Last night I went to see this group- which seems to
encompass all things I hold dear- the power of art to transform lives, good
music and unexpected connections between people that cross surprising
boundaries. Staff Benda Bilili is a group made up of street people from
Kinshasa. Some handicapped, some tossed out and forgotten, but all talented and
capable musicians performing from their very souls. They were discovered and transported from
their ordinary lives to stardom. A real life fairy tale.
I arrived at my favorite cultural spot with Ousmane in tow.
We left the car in the careful hands of Christian. “Je guard ca,” he assured me
in a deep voice that didn’t seem to match his schoolboy uniform. He had
presented himself in such a formal way (a near salute as he told me his name
and desire) and this, coupled with his serious, scratchy voice, left me with
the thought that perhaps my car could really disappear and I should be grateful
for his very presence.
The show began with a near empty dance floor- save one lone
artist moved by the music. It quickly filled up with moving, screaming fans.
Everyone from those in wheelchairs to the young and old, the dancers and
nondancers, Congolese and Europeans. I watched as Ousmane and Bonaza shed their
reserve and chanted the refrains. We heard voices reminiscent of Papa Wemba and
Baba Maal. Drumbeats drove Ousmane to shake his head and pull out his favorite
guinean dance steps. Impromtu instruments made from ordinary objects inspired him
to raise his empty water bottle and energetically accompany the rhythms. One young man had such a sweet and inspiring
voice I was filled with nostalgic longing for a time in my past that has never
existed and a future moment I can only hope will transpire.
But I didn’t dance.
My foot tapped to the rhythm and maybe a sway escaped me, but dance did
not spring forth. I regarded Ousmane in his clear joy with a smile and shake of
my head, wishing I could be so free. I left for some fresh air and to reread a
particularly encouraging text message I’d received days earlier. “You must
learn to dominate your fear,” it read. And I wanted to; I so completely wanted to abandon my thoughts and surrender to joy. I am
perplexed by what holds me back, but remain in awe of its awesome power over me.
There is a huge barrier between what I want to do and what I allow myself to do.
As I returned, I caught
a glimpse of Ousmane and Bonaza dancing together, two sweet and beautiful friends
caught up in the magic of the music. But even that sight could not reach out
and encompass me. I enjoyed the show in my own careful way- too pensive, too bound
up in emotion and observation but nonetheless affected by the energy.
When we left, true to his word, Christian was there- and so
was our car, held to its spot no doubt due to the cunning and cleverness of our guardian . I stepped inside, found a few franc and rolled down the window to hand
him his payment. He walked off with his friend as I noticed the car behind us
had parked a bit closely. Normally, I
find no use for the hand signals and advice from street valets. In fact, they
often seem to choose the perfectly wrong place to stand, and I am left thinking that if only they’d
move I would be able to navigate the packed space much more quickly and easily. But as I watched the boys walk off counting
their money, I was consumed with an odd notion to roll down the window and call
them back. They hadn’t finished their service. I felt uncharacteristically
short-changed.
