Tierno Chaikou Baldé
1907-1972

Biographie

• Fils de Tierno Aliou Ɓuuɓa Ndiyan (5e rang) et de Neenan Mamoudatou (puiné)
• Fit partie de la première génération d’instituteurs coloniaux, années 1930
• L’un des pionniers de la recherche et de la publication scientifique en Guinée

Bibliographie

• Les forgerons du Fouta-Djallon
• L’éducation de la fille dans l’ancienne famille foulah
• L’éducation de l’enfant foulah
• La femme foulah et l’évolution
• Origine de la première vache
• Les associations d’âge chez les Foulbe du Fouta-Djallon
• L’élevage au Fouta-Djallon (région de Timbo et de Labé)
• Les sites archéologiques de Geme Sangan et de Pete-Bonoodji

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M. Huet & Keita Fodeba
Les Hommes de la Danse

Photographies de Michel Huet
Préface de Keita Fodeba
Présentation et mise en pages:
Simone Jeanson & Jean-Louis Bedouin
Editions Clairefontaine. Lausanne. 1954. 134 pages.

Ils nous disent les hommes du coton, du café, de l’huile,
Ils nous disent les hommes de la Mort.
Nous sommes les hommes de la Danse,
dont les pieds rapides reprennent vigueur en frappant le sol dur.
Léopold Sédar Senghor. Chants d’Ombre

Danseurs Coniagui (Youkounkoun, Koundara) coiffés du daka

Consulter également :

• Les Coniagui et les Bassari
• Collections Bassari
• Notice sur les Coniagui
• La Propriété et ses modes de transmission chez les Coniagui et les Bassari
• Sociétés secrètes chez les Tenda
• Génies de l’eau et de la brousse en Guinée Française

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Bembeya Jazz National

Bembeya de Beyla. 1963

Aboubacar Demba Camara. 1945-1973

• Discographie
• Biographies
• Bibliograhie
  • Interview de Sekou Bembeya Diabate
  • Interview de Salifou Kaba
• Leo Sarkisian. Promoteur de la musique guinéenne moderne
• Eric Charry

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A jaarama Mawɗo Laawol Pulaaku! Yo Geno lollin Jaahu!
Repose en paix !

Tierno S. Bah

Jeune Afrique fait parler Amadou Hampâté Bâ

Introduction

Co-fondateur de la Société africaine de culture, ancien agent de l’IFAN (Institut français d’Afrique noire), ancien ambassadeur, ex-directeur de l’Institut des sciences humaines de Bamako, ancien conférencier de la Fraternité musulmane de Dakar, membre de l’Association des africanistes, chercheur infatigable, le Malien Hampâté Bâ a aussi été, pendant huit ans, membre du Conseil exécutif de l’Unesco, au sein duquel il a battu tous les records de durée. Et s’ il n’a pas été réélu par la XVIe conférence générale ( J.A. No 517), c’est que les statuts de l’Unesco ne le permettaient pas. Paul Bernetel a interviewé ce grand Africain qui, à soixante-dix ans, a décidé de se consacrer à la transcription des traditions orales recueillies et sauvées au cours de sa longue carrière.

Amadou Hampâté Bâ est un sage dans l’acception philosophique et antique du terme, c’est-à-dire l’homme ouvert à toutes les activités de l’esprit humain, maîtrisant le savoir relatif à l’histoire, la philosophie, la religion, la linguistique, l’ethnologie, la géomancie, la magie… bref, la connaissance de l’homme, de la nature et de leur interaction.

Témoin par filiation de la civilisation, de la culture africaines traditionnelles où toutes les connaissances s’interpénétraient pour constituer un fait total et global, Hampâté Bâ est, en tant que fils spirituel du maître Tierno Bokar, l’un des rares savants traditionalistes à pouvoir interpréter et évaluer tous les textes recueillis « sous la dictée d’autres auteurs traditionnels avant de les livrer, sous forme de publications, à l’attention et à l’appréciation de tous ceux qui — dans le monde — s’intéressent à la pensée, à l’histoire et à la civilisation des peuples nigéro-soudanais »*. Mieux qu’un témoin, il est aujourd’hui l’un des rares hommes qui détiennent les clés du sanctuaire de la société traditionnelle dans sa logique, son mécanisme et les multiples et complexes fonctions qu’elle attribue aux faits socio-religieux ou mythiques.
Imprégné de la tradition telle qu’elle est conservée dans les régions les p:us repliées, en marge de la colonisation, et à l’abri de l’acculturation, Hampaté Ba est une mémoire, un monument vivant du passé. Il est de ces traditionalistes dont la « connaissance consignée dans la mémoire » est indispensable pour l’interprétation des documents manuscrits. Parlant les langues des anciens empires, telles que l’arabe, le bambara, le peul, le moré (langue des Mossis), le sonraï (Mali-Niger), il a pu s’entretenir avec tous les auteurs traditionnels du continent. Ce qui lui a valu de constituer des archives dont la valeur est inestimable et que lui envieraient des musées… et même des Etats. La maîtrise d’une langue internationale, en l’occurrence le français, 1ui donne un rôle privilégié pour la transmission de ce patrimoine.

