Drum Rider

Bi Kidude, virtuoso queen of Taraab and Unyago music from Zanzibar, continues to dazzle audiences at the age of 95-plus. Shailja Patel saw her live for the first time at the recently-ended ZIFF Festival of the Dhow Countries.

I.

The woman planted a drum on the grass before her
twisted a soft worn khanga round her hips.
As if she was going to wash clothes, chop vegetables,
hike a child to her back to go to market.
None of us really paid any attention.

The woman harnessed her hips to the drum.
Chest-high, foot-in-diameter uyagi drum.
Placed it aslant between her straddled legs,
settled into position.
Sunken chest erect
shoulders, neck, at the ready,
mouth set over gaping gums,
khanga hiked up skinny strong legs.
Feet placed in the earth
like it was time
to do business.
Like she was going
to work.

Suddenly, we are on
Planet Kidude.
Where men scurry across the mat
place mics, arrange wires, jostle for camera views.
Where she ignores them all
because she has done this for eight decades,
before there were cameras, mics;
decades she hoisted her drum
trudged rich dirt,
the length and breadth of Tanzania
to perform.
Decades she fought off
terror, insults, mockery,
the soul-destroying silence
only the strongest fire survives,
decades she travelled deep and deeper
to the heart of her own rhythm.

This is Bi Kidude.
Virtuoso of Taraab, Uyagi,
woman who at ninety-five, has walked more miles
than most of us have driven,
claimed a lineage
of music rooted
in the lives of the powerless,
stories unfurled in language of street and market,
poetry buried in the bodies of women.

II.

I have never seen a woman ride a drum before
like a goddess rides a tiger
like creation rides the cosmos,
I have never seen a woman ride a drum like this -
I have never seen an artist
male or female,
anywhere across the globe
own their instrument,
like it grew out of their belly
was welded to their thighs.

III.

Then, there were the dancers.

The dancers moved lazily
dropped their cellphones, shook out their khangas
gold at their ears, their necks, their wrists
gold gleamed in their mouths.

The dancers slipped into movement
as a bhajia slips into hot oil
rises to the surface
starts to sizzle.

Now the dancers shake their hips
with precision of balance, control
potency of strength, of muscle isolation
Olympic gymnasts would envy.

They shake their hips
for all of us
who have been taught, coerced
to disown our bodies,
for all women whose bodies
have been stolen from them.

They thrust their succulent buttocks out
with democratic largesse:
tease the old woman in the black buibui,
taunt the white-boy, dreadlocked tourist
who feigns coolness behind his wraparound sunglasses
while I watch his neck turn scarlet
drip with sweat.

The dancers shake their hips for the waitresses
at Africa House hotel, caged
in the most godawful
ugly, cheap, confining,
sweat-producing black skirts, white shirts
to serve drinks to tourists in shorts and bikinis.
Because heaven forbid those who serve
should ever feel breeze on their skins,
heaven forbid those who serve
should move their hips and torsos
freely in clothes that flow,
colours that hum,
we might forget they are servants
we might
see them.

The dancers shake their hips for the women
those waitresses serve. Waxy-pale bikini-clad tourists
at Serena's poolside.
Women who check their bodies daily
for forbidden fat,
outlawed abundance of flesh.
Women of the tragic sisterhood
of liposuction, surgical alteration,
silent epidemic – thirty-thousand anorexia deaths per year.
Women taught that beauty
equals self-annihilation.

These dancers shake their hips
for the six-thousand girl children who today
were held down, legs spread, hands tied, gagged, blindfolded
tortured beyond screaming,
violated beyond horror,
circumcised
for the crime
of a clitoris.

They shake their hips for every woman
infected with HIV
by a man who valued her life
less than his gratification.

These women who circle Bi Kidude
as planets orbit the sun,
circle like temple snakes
sinuous panthers
the source where sound begins,
they are shaking the bounty
of women's bodies
back into the world.

Their hips and butts are saying
YESS!!
YES - to largeness that does not apologise.
YES - to power, knowledge that do not disguise themselves.
YES -to pleasure, claimed and vested
in our mortal beautiful bodies.

III

I will never fear aging again
because now I have heard Bi Kidude
belt out, at ninety-five, without a mic
tobacco-stained waves of sound
sandpapered down to coconut fibre
stronger than cables of steel.

I will never fear aging again
because now I have seen Bi Kidude
whose face has never touched
an anti-wrinkle cream,
an age-defying glycolic acid enzyme peel,
who knocks back whisky, cigarettes
for every ounce of moisturizer I consume,
hypnotise a hundred cameras.

I have felt the power of this woman's neck
her shoulder muscles
surge thunder down arm
to hand to drum;
generate more electricity
than ten Madonnas,
a hundred Fela Kutis with sixteen-piece bands,
take us back to the center of fertile creation
where sound begins.

IV.

I believe in Bi Kidude
the way I don't believe in god.

