It is difficult for me to recall my orientation to music without going back to my earliest interaction with religion. At kindergarten through nursery rhymes, or at church, are the places a child first encounters music. Church music, fondly known as hymns, requires no particular investment in Christianity or the technique of deciphering it. Unlike other art forms, music is accessible even at a young age. Admittedly, I still know little about music, but because these hymns adhere to the highest levels of poetic lyricism; they always land tenderly to the ear, allowing me to slit through the veiled astuteness, bypassing the intricate architectural grandeur, even as an average listener. I can’t think of any better hymn to demonstrate this than one of my favorites, ‘It is well with my soul’. The way its serene rhythm aided by the metrical lines interacts with its strong and vivid imagery will leave anyone with considerable pleasure.
However, since I discovered reading, I have undergone a protracted conflict with religion. Since I was born in a relatively Christian family, I was raised to ‘fear’ this deity—which by implication rejects all the others. With further indoctrination, I gradually began to suppose only the Christian god existed. This god assumed the responsibility of saving us from perishing and missing out on the promised land. And to put it simply and more accurately, I discovered fear: fear of evil, fear of myself, and fear of all things unknown.
I concentrated on following everything I was taught from the beginning to a point when I started asking a few questions: I had followed, of course, with no conscious effort at pondering at what it all meant. I had allowed myself to be carried by the rhetorical stimulus of the scriptures until I realized I was turning into a robot. I was ingesting all the commands and had no idea how all this related to me within my cultural context.
Owing to my Christian background, the discomfort roused within me was only gradual. This all happened while the deeper bottom of me hosted a whelming feeling, a feeling almost akin to hope, I felt unsettled. It felt real and filtered all the sizzling discontent. I was too afraid and this fear stifled all the ripples of growing defiance. But this was only rivaled by curious despair. My interaction with historical accounts that exposed some scandals orchestrated by Christians led me to burrow further, I wanted to be certain. My conclusions fueled my conflict with most religious organizations.
The Christians, who brought in this gospel I later on discovered, were principal accomplices to the invasion of Africa and all the atrocities thereof. Their mission was supposedly divine and the black man who breathed in the foreign teachings believed it and it explains the success of Christianity in indoctrinating the continent’s people.
Many of these religions continue to re-live the wild good old days with a few managed modifications. They still occupy the same land that was given to them in the notorious 1900 Buganda agreement. While history ranks them amongst the top beneficiaries of the injustices committed against Africans, they remain aloof sitting on the same land that was stolen from the native occupants. I can hence imagine and sympathize with their difficulties when it comes to commenting on the current rampant land evictions amidst the many other injustices. They are aware of the looming contradictions; they would have to first forfeit their stolen bounty.
The church— a supposedly supreme institution entrusted with the divine role of enforcing morality— would rather stay neutral than comment on the ills being meted out on god’s children. In the naked glare of atrocities by any of the political actors, the church says: ‘we can’t afford taking sides here; you are all god’s children.’ while that might harbor some truth in the context: are the good religious ministers telling us that there can be multiple truths? Wouldn’t that be underrating their influence, misusing the power that they possess, and devaluing the very essence of their existence?
It wouldn’t be the first time the church has spoken to the state as an intervention on matters affecting populations and history offers a thread of instances. On 15th of June in 1215, a very significant document, the Magna Carta was signed between the barons and king john of medieval England in the bid to restrain on his powers, but also create rights for his subjects. The great document which is fondly cited by most lawyers for its constitutional significance, and influence in the modern legal practice, was drafted by clergymen. For our church to wield influence and yet claim neutrality when the state turns against the masses doesn’t only make it an accomplice; it becomes part of the problem — it becomes a tool of the perpetrator.
Anyhow, despite all, there is something deeper and addictive in the church arsenal that lulls all the fears—music.
Given my ignorance regarding the technicalities of music, when I love music, it’s because I’ve found something remarkable in its subject. Besides hymns, I am also an avid listener of Paulo Kafeero’s music. I have always found his imagery unique and the structure of his message well-tuned that the music reaches the highest height of evocation driving the listener into a feeling of whelming angst. The description is always fresh and enthralling despite the passage of decades. For instance, a song as old as Kampala mu kooti—a very discursive polemic tirade against the status quo— still retains the depth, truth, and relevance it possessed when he wrote it.
If you believe like me, that music has unrivaled manipulative powers, then you must agree with me that it ranks top as an effective weapon for change. And if you are still grappling to understand what I am saying, walk to any political rally, if there is no form of sound, the audience will sing their tunes. I suspect to achieve the magical effect music would.
It’s what makes unique. Unlike the other arts that are relatively exclusive, music offers a cozy space for almost everyone who might find it: where I go to music for its message; some seek it for its accomplishment in technical and architectural construction, and there is that one guy who will dance— music to him is served for the purpose of getting people onto their feet. I mean, I have found people deep down in Kibale dancing to ashawo by a Nigerian singer called Flavor. They couldn’t have possibly known what the song was going on about. Presumably, the music offered them a space to express themselves. With music each finds their space, music is universal.
It is this experience that informs my belief that if the religious organizations can use fear veiled off in some spiritual enlightenment; then nothing should stop activists and politicians from using music in their work. Whether the type and quality of music that fills the Ugandan industry will bring change remains debatable, what is clear is that music has unmatchable powers to influence human beings. What is the use of influence if it won’t be used to positively affect those it’s held over. The church has gladly forfeited its post; music shouldn’t do the same. The aloofness and neutrality will not serve. This calls for musicians to be deliberate. The legacy of today’s generation of musicians regarding marshaling change for their time remains to be written: an occasional listen to the airwaves, however, will get one wondering, if the idea has even crossed their minds.