lines penned decades ago when several great musicians of that time had come together for Africa – to end hunger, to end strife and to make the world a better place. And after several years, on this night of revelry, this song awakened us all to that still unfinished task. The mood had automatically turned sombre. The people have stopped dancing, they are now holding hands and singing, rather praying through this song.

“There are people dying…and it’s time to lend a hand … the lyrics assumed painful significance in the South Sudan context. The mirth and merriment of the songs played before was just a fig leaf covering this ugly truth. Perhaps the DJ understood this and decided to blow away the flimsy cover with this powerful song.

I clasped my fingers on to my friend’s and we sang “..It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me”