Wednesday’s short concert merely whet our appetite, so yesterday we went to another Papa Wemba gig. More accurately, we crashed an invitation-only VIP event at which Papa Wemba was playing, to celebrate his new marketing contract with Bralima and the local beer Mützig – incongruously pronounced ‘Meetsing’ by the Congolese.
So there we were, sitting centre-stage at a small plastic picnic table, being served free beer and soft drinks, surrounded by a handful of Kinshasa’s rich and famous. Tonight the King of rumba had discarded the fancy suit in favour of a more typical outfit for him: bright red, baggy tracksuit bottoms, cream-coloured high-top Converse trainers, a severe black jacket – too small for his jutting belly – with a Nehru collar and a double line of gold buttons down the front, and the centrepiece: a funky, feathery, black, rimmed hat.
The first half of the concert was usual Papa Wemba stuff: seven musicians, more than ten support singers, a myriad of dancers, fantastic music, flamboyant style. When he sang his softest song, “Awa Y’okeyi”, a gentle, emotional piano and voice number, it raised the hair on the back of my neck and gave me the shivers. It’s always been one of my favourite pieces, but it was particularly magical to look around and see the Congolese sitting with their eyes closed, swaying melodiously and singing along to every word.
Then came the break, and the launch of what the Mützig marketing team dubbed “le concept Mützig” – a participatory concert where guests were invited to fill out a card that had come with their VIP invitation, asking Papa Wemba for a song and making a financial contribution (“une petite motivation quoi”). The bolder guests could even ask to perform a duet with the star himself. Luckily, Fred and I didn’t have an invitation so we held onto our cash. Not so for Fidel Castro.
When the very first envelope was opened, the MC gleefully read out, “Mr Fidel Castro!” I naturally assumed it was a pseudonym, but apparently not; it’s the name of some hot shot from Angola. The sceptics will say the organisers chose his envelope on purpose, because they knew him to be a particularly rich man. Inside the envelope was a US$100 bill, and a request for two songs. “Wow,” I said looking at the wad of envelopes in the MC’s hand, “imagine if all those envelopes have US$100 bills in them.” Little did I know.
Unlike me, Papa Wemba was not impressed by the US$100 bill. Affecting a small pout he agreed to perform only one of the two songs for that price. “Only one song for US$100!” exclaimed the MC to the spectators, as the concert increasingly took on the air of an auction. A hand shot up in the air from the far corner. “Ah, Mr de Castro is increasing his bid!” Tense pause. “Four hundred dollars! Mr de Castro is increasing his bid by US$400 to hear Papa Wemba play the two songs!” To which announcement, the world famous star, who must surely have a lot more money than that in his bank account, grinned broadly, did a little skip, punched the air with his fist, and shouted, “Yeah! Yeah!”
So Papa Wemba played the two songs, and Fidel Castro, a middle-aged man dressed in a two-tone, silk, cream suit and donning wrap-around sunglasses, came regally up to the stage with his young wife or girlfriend to stick five US$100 notes on Papa Wemba’s forehead as he sang. He then retreated to the dance floor, where he was soon joined by dozens of other couples in ball-gown dresses and smart suits (Fred and I were rather underdressed, it must be said.)
But that was not quite the end of Fidel Castro. To thank him, or perhaps because he knew what was likely to ensue, Papa Wemba brought on stage all of his back-up singers, and they improvised a song in the Angolan man’s honour. Next thing you know, Mr Castro, perhaps inspired by the redistributive policies of his Cuban namesake, comes up on stage once more and ceremoniously walks from one musician to the other, distributing US$100 bills to every one in the band. From where I was, I saw him hand out at least twenty US$100 bills, which together with the initial US$500 made for a rather expensive evening, by my standards at least!
The Congolese loved it, even as they tutted and shook their heads in mock disbelief. Although no one else was able to match Mr Castro’s lavishness, the MC conscientiously opened all the remaining envelopes, most of which seemed to contain between US$200 and US$400 – pretty good in a country where over 70 per cent of people spend less than US$200 per year!
At the end of the evening we got to shake Papa Wemba’s hand. “La musique adoucit les moeurs,” he told us philosophically. “Elle nous permet de dire tout bas ce que les politiciens n’osent pas dire tout haut.” I wish I’d had the courage to ask him how the kind of unabashed racketeering we’d witnessed that evening softened morals, but I didn’t.
