In memory of my uncle’s old record player

By Ted Malanda

He was something of a dandy, my uncle. He loved trendy clothes, huge shiny watches — and beautiful women.

My mother called him a ‘lifist’ but because I was too young to know better, I thought she was complimenting her younger brother.

Once every year, he travelled upcountry for annual leave, turning his home into a festival of arts. I don’t know how word of his presence spread because in a span of minutes, his home would be brimming to the rafters with revellers, admirers and hangers-on.

Usually, he travelled by the night bus and when we woke up in the morning, he would be sitting in his favourite armchair. What woke us up was excited chatter and benga music filtering across the mud walls. 

He always set up his trusted music ‘system’, the red coloured record player — his kinanda — practically within minutes of his landing vide the now defunct Mawingo Bus Service. The thing, when packed, resembled a briefcase and when pried open, one half became the turntable and the other, a speaker.

To get maximum noise decibels out of the gizmo, the speaker was placed upside down on a big clay pot so that the music throbbed gently, like the beats on ancient drum.

Meanwhile, my aunties, he had three wives, would be brewing huge kettles of tea and we would have a feast — buttered bread, in that golden age when margarine melted down the throat like honey, especially when you dunked a chunk of loaf in your cup of tea.

At about 11am, the party would sadly end and my uncle would shut down the system and leave with his admirers — doing rounds in the village greeting old mates, attending funerals, downing mugs of local ale and devouring ingokho.

We, the children, would spend an agonising six hours awaiting his return when, once again, the magical music box would throb and the partying would begin.

His ‘system’ was special because it was ‘automatic’. Unlike others, which required one to place only one vinyl record, his had an ‘arm’ that held up to 12 discs, discharging one at a time. I lost count of the moments I lay on the floor gazing wondrously at its magic — a record winding up, that unforgettable whizzing sound and then ‘plop’ as the arm released a fresh disc.

My uncle didn’t know it, but he unwittingly introduced me to ‘Kenya’, made me a son of the land with an outlook far beyond the village.

His music collection was a reflection of Kenya — from Luo, to Kamba, Kikuyu and Coast. I remember shaking my tiny leg to Kakai Kilonzo, the legendary Kamba crooner, perhaps because his outrageous yellow outfits and platform shoes thoroughly fired my imagination.

Admirers in my village would have swarmed Kakai in 1979. A village in Murang’a could have exhausted its muratina supply in honour of a Luhya musician.

Today, a new Constitution down the line, with universities dotted along dusty village market streets, if you are a politician and you are not from my tribe, get lost.