Hampâté Bâ est, avec Boubou Hama, Mamby Sidibé, Oumar Bâ, le véritable symbole de l’ancestralité africain. Il connaît dans leurs infimes détails les grandes oeuvres traditionnelles dans leur substance la plus drue, telle « l’initiation de la grande étoile rayonnante » de la société peule, les classiques de l’Afrique précoloniale, les épopées, les textes initiatiques, les légendes les plus fermées, les contes de cour préparant au pouvoir, les chroniques historiques, les institutions politiques, économiques et sociales …

A la fois monument par les périodes historiques dont il porte témoignage et document par la dimension de son érudition, Hampâté Bâ a su, en redonnant vie à l’oralité, réhabiliter aux yeux de la science moderne les civilisations à tradition orale.

Homme de culture dans le sens classique du terme, le principal souci de sa vie est non pas la sauvegarde, mais — comme il le dit lui-même — le « sauvetage » des traditions orales. Ce but, il le poursuivra avec une fidélité étonnante. Appuyé sur une canne, de boubou blanc vêtu, corps frêle protégé et conservé par les « dieux-terre » de la tradition, il va parcourir toutes les grandes cités du monde, exhortant les humanistes illustres et hommes de culture contemporains à apporter leur sollicitude aux valeurs en voie de disparition de l’ancien monde qui a enfanté le nouveau.

Tous ses auditoires internationaux, ceux de l’Unesco par exemple, seront fascinés par cette mince silhouette, qui semble être le passé lui-même resurgi dans le tumulte et la discordance du monde actuel. Dans la voix et le visage d’enfant de ce vieillard, que le temps ne paraît pas devoir toucher, perce l’ultime cri d’un monde qui s’effondre, condamné. Hampâté Bâ est une des dernières étincelles d’un monde qui s’anéantit ; ainsi qu’il le dit lui-même, « tout vieillard qui meurt est une bibliothèque qui se consume ».

Doit-on rester sur le sentiment d’angoisse de ce naufrage, sur ce cri d’alarme des vestiges de la tradition ? Le lien puissant qui cimentera et revivifiera une Afrique nouvelle se fera avec des hommes nouveaux pour qui le combat ne sera pas seulement culturel, mais politique et économique. C’est ici qu’il y a rupture entre le courant de pensée qu’il représente et la nouvelle génération africaine qui, tout en lui vouant tout le respect et l’admiration qu’elle lui doit pour ses travaux et ses connaissances, se dissocie de la primauté exclusive qu’il donne à la conservation de la culture.

Jean-Pierre N’Diaye

Interview

Jeune Afrique. Quel a été votre itinéraire philosophique et intellectuel ?
Hampâté Bâ. Je suis né en 1899 à Bandiagara (Mali), dans une famille musulmane. J’ai eu neuf frères et soeurs. Mon père, Hampâté, était l’intendant de l’empire des Toucouleurs du Maasina, dont Bandiagara était la capitale. Il a laissé une certaine fortune à sa mort, dont ma mère a hérité. Mon père biologique, Hampaté, est décédé quand je n’avais que trois ans. Ma mère, Kadija, s’est remariée. C’était une famille très traditionaliste. Mes parents ont joué un rôle de chef de province dans le pays. Cela m’a mis très tôt en contact avec des conteurs …

