Soul Makossa- Part Two
The night finally did arrive for Malcolm Mwebaka- the canid would have to forsake two weeks' salary and most, if not all, of the church's stipend just to get in the door and he would have to use all his rainy-day money just to get cross town from Manhattan to the ritzy nightclub and discotheque known as Studio 52. All of New York's finest would be there to watch Mamadou Dikanga and his band perform the song which had insidiously crept into the airwaves and late-night parties of the city. It was a song which was far more than just a catchy number for the wolf to listen to- it conjured up something primitive, from the heart of deepest Africa into the minds of the listeners, all livened up with a very modern sound. This song was called "Soul Makossa".
He had just walked to the line in front of the building, where all the New Yorkers who had chosen to attend where being surveyed by an oversized and muscular rhino in a business suit and cool dark shades when he realized that they were wearing suits and ties, compared to the native Cameroonian clothes he was wearing. He stuck out like a sore thumb to everyone there with his technicolor shirt and greenish-yellow pants with the diamond pattern. But this was the most formal and presentable thing he had to wear for any given occasion- he could not just show up in Goodwill shirts or his work uniform for something as grand as seeing a showcase of fine music from his home.
The velevet rope was soon lifted by the overgrown rhino as soon as Mwebaka paid him the hundreds of dollars necessary to enter into the legendary studio, well-lit with the multi-colored glare of theatrical lighting. The entire dance house took on a very well-defined color code of red, green, black, and gold- colors taken from the many flags of Africa which Mwebaka had familiarized himself with when he was but a cub. But what struck the wolf who considered himself more world-weary than the average immigrant was the presence of a never-before-seen flag which was being handed out to all the attendees by a single lioness attendant. It was made up of three horizontal stripes of red, black, and green and it resembled no African country he had seen.
"It is a symbol of pan-African pride" the lioness exclaimed. "The red symbolizes the blood that must be lost for those of African descent here in this country for equality, the black is for the sacred mystery of our beloved mother continent, and the green represents the natural wealth and beauty of our beloved homes." And somewhere in the back of his mind, Mwebaka wondered why he was the very last to have heard of this. Nowhere in history had the entire continent ever considered itself one nation. There were too many competing interests, too many tribes, and languages for them to decide to become one nation. And of course, the same countries which sent the missionaries and the material wealth to Cameroon had also brought misery throughout the years. But if only for a night and only in the minds of these revelers who Mwebaka were not actually African could they believe Africa was as much a country as it was a continent.
A roar of approval from all the assembled party-goers could be heard throughout the Studio as Mamadou took the stage. The lion came dressed in full regalia, a white robe and large golden medallion covering his body. Presumably from hours of high-energy singing and dancing (this was how Cameroonian musicians performed) his bare chest was relatively muscular though notas much as the rhino at the entrance. Above his eyes, were large identity-obscuring shades and his paws was a saxophone. The lion's stage presence was absolutely larger-than-life and eevryone was mesmerized at him but soon Mwebaka's attention turned to an otter who was poking at him.
"Sir, sir. The performance is about to begin and the guitarist called in sick. Gathering from your clothing, you must be the understudy. Well, we need you on stage." Malcolm was no understudy, the wolf didn't know the guitar parts but he was at least a competent player. He tried to move away but the otter who was in all probability Mamadou's agent would not leave him be. So he steeped on to the stage and took the mahogany guitar carved in the shape of Africa and looked at his parts. It seemed to be an endlessly-repeating chord, played on the fourth percussive beat which he played once or twice to get the feel for how it would sound. This was remarkably easy even though Mwebaka would try his hardest not to screw up, moving his paws over the string, the strength of the song would hinge on the abilities of the other singers and musicians. After the audience was told to get ready, Mwebaka summoned up all the courage he had to perform.
With his chord-playing providing a rhythm, the other musicians whipped the crowd into a frenzy as Mamadou whispered into the microphone "Makossa!" The song itself was as hypnotic to play and even as the wolf played the same repeating chord, the smae droning music gave him the wildest inclination to dance with the others in the audience. An exciting and new energy of a powerful song filled the Studio 52 and this climaxed with a saxophone solo and a spoken-word interlude.
"Ma ma ko ma ma sa ma ma makossa. Ma ma ko ma ma sa ma ma makossa." And the song lasted unfortunately only a few minutes, a mystical experience for all who had the pleasure of dancing and playing the instruments. For a few moments, he had transcended beyond his banal existence as a confused New Yorker and was now back in the Cameroon he had left behind when he came to America. Like all the good things in life, it ended too soon. But Mwebaka was soon being presented with a check for his performance and found it was almost $600, a fortune for an immigrant living in povertuy in a filthy tenement.
"We need a new guitarist so we're going to have you perform at all New York's hottest nightclubs" Mamadou told him and he received compliments from all the other musicians as well. When Malcolm exchanged names and phone numbers and mailing addresses with these musicians, he knew that prosperity and financial independence might be well on their way. Later that night, the wolf returned to his flat with a newfound sense of hope. America was not all that foreign after all. Life was looking up for Mwebaka.