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Peter Amidu’s ‘punishment’

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Yanjanani Chumbu and Khozie Masimbe must be ‘John the Baptist’ – should I say Johns the baptists? Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! If not, why do they always perform before Black Missionaries lead vocalist Anjiru Fumulani storms the stage? — of Black Missionaries Enough of that.
But, somehow, Chumbu and Masimbe seem to, sometimes, have a ‘John the Baptist’ of their own. Yes, I mean someone who clears the dew in the grass before the ‘real’ guys— you know we always have people who are more equal than others in life, whether one likes it or not. It is painful, but a fact of life. I do not know why— come and claim all the glory for themselves on stage.
I do not know if things work this way with the Black Missionaries. What I know, though, is that Chumbu and Masimbe had a ‘John the Baptist’ of their own on Tuesday, December 26, when the Chileka-based band dated fans at Mibawa Multi-Purpose Hall in Blantyre.
Before the Black Missionaries— sorry, I mean Anjiru. Remember, some people are more equal than others. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! — took to the stage. I mean, before Chumbu took to the stage [moments] before Masimbe took to the stage, which was before Anjiru took to the stage, another one took to the stage before they, one by one, took to the stage.
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
Now, before Anjiru and Chizondi accuse me of liking chamba [genre, not cannabis]… cha reggae, let me go straight to the point. The man who took to the stage— before Chumbu took to the stage before Masimbe, who took to the stage after Chumbu, had taken to the stage after the individual I am referring to took to the stage to play a modern-day John the Baptist— surprised everyone by what he said.
The man I am referring to is, as my title suggests, Peter Amidu, one of the best bass guitarists on offer in this country.
Peter Amidu decided to steal the light from the Director of Ceremonies by grabbing the microphone to make what, many thought, was an important announcement.
Peter Amidu – I will not refer to him simply as Amidu or Peter; for he is Peter Amidu— is a man of few words, at least to those of us who look at him from afar.
And, so, whenever he grabs the microphone, the world listens. The ‘world’— meaning, the people— feel like, ‘finally, Peter Amidu will tell us who he is and what he wants and how he will get it and what it means that he wants it and what it will mean when he does or does not get it, and what the world should do according to Rastafarian teachings.
Now, Peter Amidu can speak his mind, not with the guitar, but his mouth. The way he did it here.
“Jah, rastafari…” he shouted.
“I know you are celebrating Christmas. Let me tell you that we, Rastas, do not celebrate Christmas because we do not know the actual date Jesus Christ was born, and we are still investigating,” said Peter Amidu, to the chagrin of those who had thronged Mibawa Multi- Purpose Hall as part of Christmas festivities.
“Wasuta chamba eti?” Someone shouted in the audience. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
“Next time sitidzabweranso,” one woman added.
“Udziwanso mphwanya,” shouted another, who had a bottle of— okay, let me call it apricot! You know this is not an advertising space for a certain bitter-something which people gulp down their throats to work magic in their minds. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
Now, the way the people spoke, it was clear that it was not part theatre or part of the celebration. The people who spoke were thoroughly inflated, but Peter Amidu was indifferent.
How was Peter Amidu ‘punished’? Well, he was denied his ‘right’ to sweat.
You see, Chizondi, Anjiru, Masimbe, Chumbu and all the people who played a stage-role in Black Missionaries’ performance were sweating; so that, every 20 minutes or so, Anjiru could wipe sweat from his face.
And Anjiru could do it deliberately slow; so that, perhaps, the women and men in the audience could wonder: ‘So, Anjiru also sweats? He is human after all!”
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
Sweating must be a ‘blessing’; for, as Anjiru and others took turns to wipe sweat from their faces— Chumbu’s traditional attire was actually drenched in sweat, while Anjiru’s Chinese collar t-shirt was equally ‘hugged’ by sweat— Peter Amidu’s top, which was red, gold [yellow] [rastas omit black these days; I do not know why. But there is always an invisible black on a rastaman and woman’s attire] and green was as dry as the bald of an old man in mid-October.
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