The Giddes Chalamanda you meet in the early hours of a Monday, seated on one of the couches of Scallas Café, is not the same one you saw moments ago on the stage. For now, on this couch, Giddes is that octogenarian. With a face that presents him as one nursing the worries or the pleasures of old age. He is – if his face can be used as a mirror into his soul – lost in a world of his own. As a few besotted fans come, sit next him, for a selfie, he can neither smile nor frown into the camera. He just exists in his space. The young fans are invaders. Neither unwelcome nor welcome. The look on his face communicates none of that. Yet, minutes before – in the late hours of 16 December, a Sunday – Giddes had forgotten himself on stage. But, forgotten is not the word. Remembered must be. The time he walked on stage, welcomed by Davis Njobvu of the Edgar and Davis Band, Giddess had remembered himself. His passion. It had been a long night. The promise of Giddes Chal...
...writings and recollections; thoughts too.