Oliver Mtukudzi: The Voice That Still Speaks to Zimbabwe

I want to talk, talk, talk, talk.

I keep going back to that vintage footage. A young Oliver Mtukudzi in his prime, on stage at Queens Hotel, Pepsi banner behind him, patterned shirt, striped trousers, band behind him, and a crowd that looks hypnotized.

He is not just performing. He stops the music and talks.

“I want to tell a story,” he says.

He tells them about his wife. How she welcomes him home. How she says, good evening, my husband. He answers her back, in a strong voice, like a man, “My wife, how are you and the family?”

Then he says that moment inspired a song. A beautiful song, like a piece of cotton wool.

The crowd erupts. Women clapping, smiling. Men laughing. People getting up to dance. Even those seated are leaning forward. He has them.

From a live performance like that and from his videos, you can tell he was more than an entertainer. He had found his way into the hearts of many.

Over the years Mtukudzi never backed down. He was never one to shy away from a performance, neither was he one to ignore topical issues. He sang divorce, GBV, HIV and AIDS, culture, grooming.

Todii came at a time when people whispered about HIV. Nobody wanted to say the name out loud in public. Families hid it. Communities judged it. Tuku put it in a song and sang it in front of everyone.

He asked the hard questions that people were afraid to ask at home. He made a painful topic singable. That is not entertainment. That is courage.

Mabasa went even deeper. Mabasa means disaster. It means trouble has arrived at the door. It means grief no one wants to carry. Tuku chose that word on purpose. He did not soften it. He did not hide behind poetry. He named it as it was.

The song opens with a question that has no easy answer. "Ndozviudza aniko, kwaita mabasa kuno?" Who do I tell, that disaster has struck here?

That question alone tells you the Zimbabwe he was singing about. A time when HIV and AIDS were killing quietly in homes. A time when people died and families did not know what to say. A time when shame was heavier than death itself. Who do you tell when the news itself feels like a second death?

Then he says, "tumirai mhere kuvakuru kuno, kwaita mabasa". In our culture, you do not carry bad news alone. You send word. You call the elders. You call the family. You let the village know.

Tuku was reminding people of that old system. Grief was never meant to be private. It was meant to be shared.

Then he asks the questions that break the heart. “Achachema mumwe ndiani? (Who will mourn the other?) Achanyaradza umwe ndiyani? (Who will console the other?) Achabata maoko mumwe ndiyani, iwe wafirwa ini ndafirwa? (Who will hold the other’s hand, when you have lost and I have lost?)”

That is the depth of "Mabasa". Everyone is grieving at the same time. There is no one left untouched to do the comforting.

The mourner needs a mourner. The consoler needs consoling. It is a picture of a whole community drowning in loss, asking who is left to hold whom.

Todii asked what was happening. Mabasa asked who do we tell, and who will help us carry it. Todii confronted stigma. Mabasa confronted helplessness. Tuku did not give answers in "Mabasa". He gave people permission to ask.

He gave grief a voice. He gave a whole nation a way to say, we are hurting and we do not know what to do next.

Divorce itself was a marriage that had reached its end. The damage it leaves behind. Families torn apart and children left to pick up the pieces.(Hazvirevi - and Mamuramba) when the family says no to the one you know is right.

Abuse was another story he refused to hide. A woman inherited like property after her husband dies. A woman mistreated in a home that was supposed to protect her. (Ndagarwa Nhaka / Neria /Sandi Bonde)

Early child marriages were about a girl married off before she understands what marriage means. (Haasati Aziya)

Teenage mischief was about young people testing boundaries, making mistakes, learning the hard way. (Unani)

Divisions were about families splitting. About people asking, how did we get here? (Zvauya Seiko Baba)

No sides were taken for applause. The story was told as it was. People saw themselves in his songs. That is why his music stayed in homes long after the radio stopped playing.

He did the same with GBV. He sang about how a man should treat his wife. Not with fear. Not with fists. With respect. With that same strong voice he used on stage at Queens Hotel when he said, “My wife, how are you and the family?” In his songs, love was not soft talk. Love was responsibility. (Tozeza Baba)

He did the same with culture and grooming. He sang about growing up, about elders, about what we keep and what we must leave behind.

He reminded a new generation where they came from, without sounding like a lecture. He made culture feel alive. (Tsika Dzedu/ Dzoka Uyamwe & Kata)

That was his on and off screen presence. On stage, he was the teacher with a guitar. Off stage, he was the same man. Quiet. Humble. Present. People who met him say he did not perform kindness. He lived it.

That is why Mtukudzi still lives on. He lives on in kombis where his songs still play. He lives on in weddings where couples still dance to his love songs.(Tururuuu..turuuuu)

He lives on in funerals where his songs still comfort the grieving. He lives on in young artists who copy his guitar style, his voice, his way of telling a story before singing it.

He lives on because he never sang at people. He sang for them.

Note: songs were randomly picked and translated according to author's perception.

Oliver Mtukudzi