Miriam Makeba, or Mama Afrika, dies this morning in Italy. Collapsing on stage after her performance at a concert, she dies in the early hours of this morning from a heart attack. Present tense, because it is today and the world is still waking up to the news as the sun makes its path of Monday Morning across the globe.
I saw her, past tense, in London in 2005, dancing and singing, her voice considerably quieter than recordings in her youth, but her vibrancy no less diminished. She was bright and big, a loud colour of life on a city stage, grey rain misting my view of her. Cold hands of damp held my breath in awe.
My feet were wet and my coat jacket dripped drops of cold onto my jeans. We waited patiently, liberal lovers of all things Afrika, diaspora-determined to see this moment of history. I am glad I did, present tense. I close my eyes today and she is brilliant red against the grey. The memory of rain is cold in my bones but her voice sings, past tense victory into present tense complacency. The meaning of her life is powerful, her achievements solid in a shaky world of uncertainty. Her tune is an anthem to the free and the forgetful are in awe of it. She shook the smoggy streets with her song and the red in the grey glowed warmly.
Present tense, she lived. Now, she has gone.
I saw her, past tense, in London in 2005, dancing and singing, her voice considerably quieter than recordings in her youth, but her vibrancy no less diminished. She was bright and big, a loud colour of life on a city stage, grey rain misting my view of her. Cold hands of damp held my breath in awe.
My feet were wet and my coat jacket dripped drops of cold onto my jeans. We waited patiently, liberal lovers of all things Afrika, diaspora-determined to see this moment of history. I am glad I did, present tense. I close my eyes today and she is brilliant red against the grey. The memory of rain is cold in my bones but her voice sings, past tense victory into present tense complacency. The meaning of her life is powerful, her achievements solid in a shaky world of uncertainty. Her tune is an anthem to the free and the forgetful are in awe of it. She shook the smoggy streets with her song and the red in the grey glowed warmly.
Present tense, she lived. Now, she has gone.
