SONG 15
To move like the earth, like life,
To move like pure energy,
Without any other purpose but to progress,
Irrespective of polarity—
To move without any thoughts, just to move.
The only true place of thought and destination
Is moving itself as the ultimate action,
Moving as essential, vital activity.
And if we sometimes turn in circles,
It is because life is not ready yet for a rebound,
So move, move, move, and go around;
Keep going until destiny comes prancing back between a thousand loves.
Mother Dora, you had turned around and were there for the rendezvous,
Great opener of doors onto new and mad pathways!
• • •
I didn’t even realize I’d made a made a full circuit of the town, taking the small interior road, and felt as if I’d come from another planet when I heard a voice calling out at me: “Halla Njokè, why are you jogging at high noon? Can I drop you somewhere, my girl?”
Mother Dora, the old madam from my earliest club! Where was she coming from, and what was she doing there at that precise moment? Why she and not someone else? From then on it was clear she was the instrument my destiny had chosen to show me a new direction.
I wanted to talk to her, but my voice didn’t work. I was too far away and had not quite come back from the journey of my nomadic self. Soon, when my mind was completely back in its temple, the tongue obeyed, and greeted her and thanked her for being who she was, for being here.
• • •
Trembling, Mother Dora comes out of the car, opens the door, and helps me in as if I were ill. The gentleman at the wheel looks at me as at a strange phenomenon. I wonder what I look like, glance in the rearview mirror, and recognize I’m drenched with sweat as if I have just come out of a shower, my clothes clinging to my skin, and my eyes strangely staring. I must be scaring them because no one talks now. I do my best to smile and we drive off.
“I apologize, Mpessa, but you need to take me back home; I’m going to take care of the girl; she’s in bad shape,” Mother Dora tells her friend. “We’ll do your errands later, if that’s all right?”
“Of course. You’re right.”
When the car turns the first corner, I notice we’re in front of the airport I left five hours before! I certainly have made the rounds, of the place and of the issues at hand. It is time to look elsewhere. I close my eyes and let myself be driven.
There is a kind of mental void that isn’t all that empty. It’s a mental void that does not consist of an absence of thoughts or perceptions, for these are located at a very high level and in such a mysterious register that objective memory cannot record them. There certainly is a special corner in memory, in the brain, where these “extrasensory” perceptions are recorded, and are then transmitted to objective memory under specific conditions or on special occasions. There can be no other explanation for the fact that we can spend so much time in objective mental inactivity and suddenly, at a given moment, find ourselves with great numbers of already assembled thoughts that flood the consciousness, as if we had been living elsewhere, taking our time to articulate them this way—unless you believe it’s heaven-inspired, the way prophets receive the word of the divine.
I don’t remember having gleaned a single active, objective reflection from that entire day. I don’t remember any of the faces I saw, any possible incidents or events on the way, and yet I went some thirty kilometers between seven in the morning and one in the afternoon! No memory of places, or even of the cars that always threaten to crush the poor pedestrian. Did anyone hit me? Did I stopped at a red light? None of this is recorded in my objective memory. But a thousand thoughts emerge from my brain when I wake up at Mother Dora’s late in the afternoon. Surely they were shaped during the walk and were put aside, waiting for the mind to be liberated during sleep so that they could be imprinted in areas more accessible to the objective consciousness. As I wake up, some of them do, indeed, stand out clearly.
First of all, I don’t want to be beholden to anyone anymore just so I can sing. Either they’ll accept me on the basis of my intrinsic abilities, or else I’ll change professions. Second, I have to learn different ways of expressing myself, different skills. We are taught that there aren’t any fools, just limited individuals. In the event that I do not sing again, I can always work as a waitress in a restaurant or a nightclub and be paid in percentages, as I’ve seen dozens of girls do for a living. I feel ready to embark on an entirely new activity without rejecting anything out of hand, except prostitution. I know I would like most of all to go back to the village and work the soil beside my namesake. Strengthened by these resolutions, I slowly surface from my “mental void,” well rested and receptive to hearing the suggestions of Mother Dora, as if she were a new Aunt Roz.
I had not seen her in more than a year and thought she had lost some weight, but she was still as positive, energetic, and pugnacious as always. She told me her boss had asked her to find him a singer who knew enough standard pieces to sing with soundtracks, rather than a live band, two hours on weekend evenings. We left early to try out a few songs, and she introduced me to the boss before the place opened to the public.
It was the only place where I ever really enjoyed singing, and if I am still singing six decades later on the edge of my grave, it is surely in memory of my times at the Domino. There, my repertoire actually depended entirely on my aptitude alone. If I did well in setting lyrics and melodies to the tracked music, the song would automatically become part of the repertoire, and they would give me a small bonus for each new piece.
When my time was up, I could accept drinks from the customers, and even if I didn’t drink, I received a percentage of the ones offered to me. It improved my salary considerably. Moreover, the clientele at the club was particularly select and friendly. People came to hear music at a low enough volume to have a pleasant conversation and dance if they felt like it. At last I found some men who didn’t feel they had to chase after every woman they met!
I honestly believe that the Domino satisfied me, with the happy experience of singing by myself in an atmosphere where I could perfect my personal art, with the complete respect of my small audience.
Is that not how you, too, must have learned things, Auntie Roz—at the mercy of your innumerable steps, stops, junctures, refusals to go forward that sometimes come over us, just like a donkey? You think you’ve come to a halt, while the real move has only just begun—Destiny is advancing.
But I have to admit that if my singing was not totally transformed into a symbol of hardship, it’s because of the first “intellectual” I have ever met—Ndiffo, the builder, the creator through thought; Ndiffo, the Pure Spirit!