Bobo-Dialasso Burkina Faso

The large Swiss lady glides between the tables and chairs. Straight backed and imperious, in a loose African dress she surveys her realm; Les Bambous, restaurant, bar, music venue. The guests are pouring in for tonight’s spectacular. Hard hitting hip-hop fused with traditional Burkinabé melodies and a backbone of banging bass and block rocking beats. The youths of Bobo-Dialasso, streaming in, have come for this. Traoré Mamadou, just back from a tour of France, is a local legend. Groups of white families arrive, long term residents of Burkina Faso, and take up position at the tables. They have come for cultural enlightenment and good food. The wealthy local businessmen and aspiring politicians linger outside, until they have gathered a big enough entourage to make an impressive entrance. They are here to be seen, and make connections.

The young people gather at the bar in a throng. Constantly shifting to greet one another or order some beers. Two dreadlocked rasta boys surreptitiously pass a joint, and a bored prostitute with a ginger afro promotes herself with the perhaps unwise slogan, “I’m cheap.” The band starts up whilst the MC is doing the round of thank yous. The music builds, but the main man is still nowhere to be seen. The white folk and the businessmen finish their dinners, the lights dim and single follow spot illuminates the main entrance. Then Traoré Mamadou bursts in. A big man, built like a wrestler, bounds onto the stage and grabs the mike. “Bonsoir Bobo-Dialasso”, he shouts and starts spitting his first rhyme.

I ain’t no revolutionary
But it come down to me
I’ve got to fight
I’m going to strike
Fight for my right
I wanna go to North Burkina and not be attacked
I wanna go to east Burkina and not be attacked
I wanna go where I please
It’s my own country
I don’t want it to be
The next Malí

The little white children who were playing on the front of the stage get up and dance. Holding hands and dancing in a circle like a village fête in rural France. The music builds, the electric keyboard and the Cora, a local multi-stringed instrument, compete for the lead melody, but Traoré Mamadou only needs the drum and bass to keep in time. Soon the dancing children start to wilt, and parents swoop in to carry them off. They are fast asleep before they reach the exit. And that’s the cue for everyone else to get up and dance.The bar is still busy. The drinkers are moving about with excitement. The rastas look happy and chilled. A shady looking man approaches strangers. What is he selling? Knock-off Rolex? Black market tobacco? He sidles up to a potential mark, swigging a glass of warm whisky, and shouts over the music directly into his ear, “I’ve got this biodigester. You look like you could use 25 tonnes of organic compost. Its made from cow shit and maize stalks.” The recipient of this news, looks surprised, and turns his back on him. He is relieved to find this leaves him facing the ginger haired girl. He understands what she is selling. And at a very reasonable price, too.

Our singer is deep into a hard and fast attack on Facebook, Twitter and Insta. He has full expressive lips, that pout and shape each syllable. As his song comes to a close, he dances on the very front of the stage. With a grace belying his muscular bulk, like a ballerina, he skips on the tips of his toes, then kicks his legs in the air like a Cossack dancer.

As the concert comes to a close, the final song breaks into an instrumental and a skinny emaciated man comes on stage. Naked apart from a loincloth, he joins the singer in a dance. Traoré Mamadou struts like a rapper, his expressive lips aquiver. The naked man vibrates sinuously, weaving his body and arms. He makes complex shapes in the air, that seem to linger when he moves on. The last chorus ends with a crash. The lights fade and Traoré Mamadou disappears into darkness.

The following day he has rehearsals for the big gig next weekend. An extravaganza of local talent to be held at the Institute Francais. He visits his mother at the hospital in the morning, then arrives early at the practice studio above the Pharmacy on Rue General Girot. But, as is the way with artists everywhere, the musicians are held up with another group, and don’t arrive until half the allocated time in the studio has passed. Eventually everyone is assembled and they can start. Another singer runs though a couple of songs first, they seem well rehearsed. Then it is the turn of Traoré Mamadou. He hasn’t worked with this band before, but they are very professional. He plays a snatch of his first song from his phone. The drummer immediately picks up the beat. The guitarist tries a couple of lead melodies and soon finds a match. On the keyboard, a grinning musician easily plays the bass guitar part with his left hand. But it takes several attempts to master the rhythm with his right. In less than two minutes they have learnt the song. Traoré Mamadou starts into Simbola, Simbola. A fast and energetic song that will surely get everyone dancing. They run straight through, without a misstep. The next song is more complex, the musicians don’t quite get it and the singer keeps coming in at the wrong time. They stop, restart and stop, making slow progress. Traoré Mamadou’s voice is starting to rasp. It was probably a mistake to start with Simbola, Simbola. It was too harsh. So he calls it a day, to rest his voice for tomorrow’s rehearsal.

In the morning he goes to the hospital as usual. His mother is pale and yellow and unmoving. She looks so tired. Within an hour she dies. He watches, uncomprehending.

Some hours later his friends find him on the waste land behind the railway. He is blind with grief. He sits sideways on the seat of his scooter, smoking. He has no idea how he got there, or how long he has been sitting. His voice rough from singing, rough from smoking and rough from crying. He struggles to make the words. “She raised us three children alone. She worked so hard all her life. But she was so tired. She was so tired, And now she is gone. I am all alone.”

Traoré Mamadou’s lips quiver and contort. Gone is the expressive power they brought to his music. Now they give shape to his anguish. Sitting on his scooter, trying to express himself, tears stream down his cheeks.

Forgotten is the concert, and the rehearsals. Forgotten is the joy of singing. Now there is only emptiness. No one to nag him with kind advice. No one to check up why he isn’t home yet. She will never see her son become successful, and grow into someone she could be proud of. He feels so alone.