TUKU MUSIC

                             

They say life is like a candle out in the winds and our entirety in this universe a ticking time bomb. We are born on a soil that afterwards desire to walk on and leave glowing soles to a nourished souls. It’s been sang about, wrote about but still everyone is composing , refining their notes and painters mixing their colors. We are clinging onto something invisible if not walking towards its edge and not knowing  we dangling on its end.

None smiles when robbed by this invisible infiniteness that lingers in a ghost cloud somewhere over, under, beside, in-front or rear.  As I patiently wait  for this heavy cloud of dust to settle on my weaned weary and heavy heart I’m still flying under a dark cloud , riding on a strange chariot but I thank the universe for my path has been illuminated by a distant star that rises even when the sun fails and twinkles in the night skies when the moon is asleep behind heavy clouds.

In TUKU MUSIC we found the love , harvested the joy and drunk the inspiration to intoxication. You led the search where there was no way and never relented the quest  and when we’ll compose we’ll say Afrika lost its son and the world a father . Back here in the East of this dark land  the adage goes “Mti mkuu ukianguka ndege wa mashakani”   that  the wise muttered. Humans are closer to cherubs and seraphs  and as we shed tears in the rain and with mortal hands try tirelessly to mold destiny that we can’t see but perceive like alien dreams  we hope you watch on us from the clouds.  We hope on the golden pillars of heaven your picture  is adorned.

In my mind and soul I had hoped and prayed that you would live on longer than each and every second you breathed with joy that seemed sewn on every tissue and injected in your strands of DNA, imagining you would outdo methuselah for you had rarity glowing  on your ageless skin smiling at the wrinkles of which seemed to remind you of the seeds you sowed yesterday . seeds that spread their tender shots across borders and flowered on every dream.  Love flowed from the aorta and if cut would gush out from the vein. All the same I realize that you live on, in your music and the wisdom you sowed. You instilled courage, challenging and sharpening wit  asking  “what shall we do?” indeed there’s much we can and should do if we opened our eyes as you teased. Even though your mortal form has drooped and gnashed back into original time form in an invisible incomprehensible dash, we still hope He who creates from above would Pindurai mambo (if that means changing things). Challenges  make life hard and overcoming them is what’s meaningful  however your beams penetrate unto us  beneath this dark grey monstrous cloud. Your charm which has been rooted in you by the highest of the universe continues to suffice our empty cannibalistic souls . From village to city the tender pluck and soulful compilation of your lips floats in the air complementing the chime of early morning birds cheering and energizing us to our tomorrow comforting us of our sorrow. But now who’ll comfort us now?

If I had a Kroner I would buy your dream and bring Mandela on our team. On these hills and all the stones dangling on its cleavage daringly and underneath where flows the energy and magical visions  that eternally escape your volatile mortality and wanting desire, I call you the father of dreamers as you sit  on your African stool watching the sun rise and set bobbing head to the drums and rhythms vibrating and bubbling like geyser in your cranium.

Souls are meant to fly free, we are allowed into higher states  and I hope you are already for you were always ready and always waking us up for journies. We have been robbed, robbed by a greater than Alibaba and his 40 thieves . To mourn or celebrate we are entangled in emotion , pray or curse, it all seems we are born to dangle in muses for most of the times our questions die unanswered. It is a hard  fact to accept that every living creature is but dust (cosmic dust with a soul) and wherever you fly remember humanity, our poor souls that haven’t been transformed to glory and our skins that are hit by rain and sun. Remember  this ugly paradise where it bellows like the devils kitchen.  Now that your earthly figure is but dust, from where it came from, I will kiss the dust every sunset or mark my arms and muscles with circular rings of mud every time the waters of heavens touch the ground. Rest for you have been on a journey, a long one, take a comfortable  backward lazy rest. Forget about the world for a moment for you already taught a lot. Pluck a fresh flower from the gardens of paradise  and take a long deep breath, (a mature French inhale if to be fancy about it). It’s the time we proof read in between your lines and did justice to the necessary for necessity might overpass before we swing swift to direction reeling this script to the directors desire the magnificent  potters hands. Your image and words are here with us. Rest as we wait to join you.