Also published on Vijana.FM.
The Citizen recently published an article on the deficit of female artists in the music industry, entitled “Divas: What’s Wrong With the Conveyor Belt?” While it suggested, controversially, that many Tanzanian women had an unfocused or “half hearted approach” to making music, the article placed most of the blame on systemic problems in the industry – problems that make it “practically impossible for young girls to break through.” At first I was appalled at the “conveyor belt” metaphor – it seemed supremely disempowering syntactically, as if female artists gained success through some kind of machinated, factory-like process beyond their control, rather than through their own effort, talent and willpower.
But on second thought, I think the title was reaching toward something true: I think it’s right to turn a scrutinizing eye onto the system, onto the endemic and often hidden workings of the music industry. What factors, beyond a supposed lethargy among women, could account for such lopsided gender representation in the TZ music scene? Here is where meritocracy loses its credibility; no one can tell me that Tanzania’s guys are simply 200% more talented than its girls.
The article, though brief, touched on some of the most daunting roadblocks for Tanzanian women who are trying to become recording artists. Dar’s music world (like most others) has limited equipment, low airspace, and profiteers at every juncture; so, competition for radio-play, stages and promotion is fierce, and it’s not so much a matter of talent as it is a complicated game of politics and profit. Who you know and how much you can pay will determine your time in the studio, on the radio, and what concert slots you get.
Women, unsurprisingly, are pressured into paying through “alternative means,” fostering what the Citizen calls an economy of “I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine.” If women balk at swapping special “favors” for studio-time, their careers will likely come screeching to a halt.
A couple of weeks ago, I had the privilege of talking with Yvonne Mwale before one of her shows. Yvonne is gorgeous, gypsy-spirited reggae singer from Zambia, now based out of Dar es Salaam. She has a newly-released album Kalamatila, and recently collaborated with hip-hop artist Fid Q on the song “Sihitaji Marafiki.” During our interview, she talked candidly about her harrowing career path, which involved rape, abuse and displays of blatant sexism from industry curators. Her journey began at age twelve, when her parents passed away suddenly. Yvonne spent the next several years doing piecework to get by – laundry, cleaning, anything that she could find. She sang in tiny venues when she got the chance, but people seemed to take advantage of her at every turn.
She recalled her earliest days as a musician, when she couldn’t find a single Zambian studio that would record with her. At studios, she begged to be allowed to record just one track, but was “treated like scum” by every producer she met. The few producers who didn’t turn her away told her to stand in the front lounge, where she waited until 11:00 pm or later — unacknowledged until all the other (male) artists had been attended to.
In the midst of her story, Yvonne recalled one group of artists who treated her with respect and kindness. Several years ago, a Zambian band led by the legendary guitarist Jones Kabanga held auditions for a female vocalist. When Yvonne showed up, she looked unimpressive – “useless, a dirty orphan,” she says. But they handed her the mic to see what she could do, and her freestyle vocals worked well with their music. She didn’t get a job offer immediately, but the band took a liking to her and began to help her with voice training. Yvonne talks fondly about “Uncle Jones Kabanga,” who became her musical mentor and a father-figure in her life. When she was young, she’d always tried to sing like Mariah Carey, twisting and straining her voice to match the diva’s. But Uncle Jones advised Yvonne to sing more naturally and just “use the voice that you have.” She says, “I realized then that you don’t have to imitate anybody – if you have the feel and the passion for music, you can do whatever you want.” As she started making her own musical and aesthetic decisions, she opted for her traditional home sounds, and usually sang in Nsenge, her home language.
Later that year, Yvonne entered Zambia’s major Music Crossroads Competition, where she won first place. First prize included a sponsored 8-country tour of Europe, after which she had less trouble finding studios who would work with her. But her early experiences of intense prejudice left deep marks on her mind and her music; the gentle woman I met in a Dar es Salaam dusk also writes indignant, ignited songs like “Fight Like a Soldier.”
I watched a TED talk recently by Alain de Botton, in which he probes the pros and cons of a meritocratic society — or of a perceived meritocracy, since he concludes that no such thing exists. He says: “What is a meritocratic society? A meritocratic society is one in which, if you’ve got talent and energy and skill, you will get to the top. Nothing should hold you back. It’s a beautiful idea. The problem is, if you really believe in a society where those who deserve to get to the top, get to the top, you’ll also, by implication and in a far more nasty way, believe in a society where those who deserve to get to the bottom also get to the bottom and stay there. In other words, your position in life comes to seem not accidental, but merited and deserved. And that makes failure seem much more crushing.”
De Button essentially believes that an ideal meritocracy is a myth. He says, “Meritocracy, this idea that everybody deserves to get where they get to, I think it’s a crazy idea… it’s an impossible dream. The idea that we will make a society where literally everyone is graded, with the good at the top and the bad at the bottom, done exactly as it should be, is impossible. There are simply too many random factors: accidents, accidents of birth, accidents of things dropping on people’s heads, illnesses, etc. We will never get to grade them, get to grade people as they should be.”
I agree that we’ll never get to evaluate others “as they should be,” but where de Button suggests that “random factors” dilute meritocracy, I think it makes more sense (at least in Tanzania) to look at systemic factors that chronically preclude any kind of real meritocracy. Let’s recognize those factors and biases working against East African women who dare to venture out of their domestic spheres, and into male-ruled domains like muzik and entertainment. Maybe someday it will just be accidents preventing a meritocratic society, but for now, success-distribution is anything but random.
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