Singing The Walls Down

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After the release last year of Vhunze Moto (Burning Ember), which shows Zimbabwe in flames on its cover, Mtukudzi was questioned by the feared Central Intelligence Organisation, the secret police. Even they couldn't get him to explain his lyrics. He said, "You speak Shona, don't you?" Mtukudzi feels his songs don't need interpretation. "Everybody knows right and wrong," he says. "Deep down, they know."

The Highfields-born Mtukudzi's own morality and musicality were shaped by his Christian upbringing. Over 25 years and more than 40 albums, he has developed his own style, a fusion of his gospel roots and more traditionally Shona sounds and rhythms, called Tuku Music. Asked if it still qualifies as gospel, he shoots back: "What does gospel mean?" Good news. "Then it is gospel," he says. Strange, Isn't It?, from the 1988 album of the same name, seems his clearest statement of intent. On this song, he calls a musician chipangamazano, a giver of advice. "I want people to think about the right thing," he says, "whether they sit in the seat of power or not."

"Tuku has this dream that if he plugs them enough, he will be able to help restore fundamental values," says Debbie Metcalfe, his manager. "He feels there's no moral fiber left." He's not the only one who thinks that. Many Zimbabweans believe the country's problems will not be solved until society, top to bottom, reforms. But where do values and moral fiber come from? For Zimbabweans, there's one refrain — sometimes phrased differently, but always the same: "We need God."

One of Mtukudzi's best-known songs outside Zimbabwe is Hear Me, Lord (1994), a high-speed ride to heaven on a guitar riff. The rousing plea for divine intervention was covered by American singer Bonnie Raitt. Perhaps better than any other song in his catalog, its lyrics sum up how Zimbabweans, many devoutly Christian like Tuku, feel today: "Help me Lord, I'm feeling low." "Zimbabwe needs God," says Fungisai Zvakanapano, a rising gospel star. "That's where our future is."

The future is definitely on Tuku's mind. "I hate songs that only work for a particular period," Mtukudzi says. "A song has to work yesterday, today and tomorrow." Which is why his recent albums have so many songs about aids. More than 1.8 million Zimbabweans — a quarter of all adults — are HIV positive. It's a personal issue; his circle of family and friends, like almost all in Zimbabwe, has been hit hard. And the problem is not going away. That's why he said yes when the NGO Ntengwe for Community Development asked him to work with the Binga orphans on their recording, which will raise funds for a trust benefiting them and their destitute communities. And that's why he has written so much about aids, including Todii, a Tuku classic with its lilting guitar lines and searching call-and-response, and the mournful Mabasa, which asks, "Who will feed whom since the breadwinners are all dying?"

Mtukudzi is not dismissing Zimbabwe's shorter-term struggles. For instance, last fall, he helped start the Music for Food Collective, whose concerts help raise funds to address a very immediate need — hunger. "But these troubles will come to an end. It's a phase," he says. His focus is based on his belief that whatever phase Zimbabwe is in, it will always need core values — self-discipline, respect for others, cultural pride, faith. The fans seem to agree. "Eh, Tuku!" says Shamiso, a maid. "He knows our suffering." "Tuku sings our reality," says Ebenezer, a waiter. "He sings what has happened and what will."

Critics insist the reality might be different if Mtukudzi tackled politics. "He's like everyone else — afraid," says one. He could exploit his popularity to make a statement. "But at what price?" asks John Matinde, a DJ at SW Radio Africa. "He could come out with a killer of an album — and spend the rest of his life in jail." Tuku knows there's power in what he does and the way he does it. "A musician is not a politician. He is there to entertain," he says. "But a musician is also there to help. He is a leader trying to tell, to teach." Jail would mean class is over.

What should Zimbabwe do, Tuku? What does the land need? "We need rain!" he declares, with a grin that says "You're not going to get me to talk about politics!" "We need to believe in who we are, to regain respect for one another." Later, he offers a telling comment on the mood of the people: "When water is boiling, it's bound to spill over."

In this freedom fight, as in a similar one some two decades ago, music is applying pressure. "To us, music is life," says Black Spirits bassist Never Mpofu. Songs like Mapfumo's anthemic Huni ("Do not play with the people, because the people can revolt") and Mtukudzi's thoughtful Kucheneka ("Emulate those who are brave, those who went before you") remind the powerful and the powerless of the possibility of change. "The music is so important to the people," says Mapfumo. "Let's just keep our fingers crossed that it will work."

Some people may wonder why it hasn't already, but then the liberation war took years. "We are a patient people," says Jacob, a clerk from Mutare. "Sometimes too patient." "People are getting the messages through this music," says Chipo, a Bulawayo student. "We know they are singing from the heart. In time, it will help us stand up."

On Mtukudzi's last morning in Binga, the choir seems to be stronger, more confident. They zip through a couple of songs, and Tuku raises his arms to heaven, in triumph — or is it thanksgiving? But they soon tire. Their voices crack. Their legs ache. Their new outfits — rich gold paired with a chocolate-brown batik — make them itch.

Partway into Bonga Hlabelela, a hopeful song written by the children that says, "Have faith in the Lord! Sing! Sing!", Tuku waves the choir to a stop. He consults the choirmasters about a note change, then turns back to the group. They start. And above their rapidly building four-part harmony, you hear Tuku, spurring them on. "Open your mouths! Louder! I want you to break these walls down!" It's a message all Zimbabwe needs to hear.