Defence Case: Exhibit A

I promised in my last posting to lay a reasonable Salia Koroma claim to the 'authorship' of the Yohmeh or ballad published in "free translation" in the March 1948 issue of Man. In the absence of Dr Little's research papers a reasonable claim is all I can make here; but I think there're enough clues in the article and my own research to believe Salia our Mende musician.

Where in the world is...? Little's "middle Mende country" comprises some six chiefdoms in present day Bo District. One of these is the Bumpeh Ngawo Chiefdom, about 13 miles west of Bo Town. Now, from the evidence of the book published in 1951 we know that Dr Little passed some research time in that chiefdom. Right about that time a young Paramount Chief, a chief who was to have the most influence as a patron on Salia's career, was the chief. That Paramount Chief was Francis Kposowa, a former teacher, at once modern and very respectful of old chiefly traditions. Salia and his patron were about the same age and from the first time they met at a durbar they had a special bond. This is apocryphal, but it's said that PC Kposowa called his sub-chiefs and elders and presented his special musician, Salia, asking them to accord the musician, wherever he may find himself in that chiefdom, the respect they'd give the PC himself. It was in this same chiefdom that Schulze ( quoted in an earlier post) recorded Salia and noted him touring in his own Land-Rover. I'd believe that the Land-Rover was the chief's. The relationship between patron and artist lasted for almost twenty years, until the chief's death in the late 1960s. It was probably this chief and his court that Little saw been regaled by the accordionist in the evenings.

The One & Only: Of course in Mende country itself there's always been one accordionist: Salia. That may not have been the case in reality, but older people I asked some years back couldn't come up with any other name. Salia said his father had pupils but it would seem that these didn't make a career of their learning, perhaps because they saw little future in the life of a minstrel in the new Protectorate. Salia himself gave up playing full-time for a short period, taking the train to the Colony and joining the colonial police force in Freetown. He returned to the Protectorate shortly before the outbreak of World War II and settled down to what his father had wanted of him from the start. It was this short sojourn in the colony that was the obvious inspiration for the prelude of the ballad that was to fascinate Dr Little and others. Hanging up his uniform to return to the hinterland, Police Constable 377 Salia Koroma could compare Town and Country in the most vividly poetic and personal way. And if there's anything about a Salia composition, it's the prominence given to the singer's personal life and experiences. No other Mende singer did (does) that. But I'm already anticipating the next piece of evidence!

In the next posting I shall be doing some 'intertextual' work to bolster my claim of a Salia 'authorship' of Dr Little's translation and all that flowed from it. ('Intertextual'! There you are, I said it! I was aiming to avoid any technical jargon or buzz-word in this notebook. I'll succeed yet!) That means that, in effect, I'll be taking the Kenneth Little "free translation" and comparing it as a 'text' to the yohmie I have in my possession. This is in order to see where, even in a loose translation, some words and phrasings can be said to be unique to Salia Koroma.

*The photo is of the 1961 Independence Chiefs' Durbar, held on the occasion of the Queen's visit that year. Durbars or chiefs' assemblies were a feature of the British Protectorate. A section of Bo, Durbar Grounds, is named for those chiefs' conventions. Photo:(c) Sierra Leone Web.

A Case for the Prosecution

Which Salia Koroma? Mende Singer, Please: In March 1948, 60 years ago this year, Kenneth Little published a "free translation" of a song by a Mende singer who was then in the "service of a chief in middle Mende country." Three years later he'd publish The Mende of Sierra Leone. That 1948 article was quite logically an outgrowth of his research for the 1951 book. Of course Dr Little was mum on the identity of this musician who "accompanied himself on an accordion" and sang "a traditional form of song known as the Yohmeh, which has a certain similarity to the European ballad."

That the singer's name wasn't mentioned at all is indicative of the anthropologist's main interest in the people he "investigated" (to use his own term). Our Liverpudlian detective- one of the best in the matter- had tracked down a source but in the general interest of the case, the exhibit should be presented without divulging the source. The source (or the informant, in the jargon of the discipline) goes into The Witness Protection system, the reason for which the jury are left scratching their heads. But it's clear to those in the investigation business: The musician could've been only representative of tribal life and his song an artefact of tribal production, exemplifying, in Little's words, "a prominent cultural pattern in Mende life." After all, Anthropology, this science of the primitive, for and by the civilised seeks to define a whole society; its seeks to bring out "a pattern." To do that, the particular is portrayed as the universal; the artist, an individual with his idiosyncratic observation of his own society is projected as the norm. And the informant, quite obviously for his own protection, is sent off to wander down an ever-narrowing tunnel of cracked mirrors set up by the Detective Sub-Inspector.

Salia 'goes on patrol' down the tunnel: Dr Little had no idea just how narrow that tunnel would get. In 1966 Leonard W. Doob published an excerpt from Dr Little's article as a "Mende Poem," a very lax title, if you can imagine one. Given what 'Sub-Inspector' Little had handed him, Doob perhaps had few options as to the choice of titles. Or perhaps he'd painted himself into a very tight corner by the title of his collection of poems. No matter! Other publications would take that and run away with it, all of them fixated on the poetic prelude of the ballad.

For me, though, taking the cake was a book full of irony as it was with utter ignorance, and this for something that was ostensibly to impart knowledge and awareness. In the 1990s an anthology of poems for secondary schools was in use in Sierra Leone. The title of that precious anthology escapes me now; I gave it nothing more than a passing glance then. In any case, I was leafing through this book one day. It had the usual suspects of first and second generation African poets writing in European languages: your David Diops, your John Pepper-Clarkes, etc. You know, the usual suspects. Well, there, on a page all its own, sticking out in its monstrous anonymity was... Of course, it was our "Mende Poem!"

