Times Like These

It’s true that in life we are a byproduct of the early influences we had in life. As a Producer, writer/composer, performing artist in the music industry, my first influence and attribute goes to my elder brother Lovemore Moyo. Let’s just take a pose for a moment, For the baffled few out there wondering what on earth am I talking about seeing my surname is Gwatidzo. So, let me take this opportunity to educate you on this minor technicality. I know that most of you are not familiar with the fact that Moyo is also my surname. In fact, only two of us in the family of 8 siblings are registered in our birth certificates under the surname of Gwatidzo, which is the traditional totem [family name or praise name] in our clan. I don’t really know that much about other races of various ethnic groups, but in the African culture as a whole, one family has a string of names attached to it. These are also referred to as praise names, as is the customary thing to do to sing one’s praises on certain special occasions like wedding celebrations etc. Now often times, in order to preserve and retain the use of these names which otherwise can easily sink into obscurity, various family members are given these names as surnames in modern day birth certificate documentations. Thus, by so doing, the family names and legacy is preserved through the individual that bears it. It may appear and seem very awkward that various sibling brothers and sisters form exactly the same mother and father yet bearing different last names. When I was a child I didn’t even know I was a Gwatidzo until I started primary school. Whenever I had to write my name I knew myself as Themba Moyo, now my teacher blatantly rejected this correcting it to ‘Gwatidzo’ which I also blatantly refused to accept as that surname was completely foreign to me. I refused to comply with this new revelation from my grade one teacher which ultimately resulted with my parents being called upon to rectify this issue with me for I was clearly stubborn and told my teacher, “My father is Mr. Moyo, so am I”. no amount of interrogation, punishment or spanking was going to change my mind, this was my birth right, and I wasn’t going to let some unknown stranger with the title of “Teacher” rob me of my family heritage. I do not remember much of the meeting that took place between my parents and whoever the school representatives where, frankly I couldn’t care less. However, I remember the meeting I had with my grandfather shortly after that. [My Father’s Dad] It’s the only memory I vividly remember of him talking to me. He politely took me by the hand, sat me down next to him. At the time I was literally crying, that’s just how upset this whole issue affected me. He started by assuring me that “Yes you are a Moyo, and by that you are very right”. I smiled as I wiped the tears off my face, “For once here is someone that knows and understands me” so I thought to myself. As if he could read my little mind, he went on to say “Do you know who I am?”. What kind of a stupid question was that? Was my grandfather starting to show early symptoms of amnesia? “Of course I know who you are” I blustered out to him “You’re my grandfather, the great Mr. Moyo, my father’s dad” “You’re right once again, I am Mr. Moyo, your father’s Dad, and I am Mr. Gwatidzo too, so is your father, so are you and so are the rest of your brothers and sisters, we are all Moyos and at the same time, we are also Gwatidzo, We are Shonai, Manyere”. …. He drew a picture of a tree, explained how the one tree can have different branches, those branches may appear to be individuals, but they are all part of the same tree. The tree is one tree, the branches have no life within themselves when cut off from the main stem. After this very long education session with my grandfather, he then took a pen and paper and began to teach me how to write and correctly spell ‘Gwatidzo’. From that day on, the name was firmly embedded in my system and with great pride and dignity.

Now that was just a short educational detour on my family heritage. I had to clarify that in case there was any confusion on the subject matter. Anyway, as I was saying. My elder brother Lovemore is the first influence in my life as a musician. He brought home the first guitar, played a lot of Bob Marley music on the instrument as well as other popular songs at the time. I was immediately drawn to guitar music, though I was forbidden anywhere near it by form of physical contact as I was too ‘young’ and my age was somewhat a detrimental hazard to the survival of the instrument. It was supposedly assumed that any physical contact I made with the instrument would somewhat trigger some form of involuntary action with my hands resulting with the strings being broken or detached. I never knew I had such powers, but my brother did. My other sibling brother Tendai, he was allowed access to this new toy that produced such beautiful rhythms and melodies. He quickly found his way around the instrument, now the two of them collaborated in tormenting me with the countless beautiful melodies they produced from this wooden box with six strings attached to it. I wasn’t the only one subjected to this form of torment, my younger brother Zenzo also had the same fixation and inclinations as I did on this instrument. We had seen the instrument on TV, which at the time was not available at home. Not many homes had a television set. We’re talking black and white here, it would be years before the average home owner could have access to a color TV. That’s how ancient I am, Call me vintage. We only watched tv at this other home where the owner was a school teacher. She only allowed us access to come watch tv at her place once or twice in a week. That’s if she was in a good mood. Terms and conditions did apply though. We had to all go and freshen up before even stepping into her yard, seeing we spent the entire afternoon kicking a homemade soccer ball made of paper and plastic in the dusty streets of Mpopoma. The same exact scenario repeated itself in various locations around the townships we grew up in. Those where the terms and condition, a small price to pay for the pleasure of this one great moment which turned out to have been our biggest highlight of the week. We didn’t have to change clothing as that was completely out of question from our parents. So, our clothing where completely muddy, torn and tattered, which our hostess completely tolerated, as she understood our plight. We all sat around on the floor in any case and had to be completely quiet as we watched except for the occasional involuntary yelling of “Eaiiiigh!” which we all simultaneously echoed in a fight scene, should the tv series be an action one. Now Zenzo as my younger brother, he was technically facing the same sanctions as I did with regards to access of the guitar. The youngest sibling Augustine showed no inclinations whatsoever. Him I do not recall showing any signs of interest with regards to what the rest of the boys liked. ‘Mfundo’ as was his home name and ultimately earned another nickname ‘Kanyama’ which means ‘peace of meat’. He earned that name because of his tiny fragile body as a kid. He gracefully embraced the name and responded to it with great zeal and vigor until much later in life, as he slowly got the revelation of what the underlying current and stigma behind the name. It doesn’t matter now, as he is the exact opposite, a fully-grown man with tons of beef around him, naaah! flesh, he’s not a cow.

