A croaking heritage from my mother

By Ted Malanda

When a primary school teacher died in my village, it seemed fitting that her pupils should sing in her honour.

Unfortunately, one of her colleagues could not sing even if her life depended on it. Yet someone had appointed her the school choir mistress. And at a cue from the master of ceremonies, she led a group of frightened children before the casket and croaked them through one of the most horrendous performances I have ever had the misfortune to endure.

One could tell the song had been concocted that very morning. As usual, the kids sung off key — which is normally very sweet to the ear unless their teacher, who cannot sing, tries to sing louder than her choir.

Worse, the kids had been instructed to keep shuffling their limbs forward and backwards. But they couldn’t get their rhythm right. So one couldn’t decide whether to listen to them, or look at their shuffling limbs or endure their teacher’s loud and exertions.

The whole circus brought a wry smile to my face because it reminded me of the one time I, too, was drafted into a choir. Our role was to escort our football team into the arena with words to the effect that we, meaning my giant-slaying primary school, had arrived.

Public functions

It was, I recall, such a shabby and uninspiring performance that I still remember my shame at being a part of it. It’s probably the reason our team was annihilated by six goals to nil.

Later in life, I have had the discomfiture of loitering around public functions with my tools of trade — a notebook and camera. What I have learnt is that adults can’t sit through a function unless they are entertained. Thus, as soon as prayers are dispensed with, the first item on the agenda is always entertainment. You can always foretell the amount of agony to expect by watching the manner in which the choir ambles to the podium. If they have this apprehensive look and walk as if headed to the slaughterhouse, be sure that the only entertainment that you will get is watching the guest of honour pretend to be having a great time.

Curiously, each choir, including the most pathetic, always boasts of a conductor. But having watched choirs for many years, I suspect that there is hardly ever any connection between the conductor’s enthusiastic gymnastics and the guttural and disjointed effort of the troop vigorously stumping dust up the VIP’s nose.

Wonderful performance

The most unfortunate thing is that once they are done, the master of ceremonies shamelessly asks the audience to clap for that "wonderful performance", which wouldn’t be so bad if all lousy choirs didn’t take it upon themselves to present three performances.

I have listened to choirs whose entire repertoire is based on one sentence, say, "Tupande miti, ho!" It’s a great message, alright, but it can drive you up the wall when you hear it 50 times in three minutes. Isn’t any wonder then VIPs are always photographed in deep slumber right at the high table?