Jeune Afrique. Quel est votre premier souvenir des Européens?
Hampâté Bâ. Un jour, le commandant de cercle devait venir procéder à un recensement général. Baba avait dit : « Le chef blanc va compter les hommes et les bêtes. Il ne faudra pas que les enfants sortent. » On nous avait relégués dans l’arrière-cour. Mais moi, j’avais une servante (une « captive-mère », comme nous disons, car il est de tradition, lorsqu’un garçon naît, qu’on le confie à une servante. Elle l’élève et, quand l’enfant atteint sa majorité, il la libère). Ma mère servante s’appelait Nieylé. Elle était très bonne pour moi, elle me permettait tout. Ce jour-là, elle me dit pourtant : « Tu ne verras pas le Blanc. Baba a dit non. » Mais je lui ai dit : « Tu feras un grand paravent avec ton boubou. Je me ferai tout petit et je soulèverai un peu l’étoffe pour le voir. »
On nous avait dit que le Blanc était du feu, une braise, et je voulais vraiment voir comment un homme peut être une braise. Quand il est entré, ce qui m’a frappé, c’est son casque colonial et son crayon qu’il trempait dans sa bouche. Je me dis que ce devait être son encrier. J’étais sûr qu’il avait son encrier dàns sa bouche. Puis je me suis approché tout doucement et je l’ai touché, mais il ne m’a pas brûlé, et cela m’a beaucoup surpris. C’était en 1905-1906. A cette époque, je ne parlais pas le français. J’avais l’impression que les Blancs parlaient comme des oiseaux. Puis, vers 1912, on réquisitionnait les animaux pour alimenter l’armée et les fonctionnaires. On recrutait des travailleurs, des soldats et des écoliers.
L’école où nous étions contraints de nous rendre s’appelait l’ « école des otages ». On y mettait les enfants pour que les parents se tiennent tranquilles. Mais ce n’était pas un honneur d’aller dans cette école. C’était être renégat, cesser d’être africain ; alors, on s’arrangeait pour y envoyer les enfants de ses ennemis. C’est comme cela que j’y allai. C’est dans cette école que j’ai appris le français.

Jeune Afrique. Comment cette langue française, cette culture se sont-elles mêlées à la culture africaine, traditionnelle, familiale, tribale, qui était la vôtre?
Hampâté Bâ. Je ne peux pas en expliquer le mécanisme, mais les choses se sont superposées. J’ai appris le français comme j’ai appris le Coran, comme j’ai appris tous les rituels de l’Islam.

Jeune Afrique. Et maintenant, que représente le français pour vous ?
Hampâté Bâ. La langue française me permet de regarder à l’extérieur. C’est une langue de communication internationale, c’est tout. Je ne suis jamais arrivé à penser en français : je pense en peul et je traduis.

Jeune Afrique. Un événement vous a beaucoup rapproché de la culture française : votre rencontre avec le professeur Monod.
Hampâté Bâ. Quand je l’ai rencontré, j’avais déjà quarante-neuf ans, vers 1950. La même année, j’ai pu obtenir une bourse de l’Unesco.

Jeune Afrique. Quel a été votre premier voyage en dehors de votre pays ?
Hampâté Bâ. Paris. A cause de la bourse. J’étais l’ami de Théodore Monod et je lui dois beaucoup. J’étais considéré à cette époque comme anti-français. Fonctionnaire modèle, mais politiquement anti-français parce que je défendais toujours nos traditions. Monod a eu le courage de prendre ma défense à un moment où même les miens avaient peur. Il était à l’époque directeur de l’Institut français d’Afrique noire, et j’étais secrétaire d’administration. Pour obtenir cette bourse extraordinaire, attribuée à un homme de plus de quarante ans, il fallait avoir été élevé dans la tradition africaine, mais posséder parfaitement la langue française. Nous étions trois ou quatre à remplir ces conditions et Monod m’a choisi. L’administration, elle, n’était pas d’avis de me laisser partir. Tout ce qu’on a trouvé, c’est de dire que j’avais une dépression nerveuse. On a télégraphié à Monod pour lui dire que je ne pouvais pas venir. Fort heureusement, j’ai eu affaire à un psychiatre qui a certifié que, si tous les aliénés avaient ma constitution, les psychiatres seraient chômeurs. Et je suis parti. On m’a coupé ma solde coloniale en disant que j’avais déserté mon poste, et j’ai payé de ma poche le voyage Bamako-Dakar.
A Dakar. j’ai pris un avion pour Paris. Quand on nous a dit : « Vous êtes au-dessus de la France ». j’ai été étonné de voir ces îlots de feu un peu partout, mais, au-dessus de Paris, il m’a semblé que l’avion était renversé et que le ciel était en bas. Je n’avais jamais vu tant de lumières à la fois. Quand on a ouvert la porte de l’avion, j’ai reçu un coup de froid, comme un coup de lance. J’ai pensé qu’on m’avait jeté un mauvais sort. Puis je me suis demandé comment j’allais bien faire pour trouver l’Unesco, avenue Kléber. Je suis entré dans le hall et j’ai entendu : « Hampâté Bâ est prié de se présenter au troisième guichet. » C’était extraordinaire. Je me disais : comment, mais comment me connaissent-ils ? Je vais au troisième guichet, je trouve un chauffeur de taxi envoyé par le directeur de l’Unesco. On m’avait retenu une chambre à l’hôtel du Bois, rue Lauriston. Nous traversons tout Paris et j’arrive. Tout est prêt. Un garçon me met dans une chambre et il la ferme. Dès qu’il est parti, j’ouvre. Il revient et la referme. Je me dis : « Qu’est-ce qu’il a à me boucler ? » Il me dit qu’il ne faut pas que je laisse ma porte ouverte, qu’un malfaiteur peut venir … Je ne comprends pas, parce que, chez moi, un Européen est au-dessus de tout soupçon. Les coloniaux ne volent pas, ne mentent pas, ne sont même pas malades ! Mais je ne peux pas supporter la porte fermée. Chez nous, on ne ferme jamais les portes.

