Dear Nteyafa,
Hope this letter doesn’t come as a shock. I have thought of writing these words many a time but life, as you have tasted and can attest to, is mostly cruel with glimpses rather than the fullness of joy. The writing of this letter is a glimpse of joy. Now that I have aged I can look back and say that time has been my friend. I hope now as a man you will discover that all you will ever have on your side is time. It’s the only treasure you will enjoy when you become conscious of your imminent death, as I am presently doing.
Death is not cruel to the dead unless their lives were an illusion while they lived. Death is cruel to those that stay alive. There is not much the dying can do save for documenting their time such that those who follow will learn something from it.
I have lived in times of plenty, and also in times of scarcity, times where mothers hunted termites to feed the young ones. Art endured through both eras, and we used it to document the passing times. Art in times of famine and in times of plenty is different. In times of plenty, the value of art is not limited to its message, its also made for the entertainment of the soul, for feasts and parties. Art is a reflection of society, it is the soul of society. When society mourns, the music that accompanies their grieving reveals the community’s sadness. At that moment, it immortalizes the hero who leaves those he has served. It’s by the music that he is forever etched onto the pulse of their heartbeats.
You live at a time in which the society that my parents built can no longer tell the difference between noise and music. Every sound with a ‘beat’ or ‘rhythm’ is called music. What happened to the legacy of genuine musicians whose songs moved men to arms and others to worship?
How did we get to this place, where the perversion of a woman’s body is entertainment? What became of you my son? I saw the song you created, that which you called music, the one for which you’ve garnered praise.
You live in a country failing to feed its young and yet your songs remain silent about the theft. I wouldn’t have written this if society would praise you till your death. The society that applauds your art will be the same society that will condemn you for its ugliness. My son, yours is a trap, get out and breathe once again.
There was a time, a while back when disease and the fight against it was the subject of every song. It was in men’s hearts, as it was on women’s lips. We mourned our dead in songs and celebrated our heroes in music created to last memories. Some propagandists used music too, weaving their lies within its truth. You can see to this day, thirty years later, the primitive songs of the bush are still sung to commemorate the day the wolf came upon us. To this day he has become our yoke, our burden.
My son, I have loved you. I have tried as a father does, support and guide you on a path where you will leave a legacy as I will do. It’s similar to the legacy left by the lineage whose gift was the stringing of instruments. But you are neither better nor worse than the betting houses and your hand has been cut short by the seduction of riches. You drown the young in the perverse noise you sell.
This will not make me less of your father but it makes your mother turn in that elaborate grave you funded, on whose very edges we mourned while we buried her. If only you sang sorrowful funeral songs, we would sing each year as we commemorate her.
Your father