Anyway, back to the guitar story, how could my elder brother bring home such a beautiful musical instrument, expose us to its capabilities, flaunt it around enough for us to develop its appetite and yet not allow us to learn as they did, simply because we were ‘too young’, that was our only crime. So Zenzo and I made our own collaboration for the first time, we simply played dumb before our two brothers, put on an act by pretending to be good boys while they were around, and as soon as both of them left home, which happened a lot, we jumped at the opportunity, grabbed the forbidden guitar and started strumming on it. Since we paid full attention to what the elder brothers did, with pure determination and consistency, practiced at every available opportunity. We finally learned how to play the guitar on borrowed and stolen moments. Nothing can ever describe the feeling and excitement that came with holding this instrument. We continued putting this facade before the big guys, man! we were such brilliant actors. Our cute innocent faces worked in our favor, in silence, and unknown to them, we tapped into their skills through observation, continued practicing hard in their absence. We got so addicted to the instrument, to the point that now we started fighting each other on having access to the instrument. It was at this point and time of our individual greed that we dropped our guard from being found. We were caught fighting over the instrument, at which point prior to being punished, Big bro demanded to know if we can even play the instrument, of which we were both too happy to demonstrate our skills and newly found abilities. That came as a great shock to my elder brothers, though they never admitted it openly, but they were clearly amused. So, the good news is that the sanctions were lifted, on condition that we would be responsible over the instrument and each takes equal turns on practicing. The rest is history, but for me that was the foundational phase in my long musical journey.

Speaking of early influences, my music biography wouldn’t be complete without mentioning the likes of Roy Nyathi, Adam Mwitolola, Nyambe Mathe, Charlie Adams and Charles Moyo whom we called ‘Masaka’. We were all musicians in the same local church at Victory Fellowship. By then I had moved from Mpopoma to Mzilikazi Township. Now we were practically neighbors with Roy, Charles and Nyambe. We had this profound bond that went beyond the conventional meeting of brethren in one local church. We had this other element that was then forbidden to us as serious born-again Christians. We had developed this profound love for jazz music, Nyambe and me where still at school, Roy and Charles where now working and could afford to buy new albums every month, Charles worked in Harare while the rest of us where home based in our mother city of Bulawayo. The love and influence of jazz grew from strength to strength.

We listened to the likes of The Crusaders, Sadao Watanabe, Grover Washington JR, George Benson, Earl Klugh among many others. and to appease our guilt after intoxicating our ears with listening to these ‘worldly artist’ we tapped into the gospel sounds of the legendary Andrea Crouch, Mighty clouds of joy, the Winans, Leon Patillo etc. Not only did we spend hours listening to these legendary music artists, we began to mimic them, performed our own renditions in community halls, weddings, and various other forms of gatherings that gave us attention and the platform to play before them. It was all none commercial as we did it for the pure love of music. In time our beautiful country of Zimbabwe started experiencing various forms of turmoil. The economic conditions began to deteriorate. The currency took a record plunge, Degradation was the order of the day. The country was under a dictatorship that dealt with the opposition with such fierce brutality. Fear crippled the entire nation as extreme torture and execution to those that didn’t seem to fall in line with the system where systematically eliminated, some permanently as their whereabouts are not known to this very day. A dark cloud had completely engulfed this once great African nation that was at one time considered to be the food basket of Africa, but total shame and complete ruin reduced the greater bulk into helpless street beggars and vendors even though armed with the best educational system in the world. The elite few began the immigration, and as the records of gross human violations and torcher with little or no means of survival on home ground. The bulk of the cream of the nation joined in the global immigration. The exodus was of massive proportions, A few were met with empathy and welcomed as economic immigrants in different parts of the world. They were allowed to settle in and integrate with the society. However, that joy and newly found freedom turned into some even worse nightmare as jealous locals frustrated by their own domestic and internal issues began to vent and lash out their anger on the unsuspecting immigrants as a means of protest. Thus, began the endless xenophobic attacks which soon spread like wildfire across South Africa. Since the immigration crisis became so massive all over the world. More especially in European countries, even the once accommodative communities there began to take strain and succumb to the vicious human tendencies of hatred, social segregation and degradation.

while a vast number experienced the bitter end of the rod, tortured under a series of xenophobic attacks, brutally killed for no apparent reasons.

How one has survived under such nasty conditions can only be attributed as a divine act of protection by the one and only mighty God that has carried us through thus far.

As I conclude this blog, I should like to invite you to listen to one of my musical creations entitled ‘Times like these’. It’s a beautiful, timeless classic jazz I composed, performed and produced in the likes of one of my early legendary guitar heroes and influence Earl Klugh. I tried my level best to accentuate my guitar Technic in his style and genre, trust you can enjoy the music.

https://youtu.be/HZejWRdn9iA

Yours sincerely Themba Gwatidzo, aka Simple Tember.