Jose Chameleone
I watched more baddies acquire those Stanley cups, walk around in palazzo pants, don cashmere sweaters, go crazy about body butters, and skin-care routines. ..
The first line, the first word, the first sentence, it dictates everything. It directs the flow of things. You can never rise beyond your first crush, your first song, your first home. These things trap you. That is why there should never be a compromise on those first steps, they ought to be taken without hesitation.
If ‘manyangwa’ had been the first word, then you would read about the MMs aka M&M when they hosted us to a wine-connoisseur evening. And while there, yours truly was commanded to join the group of the marrieds and the parents so that he could stop theorising about issues of parentage. But it is a trap good people. It is a trap. Those people keep inviting more people to the club. The streets are cold, but they come with a freedom, I choose these cold streets for a few more years. Who knows, my first love could return to me?
Part One: Why Chameleone is the pivot of modern Ugandan Music
I first encountered Jose Chameleone as a Primary Four kid in the confines of Shimoni Demonstration School. At that time, I snickered at the audacity of a man to sing in ‘Swahili’ when all we knew about this language were command words. Words such as kujja, toka, fungua.
Chameleone dared the whole country. We could say for him, the music transcended the language. Even when he sang about butterflies (read Kipepeo), we did not care. He could have sung about obukoolwa and we would not have cared. In Manyangwa there was a big topic on the mongoose, and their weird ‘solida’ culture. That if they hunt, the food must be divided equally, if one misses, they abandon the hunt. Mbu if you kill one, you will have to deal with the rest of the crew.
Back to Miliano, without him, there would be no modern Ugandan music industry, at least not in this form. Chameleone set the tempo, the rhythm, he directed the flow. We talk about the ‘Big Three’, but there is something he occupies as a first-person singular (throwing in a Murakami book). That is his lonely place. He exorcised the human condition into music. There was more than just emotion, but soul. It is true he’d gone to some dark place; some underground place and found the art to really express these absurdities of existence. And so, we already miss him, his family drama, and his contradictions.
After all, what is an artiste without their contradictions? Forget it, all artistes are messed up. Super messed up. It is through the art that they come close to harmony. Without the mess, the art would never arise. I argue so!
Part Two: The hopeless romantics of Kampala
I am a romantic, I romanticise every part of my life. It is the least one can do when everything is falling apart. That is why nothing beats ghetto love. Because it cannot stand on the material, it seeks in and out of itself, a philosophy, a language that goes beyond the material. It finds the poetic form. You could say, there is something alchemic about this ghetto love.
Our new material love in Kampala will never compare. It will not come close to the 2000s, the 90s, the 80s, the 70s love. But the train has moved. All we are left with is to resist, for a few of us to choose to be the contras and still force upon the romanticism. Wait, do girls still read Jane Austen? Something about Emma? About Sense and Sensibility? Or am I shouting into the void?
In my struggle to romanticise my life, I took a morning walk on Sunday. As I walked past the church, I was spotted by the priest. You know I only do Holy Mass on the weekdays. It is a few people, it is intimate. I hate kayoola things. The priest went like; ‘Our friend, today you have abandoned us.’ And that is how I was muzzled into attending Sunday Mass. Oh Father John Baptist Matovu, you are a man of all seasons (read in Charles’ voice). And I love how he signs out of Mass – go let your acts glorify the Lord. Wueh, that is a ka-hard thing, to align these words to their deeds. Ask the Ugandan government. Wama MK, seriously, how could SFC just scamper when the man almost broke through to Mzee in Kawempe?
Part Three: A banana cake and meat samosas gone wrong
I have black-booked some ka restaurant with a café in Naalya. It sold me the worst banana cake in history. I suspect the banana cake was made in the days of Kabaka Chwa, while the samosas tasted like they had ekigajji. I abandoned this expensive enterprise, but my ka-money pained me. Was this all part of the lent script? Why do people love to torture singles? I even had no one to comfort me through this ordeal.
And I am acerbic when dealt a bad card. But I contained myself. I went up and about, curating good music. And watched more baddies acquire those Stanley cups, walk around in palazzo pants, don their cashmere sweaters, go crazy about body butters, and their skin-care routine. The whole existence has become routinised, scripted, content fried. Bring me some normal romantics.
Bring me some people with whom we can talk about Baroque in silence. And what is this nonsense of going Dutch with friends. To hell, someone should take on the damage. That is how an outing should hit. Someone should shoulder that bill, we use the principle of corporates, mbu the most senior must pay. A date is all about taking today’s damage (aka bill) so that next time, the other party takes the damage. That is the expression of love. But I am pouring water on an anthill… this ka-generation needs a serious cultural revolution, and I insist, it must come before the political one…
Post-Script: More blessings to those bu-hangouts that still serve beer and whiskey with the bu-groundnuts, for us to nibble on as we link everything in Kampala to Saleh…
X: @OrtegaTalks
