The first time I heard of the children’s mass choir was in 1984, as a Standard Three pupil at State House Primary School — next to the State House.
One afternoon our music teacher, Ms Kamau, walked in with music sheets. We were informed that those who joined the school choir would sing for then-President Daniel arap Moi at the next national day celebrations.
I joined the choir… not because I believed in the Nyayo philosophy, but because it was an opportunity to spend three days away from school — doing something I considered more interesting than sitting in a classroom — learning how to divide and multiply.
There were three or so songs but the masterpiece was the very catchy and danceable “Tawala Kenya Tawala”.
The song was written by Thomas Wasonga, a Coast-based music teacher and member of Mombasa Teachers’ Mass Choir. It was a technical wonder.
ATTEMPTED COUP
Written in the tradition of Afro-Catholic choral, it starts off with four repeated stanzas clearly expressing the citizenry’s love and support for Moi.
And then it segues into a climax: amidst lots of single-finger waving (the Kanu salute), the song describes Moi’s achievements: “Tangu uliposhika uongozi Kenya umoja umeongezeka, eeeh Baba tawala! (We have become more united since you became our leader, eeh father, rule!)” and “Juhudi zako za kuleta amani dunia yote yapongeza, eeh Baba tawala! (The world has seen and praises your efforts to bring us peace, eeh father, rule!)”
My parents — a journalist and a social commentator — (and both critical thinkers) must have rolled their eyes in disbelief whenever I went home humming my lines.
Finally, the third movement of the song: an exhortation to Moi to continue apace because all of Kenya was behind him.
This was surely untrue. Part of the reason why these mass choirs became so popular with government functionaries in the early 80s (even though it was Mzee Jomo Kenyatta who started them) was because of the 1982 coup and Moi’s fears of growing dissent.
The songs were a means to subliminally enforce loyalty and affection for a man many were starting to consider a brutal dictator.
SINGING PRACTICE
Mr Wasonga was transferred to Nairobi to be a senior education officer in charge of entertainment for presidential functions — and that is when he came into my life, via a proxy, Ms Kamau.
Whenever a national function was due — say, Jamhuri Day or Madaraka Day — the Ministry of Education would send him a list of teachers from selected schools who would then spend the next few weeks in intensive training, learning the songs from him.
The teachers would go back to train their students. Three days before the national event, the trained children from selected schools would gather at Nyayo Stadium for a musical ‘boot camp’.
There were hundreds of us, maybe even 1,000-plus pupils. Singing practice started at 8am. We’d be grouped according to voice type: Sopranos, altos, the tenors and the bass. Woe unto you if you were a tenor and your best friend a bass.
We had to sing for our lunch — literally. If you fainted, if you stopped singing, if you sat down when you should have been dancing, a supervising teacher would mark you and you would be removed from the list of children receiving lunch that day. Lunch was a loaf of bread and soda.
BRUTAL DAYS
Practice was all day; we learnt how to sing in perfect harmony in our hundreds, and there were no breaks.
We would practice in the hot sun on empty stomachs till around 3pm, which was our lunch hour.
I remember a mini-rebellion one time when a group of frustrated pupils refused to sing unless we ate. For once, lunch was served before 2pm.
Those three days were brutal. It was the first time I experienced this thing called sun burn and hunger pangs. The big day was almost always an anticlimax.
We arrived at Nyayo Stadium very early. We stood around; we were summoned; we sang; we went home.
But I’ll never forget the aches in my feet, the peeling skin, the extreme hunger. I suppose that’s the price an eight-year-old pays for seeking approved truancy from school.