But if god were a ninety-five-year old, ebony black
Swahili woman,
who claims to be one hundred and twenty,
with a mouth full of broken and missing teeth
hands veined like banyan trees
a drum between her legs,
a kijiti between her defiant, all-knowing lips
a shillingi-mia-kumi note flapping out of her neckline;

if god chanted wickedly satirical shairi
about the dangers of the very deathstick
she sucks on;

if god embraced irony, lust, contradiction
heartbreak, imperfection,
if god flaunted her struggles like a velvet cape,
rearranged the atoms of the world
with the rhythm of her gut

then maybe I would believe
in that god.
That god who is only a name
for the genius in all of us
that makes us our own imam and prophet
our own divinity.

I would call the faithful to prayer:
Bomba Kidude! Kidude Saafi!

And they would holler back: Saafi!
They would holler back: Saafi!
They would holler back: SAAFI!

And we would all be

god.

* Shailja Patel is a Kenyan Indian poet and spoken word artist. Visit her at

* Background on Bi Kidude (Courtesy of Busara Promotions)

She is about 93 or something like that, but still she is the undisputed queen of taarab and unyago traditional music. Bi Kidude is still alive and kicking, touring Europe as well as Africa spreading taarab music. You might wonder what keeps this legendary barefoot diva strong and active despite her age, but as she says herself "everytime I sing I feel like a 14-year old girl!”

Bi Kidude's exact date of birth is unknown, much of her life story is uncorroborated, giving her an almost mythical status. Kidude started out her musical career in the 1920s, and learnt many of her songs with Siti bint Saad. She has performed in countries all around Europe, Middle East and Japan and finally recorded her first solo album ("Zanzibar", Retroafric Recordings) only six years ago, while in her mid-eighties. Recently she released a second locally-produced album ("Machozi ya Huba", Heartbeat Records) with her traditional drums influencing the burgeoning Zenji Flava local hip-hop scene in one of the most remarkable juxtapositions of musical style in modern 'World Music'.

Since fleeing a forced marriage at the age of 13 and escaping her homeland of Zanzibar, Bi Kidude has led an extraordinary and varied career as a drummer, singer, henna artist and natural healer. Her first journey was to the mainland of Tanzania, where she walked the length and breadth of the country barefoot. Fleeing a second unhappy marriage, Bi Kidude boarded a dhow, the ancient sailing vessels of the Swahili coast and journeyed north to Egypt where she became a renowned singer in the foremost dance bands of 1930's Egypt.

With renewed confidence and a new attitude to tradition (by now Kidude had thrown off her veil and shaved her head!) she returned, slowly to Zanzibar where she acquired a small clay house in the 1940's and settled down to life grounded in the traditional roots of society. Her role was as part of the 'Unyago' movement, which prepares young Swahili women for their transition through puberty and she excelled at the art of henna designing for young brides, manufacturing her own 'wanja' application from age old recipes fit 'to make a rainbow shine'. To this day, Bi Kidude performs traditional unyago music and is still the island's leading exponent of this ancient dance ritual, performed exclusively for teenage girls, which uses traditional rhythms to teach women to pleasure their husbands, while lecturing against the dangers of sexual abuse and oppression.

Her many talents were acknowledged by Zanzibar International Film Festival (ZIFF) at the second Festival of the Dhow Countries in 1999, when she was awarded "Lifetime Achievement Award for Contribution to the Arts."

Bi Kidude's is a remarkable story, one which challenges our perception of age, and of the role of women in Islam. She has never conformed to the media stereotype of a Muslim woman ever since she removed her veil. To see a ninety-something year old Muslim woman drink, smoke, flirt, dance and drum is a unique experience. To witness the transformation as she reverses the ageing process and changes from a wrinkled granny into a vital shining star is nothing short of revelationary.

For the past three months Bi Kidude has been setting the festivals and concert venues of Europe ablaze, where she has been receiving rapturous reviews of her performances with Zanzibar's illustrious Culture Musical Club taarab orchestra. With her humble manner, incredible stage personality, voice and strength, Bi Kidude is favourite with audiences wherever the group performs.

Midway through this tour, the whole of Zanzibar was thrown into shock and disarray when a rumour spread fast through the island that Bi Kidude had died. From the narrow streets of Stone Town to the barazas of N'gambo and throughout the villages this was the only topic of conversation as the island rapidly acquired the atmosphere of mourning. This rumour continued to spread even long after the offices of Busara Promotions had disseminated confirmation from Bi Kidude's European promoters that on the contrary, she was alive and very well. She may have been surprised to hear that people in Zanzibar think that she has died:

"Sijafa bado. Labda sababu watu hawajaonana nami sasa karibu mwezi. Lakini bado tunaendelea na safari na bado safari ndefu ya miezi miwili. Lakini sijambo, sina wasiwasi miye. Kuimba naimba na nguvu zote ambazo ninazo ili watu wafurahi."

"I haven't died yet. Maybe people are saying that because they haven't seen me around for almost a month. But we are still continuing our tour which lasts for two more months. Me, I'm well, I have no problem. Me I sing with all my strength and continue to make people happy."

In September she will be packing her drums and travelling again, to perform a series of shows around KwaZulu Natal at the invitation of Awesome Africa Festival, culminating in a shared performance with South Africa's legendary Mahotella Queens.

Courtesy of Busara Promotions.