I HAVE BEEN LIVING IN TANGA for the past 10 years but I come to Dar es Salaam each month, and to keep abreast of news in town I have my baraza. We people from the Coast have places where we meet for a palaver - street corners were we sit down in the evenings to talk and relax over a cup of coffee. We call them barazas.
It is an old custom of the Coast going back many years. Africans being male chauvinists, the baraza is strictly a male affair.
Since we are now adults, we no longer frequent the street corners, which have now been taken over by the young generation.
The high-rise buildings have completely changed not merely the scenery but also the atmosphere, customs and traditions. My baraza is now a restaurant, Chef's Pride, where I go for a cup of tea or for snacks.
One day I was sitting talking with my friends at our baraza and there suddenly standing in front of my table facing me was none other than my childhood idol - Sal Davis.
There was no way I could mistake the man. Four decades had passed since I last saw him. My mind raced back.
I stopped speaking and stared at him in disbelief.
Standing there was a white haired version of Sal Davis, the man whose songs I had sung as a kid. A flood of memories swept over me.
I could remember exactly where I was when I first heard Sal Davis singing Makini over the radio. It was at the house of my uncle, Bwana Humud, on Kipata Street (now Mtaa wa Kleist). This was 1963 and I was 11 years old.
The flip side of Makini was the song Ayayaa Uhuru, which Sal Davis composed to honour Kenya and Zanzibar's independence as both countries, got their independence in 1963. (The government banned Ayayaa Uhuru in 1964 after Zanzibar's revolution because the lyrics mentioned Mohamed Shamte, the first prime minister and other patriots in the first Zanzibar government before the revolution).
As I sat there gaping at Sal Davis, these thoughts racing through my mind, a friend, Mahmud, broke the spelll, Mohamed, let Sal Davis be!
Let us go on with our story. You were saying? That brought me back from the early 1960s to the present time.
No, Mahmud, do not talk like that! This is Sal Davis, my childhood hero. I used to sing and dance to his music when I was very little.
Sal Davis, surprised by my outburst and that generous introduction, held out his hand to me.
MY EARLIEST CHILDhood association with music goes back to the mid 1950s, to the house of my aunt Bibi Mwanaisha bint Mohamed on Livingstone Street in Dar es Salaam. Closing my eyes, I can still see her putting my favourite song on her gramophone: El Sonero by Sexteto Habanero, and calling to me, Mwamedi (a corruption of Mohamed), now show them how to dance!
I was four or five years old. My aunt would clap her hands in time with the music to encourage me. I would stand up and dance and there would be much laughter.
(Sexteto Habanero was a group from Cuba whose music was very popular in the 1950s, featuring regularly on radio Sauti ya Dar es Salaam, which began broadcasting in Tanganyika in 1951.)
I liked that gramophone so much that my aunt used to tell me it was going to be my wedding present. I remember when my aunt had to take the gramophone to another house, say for a party, she would wrap it in a bed sheet and carry it balanced on her head.
The records would be stored carefully in a basket. Slowly, I picked up the songs, which were in Spanish, and began to sing them, though I could not understand the meaning. The earliest songs I learnt were therefore not in my language - Kiswahili - nor were they kid stuff but Spanish dance music numbers.
I do not know if this had any influence on my taste of music in later years when I came to appreciate the music of Nat King Cole, particularly the songs he did in Spanish like Cachito Mio.
When I started school, the radio replaced the gramophone in my affections; through this medium, I was now able to listen not only to the music of Salum Abdallah, John Mwale, Eduardo Massengo, Mwenda Jean Bosco and others but also follow the comedies of Mzee Pembe and other entertainers. I am today the proud owner of a CD of Sexteto Habanero titled Sexteto Habanero 1926 - 1931 (a gift from my friend Dr Harith Ghassany) that contains the song El Sonero that I used to dance to 50 years ago.
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