How the greatness of African art conflicts with its artists’ misery
Kenyan MPs perform the Jerusalema challenge. On the weekend, an upset South African singer Nomcebo Zikode took to Twitter to say she was suing Open Mic Productions, the label which recorded the song, alleging that she had not been paid a penny.
Last year, as the world went into the trenches against Covid-19, a South African song became their comfort blanket. Delivered in a bewitching sultry voice by South African singer Nomcebo Zikode and produced DJ Master KG, Jerusalema became one of the most popular songs of 2020. People who could move their waist or shuffle the feet took to the Jerusalema dance challenge.
As The Guardian reports, “It reached No. 1 in Belgium, Romania, the Netherlands, South Africa and Switzerland. It reached No. 4 on Billboard’s world digital song sales chart, went triple platinum in Italy and double platinum in Spain. On YouTube the song has garnered 420 million views.”
In Kenya, Health Cabinet Secretary Mutahi Kagwe weighed in what I think was the highest compliment. Speaking about increasing infections, he fingered Jerusalema as one of the culprits. He said when the song was played, people lost their senses and forgot about social distance and masks to jump into the Jerusalema dance.
‘Not paid a penny’
Jerusalema had a fairy tale beginning — but alas! — not ending. On the weekend, an upset Zikode took to Twitter to say she was suing Open Mic Productions, the label which recorded the song, alleging that she had not been paid a penny.
“My voice and lyrics have transcended globally, but I still await what is due to me,” Zikode claimed.
Master KG quickly took to Twitter too and claimed Zikode wanted a larger slice than than originally agreed: “The agreement of Jerusalema is 50/50 between me and Nomcebo but [Nomcebo] wants 70 per cent and I must get 30 per cent.” He said Zikode had been paid $102,000.
But he was wrong.
In a statement shortly afterwards, Open Mic Productions admitted that Zikode had not been paid for the song due to a contractual disagreement.
Zikode’s misfortune is more of the norm than the exception in the creative world in Africa. If you talk to and read accounts of many of the best artists, the public glamour belies private misery. That is why when they fall ill the scant circumstances of many of them shock their adoring fans and set off a frenzy of fundraising and calls on the government to help because they brought glory to the land.
For some of them, it is the booze, drugs, women and men, and living beyond their means to feed a celebrity image, but perhaps for the majority it is because they never banked much from their work.
When it becomes a hit
Ironically, the trouble begins when a musician’s song, a writer’s book, a photographer’s picture or an artist’s painting becomes a hit. With so much money coming in, it is time for the owner of your label or publisher to take their coveted holiday to Miami and upgrade to a Toyota Land Cruiser V8 with the proceeds.
The success of a creative’s product rarely grants them financial freedom; it turns them into a cash cow. Part of the problem is that we tend to struggle appreciating the real value of a song, book or painting. I have heard many horror stories around this fair continent of artists who drew portraits for big men or sold paintings to rich people and they weren’t paid.
When, in desperation, they finally go the fellows’ homes to collect, they have had dogs set on them. The fellows probably look at the painting they promised to pay $1,000 for and think it is a little no different than a selfie.
Yet art can be remarkably valuable. After the fall of the Democratic Republic of Congo’s corrupt dictator Mobutu Sese Seko in 1997, and the ascendance of rebel leader Laurent Desire Kabila, a year later, the latter fell out with some of his allies who had installed him in power, setting off the Second Congo War. The war pitted Kabila’s government and Zimbabwe on one side against Uganda and Rwanda on the other and a myriad rebel groups allied to them.
In 2002, talks started in South Africa’s gambling resort, Sun City, to end the war. In the last days, only a few contentious remained. The external parties decided that the Congolese should break out and resolve them among themselves. That was expected to take an hour or so at most. However, hours dragged on and the Congolese weren’t returning from the breakout.
Congolese music
Concerned that they might have slaughtered themselves, Uganda’s intelligence chief at the time, then-Lt. Col. Noble Mayombo, was dispatched to check on them.
What he saw humbled him. The previously warring Congolese had formed imitation music bands and were belting out and dancing to Franco and Tabu Ley classics and cutting Kanda Bongoman strokes.
Hundreds of thousands of Congolese had died and there had been long months of peace talks. Mayombo got an inkling of what he was looking at: The thing that would have brought the Congolese together sooner was music. It was simple yet so powerful it was too incomprehensible to put a value on. So it is with many a book, painting and song.
Mr Onyango-Obbo is a journalist, writer and curator of the Wall of Great Africans. @cobbo3
