The Importance of Permanence

Dambudzo Marechera, one of the best writers to come out of Zimbabwe once wrote about the permanence of photography either in his magnum opus, House of Hunger or his lesser-known dystopic work, Black Sunlight; I can’t remember which one.  One must admit that forgetting something one wants most to remember careens one towards chaotic angst that narrows into a deep void of emotional helplessness. Dambudzo’s view, set in his surreal universe, describes photography as an act of putting oneself in front of the camera – the light bulbs flash and one is forever etched into a state of permanence that one cannot now undo. After, one can look at it and yell with excitement: “That’s me, man!” Of course, this was way back at a time when cameras were not easily accessible and photography itself was a real performance. Today, I am not here to debate whether it is still the case that the enterprise of photography is permanent; I only want us to take away one, arbitrary note: the lesson of permanence. A photograph, therefore, serves as symbol of one’s enduring existence and proof that one once existed somewhere or someplace.

It is not my view that only photography has ever expressed the idea of permanence. No. It would be foolish of me to argue likewise. Permanence applies to all those circumstances where as human beings, we make honest attempts in picture, fixed or moving; or sound to “historize” ourselves. From cave drawings in places like Spain and Indonesia to the use of cuneiform in Mesopotamia or hieroglyphics in Egypt, human beings have had the desire – no matter where and with whatever resources – to “historize” themselves on solid matter. The methods would always differ, even in present-day, but the innate human desire is still the same at base. What is more, this germ of permanence is not an end in itself. Rather, it is a touchstone for either a personal or communal reflection of who we are, why we exist or our role in treading in the footsteps of those who have come before us.  Also knowing our past helps us understand what kind of future we can carve out for ourselves; what kind of future is possible.

I love highlife. Not just any highlife. Highlife from the 50s through to the 70s. (I make exceptions for the Cavemen and anything Ebo Taylor sings). I would have seamlessly blended into a time when gramophones, radios, newspapers and the nightlife of highlife was not just normal but taken for granted. When I tell my friends "Guitar Boy' was a “banger” in the 60s, I get very blank stares. I know. I get it. Imagination doesn't come that easily to all of us. When you are stuck in the past – like me – without an internal time machine to bring you to the present, there is a tinge of nostalgia you feel all the time, a constant desire to live in the past, to feel the past, to taste the past, to smell the past; more so because modernity continues to chip away at the base of your fantasies. In other words, you have to live in the present, no matter how much you would have loved to live in the past. It’s like a war of two polarizing states. But it is not all internal contradictions. Far from it. Living in both the present and the past gives the enviable insight of looking back with hindsight. And that’s the thing about hindsight – you are reading the past with new facts. The result can be good or it can be bad and outright depressing. My current state is the latter.

Over the years, I have had the misfortune of coming across Independence Highlife songs from the 50s and 60s. ET Mensah’s "Ghana Freedom" was the first. My existence was not even contemplated when this song was sung neither can I pretend to have been there. But whenever I hear this song play, my heart becomes one with all those who danced to the mellow trumpet blasts of that song. The feeling of euphoria, of freedom to choose one’s path. That we were now a country. That all this expanse of land, sea and air was ours. That black people had it in them to govern themselves. That finally, we could show the world and particularly the rest of Africa the way. Nigeria and Sierra Leone watched on in awe and envy. One need not go farther than Banda and his Rupert Nurse’s Calypso Band’s “Ghana Forward Forever” to see this. The song opens with the words:

”A blessing from heaven, 6th of March 1957

A blessing from heaven, 6th of March 1957

In the whole of Africa, we look up to Ghana

She has made history

A Black Dominion now is free, Ghana

What a mighty victory, Ghana

And we are all so happy

Ghana forward forever

So we say good luck to you Ghana forever"

After extolling the virtues of Ghana’s cocoa, gold, “Danquah the Gold Coast firebrand”, “The Men of Achimota, what a Hope of Africa” (lol), and “of course, the man of victory Kwame Nkrumah”, the song continues:

"Men of Ghana in the fight teach us that might isn’t right

Men of Ghana in the fight teach us that might isn’t right

They have done so very fine

May they make us toe the line

Best of luck and best of health,

So says the British Commonwealth etc."

In fact, ET Mensah’s song was more tempered in terms of praising the independence struggle. But this, Banda’s song, it showed and continues to show how much we were held in high regard; how much we mattered to the African continent.

The joys of freedom did not end when EC Arinze sang his “Freedom Highlife” to commemorate Nigeria’s Independence in 1960.

"Freedom, Freedom for Great Nigeria

Freedom, Freedom for Great Nigeria

We must Unite and Rejoice for Nigeria

Country’s now free

Freedom for you

Freedom for everyone

Freedom for me

Freedom for mummy

Freedom for daddy

Freedom for the poor

Freedom for the rich

….

Hip Hip Hooray!"

Neither was the flame dampened when Sierra Leone gained independence in 1961 and Ali Banda saw it fit to now compose an independence song for his own homeland.

“Freedom

Independence for Sierra Leone

It’s Freedom in April 1961

…

We don free, we don get we chance…

Freedom! “

It wasn’t long before the songs changed. And the songs changed so dramatically that the same ET Mensah who sang “Ghana-Guinea-Mali” as the nucleus of Africa was soon singing “prices soaring higher and higher, I guess they are going to reach the moon”. EC Arinze did not have it any differently. Not long after Lumumba’s death,  he was singing stuff like “ man, what have you got to say, about the death of Lumumba. Man what have you to say, about the death of Lumumba…well we don’t like it…” How could it be that our songs of joy had been turned to songs of mourning? From the euphoria of freedom to a deep feeling of resentment compounded by pure, unfiltered suffering?  And it was the latter that characterized the near militant songs of Fela Kuti and the new genre he invented.

So much wasted optimism. In a little over sixty years, coup d’états, rising inflation, structural adjustments, civil wars, corruption, human rights violations, erosion of social welfare programs, newer and higher taxes,  and the list goes on. In just over sixty years, we have managed to crash the hopes of people whose only offense was to have faith that it would all work out. That we would show the world what we’ve got. All of this would somehow be lost on me if I never came across these songs. I thank ET Mensah, EC Arinze and Ali Banda for the permanence I spoke of.

It’s like I emerge from a daze whenever I am done listening to these songs. Taking stock of the present is like counting the dead and wounded at battle. I still ask myself, what the hell happened?