The girl who owned the book had no idea who the composer was, and her teacher hadn't told the class, quite obviously being as empty as his/her charges. I wonder if she believed me when I told her who had composed the 'poem," that he was now an old man living about 250 miles from where she was in Freetown.

How could she have known, poor girl, drunk on everything but what belongs to her? Our investigating officer, who had also prosecuted the case for the Crown, had presented the case he wanted. In the process, recognition had been withheld from whomever it was due. Case closed, what else do you want?

Yes, that Salia. Get him out of there! I'll be laying out the case that the "singer...in the service of a chief in middle Mende country" was none other than Salia Koroma. It's going to be a meticulously pieced-together case that I'll be presenting. I can't do it justice at a go. So it's going to be little piece by little piece. You'll see the beauty of it. To close my case I'll present that famous "Mende" poem, as composed and sung by Salia Koroma. I'll say: "Behold!" Or more appropriately: "Hark!"

The New Masters of the Universe

It's always interesting to see the development of an artist's ideas over any length of time. With this new posting we get to see how one particular Salia Koroma theme evolved over the length of over forty years. In 'Ko Sao' Salia identified with the changes that his generation was going through. In 'Jia Yengele' (Walk softly) posted here the theme of change's treated a bit differently.

In the recording I'm posting here, the strutting younger man of yore is now a fuzzy memory, a memory rooted in the time he caroused with his patrons all over Mendeland. In 'Jia Yengele' the old man looks back at changes during his life. He reflects on the system of inverted values that have come to characterise society; it's a place he doesn't fully recognise; a place more restless than it had ever been. Here's a generation bereft of sound values, ignorant of its past, and fed on the pap that their story began with the hook-up with the desultory history of the Sierra Leone Colony. From a hierarchical, if stultifying, system in which everyone didn't always have their place in the sun, they'd been incorporated into a disorderly, even chaotic one. To this generation, Salia Koroma becomes a prophet, telling them to be careful for something comes. How could he have known that some five or so years after this recording, this chaos and tumult would turn into full-blown mayhem?

At the end of 'Ko Sao,' Salia Koroma used the metaphor of the fish basket stuck in a good fish hole (the accordion in the Bondo) and that of a strutting cockerel. No such arrogance now; and certainly no linguistic showing-off now. At the start and close of 'Jia Yengele' an old man calls for help. Given that those chiefly patrons who treated him as if he was royalty himself were now all dead, he turns to the new Masters of the Universe as we know them in Sierra Leone, those who're men enough to storm the House (of Parliament).
That, in itself, is an inversion of values, enough to make someone who'd hobnobbed with the samanga cry!


Jia Yengele from Nikiibu on Vimeo.

Dilemma, dilemma.

Well, I'm facing the most delicious of dilemmas, if you can imagine. I'm having to choose whether to make a logical conclusion to the 'Ko Sao' posting or to put up one of my favourite Salia Koroma recordings.

Let me explain. I'm tempted to put up next a recording that Salia did in about 1986, at the age of 83, that is thematically related to 'Ko Sao.' In that song we see a stark contrast in the singer's world view as compared to the one in 'Ko Sao.' We see a young man's swagger become an old man's shuffle ( a very old man's shuffle). From the younger man's urgent playing style we arrive at a more measured style; the tired voice contrasts with the former firm voice. But it's the difference in points of view that's of most interest.

Now to the other problem. It's a problem only because I wanted to showcase this Salia Koroma composition on the 60th anniversary of its (translated) publication in an academic journal. Of course, Salia wasn't credited as the "professional... Mende singer in the service of a chief in middle Mende country... who accompanied himself on an accordion..." (Man, March 1948, No.26). I want it up before the year is out.

Would you believe it? There it is again- thinking through! So I'll go with the thematic tie-in first. Much has been said about that theme and its social and personal contexts in the last two Salia Koroma postings. So when I put up the song within the next few days it'll need nothing more than a brief preface. The other song needs more introduction because it presents more problems. So as soon as the first song is out of the way I'll start a gradual introduction to the song that celebrates its 60th textual publication this year. I hope to give it as a New Year offering to the spirit of our late and unappreciated poet, Salia Koroma.

Can any good thing come from Nazareth?

It'd seem premature now for stock-taking, wouldn't it? After all, it's only been a little over a month since this trip started and I believe there's still some road ahead.

Setting out wasn't all that easy for me in the first place. What, me? Add to the dross that's out there? Add to the rot and sheer horror?

The answer (if I've to tell you) was, well, why not? At least it'll be my rubbish, my rubbish to afflict you with, and that's something. At least I'll be attempting to tell our own story, in our own voice, in a language that's ours, in an accent that we understand, with a flavour that speaks to who we're, a story whose every nuance we discern and apprehend no matter how it's couched.

That explains, to a large extent, the place I've given Salia Koroma. I've seen a 'video' or two of S.E. Rogie's music floating on the effluent that is Youtube, and God knows the images have nothing to do with the music to which they are tacked. What has a music with sometimes purely carnal love as its subject (that expression means I'm been tactful, not moralistic) to do with images of mutilation? Some lazy, not to say brain-dead, sap out there told themselves: 'well, why not, for can anything good come from... there?'

So what I'm doing with Salia Koroma is my way of telling our story. But above all, it's my way of thinking through what engages me in Salia's work. It's my attempt to crystallise, systematise, and articulate, for myself, as best as I can, something that I love. That way I can move beyond the tautological fascination that people tend to have with what engages their heart.