Jeune Afrique. Etes-vous resté longtemps à l’occasion de ce premier séjour?
Hampâté Bâ. Un an. Quand je suis allé à l’Unesco, j’ai pensé qu’on allait me donner un programme. Je me suis présenté au directeur qui m’a dit : « Vous êtes à Paris, faites ce que vous voulez. » On m’a laissé dans la nature, mais on me faisait suivre pour voir où j’entrais, où j’allais, ce que je faisais, ce qui m’intéressait. Cela a duré au moins six mois. Je suis allé à l’Ecole des langues orientales, à la Sorbonne, au musée de l’Homme, dans des bibliothèques. Je me suis occupé de questions culturelles.

Jeune Afrique. Parmi les chefs d’Etat africains actuellement au pouvoir, quels sont ceux que vous avez connus plus particulièrement?
Hampâté Bâ. A part ceux de l’Afrique équatoriale et de l’Afrique orientale, je les connais tous.

Jeune Afrique. Est-ce qu’il vous arrive de servir de « monsieur-bons-offices » dans des cas délicats ?
Hampâté Bâ. Chaque fois que je peux le faire. Mais je n’entreprends une mission que si je suis sûr d’aboutir. Ma dernière intervention a consisté à demander à tous les chefs d’Etat d’Afrique occidentale d’harmoniser la transcription phonétique des langues principales d’Afrique

Jeune Afrique. Quand il y a des différends entre pays — de grandes affaires comme le Nigeria —, estimez-vous pouvoir intervenir?
Hampâté Bâ. Je n’ai pas les relations nécessaires.

Jeune Afrique. Entre la Côte-d’Ivoire et la Guinée, par exemple …
Hampâté Bâ. Oui, oui. Mais Sékou est très fougueux …

Jeune Afrique. Vous sentez-vous plutôt Malien ou plutôt africain ?
Hampâté Bâ. D’abord Malien. Intérieurement, vraiment, je ne me sens d’aucun pays.

Jeune Afrique. Que représente pour vous l’idée d’unité africaine ?
Hampâté Bâ. C’est une idée qui m’enchante, mais est-ce qu’il est possible d’envisager une unité pour ce continent aussi grand et aussi divers ? Je me demande si la nature elle-même n’a pas horreur de l’unité. Il faut qu’il y ait une unité dans la diversité. Il y a une foule de choses que nous avons en commun. Il y a même beaucoup d’unité entre l’Afrique du Nord et l’autre. On y retrouve le même sentiment de la famille, le même respect pour les personnes âgées …

Jeune Afrique. Vous avez beaucoup d’amis. Avez-vous des ennemis?
Hampâté Bâ. Je ne m’en connais pas. Je connais des gens qui me critiquent, mais ce ne sont pas des ennemis.

Jeune Afrique. Avez-vous trouvé quelque chose de valable dans la colonisation?
Hampâté Bâ. Formidable. J’ai vu des administrateurs extraordinaires, qui, d’ailleurs, ont compromis leur carrière à cause de cela. C’est pourquoi je dis aux jeunes gens : la colonisation a été une chose blâmable, mais elle n’a pas été que cela. Elle a eu un côté positif. Or, si vous réclamez la justice, il faut que vous soyez justes vous-mêmes, il ne faut pas confondre un ingénieur ou un médecin qui a lutté contre la lèpre, par exemple, avec un commandant qui a administré des punitions à tort et à travers.

Jeune Afrique. Que pensez-vous des tâtonnements de la période postcoloniale?
Hampâté Bâ. Je les attribue au fait que l’Afrique indépendante a eu, comme législateurs et dirigeants, des hommes formés par l’école européenne. Administrativement parlant, on ne peut pas rendre ce qu’on n’a pas ingurgité. Le pays a absorbé sans assimiler. Le fossé est toujours le même entre la masse africaine et la poignée d’intellectuels qui la dirige. Mais la masse est confiante. Ce qu’il faudrait, c’est que les hommes de ma génération acceptent les jeunes, qu’ils se souviennent qu’ils ont été jeunes, qu’ils sachent rester jeunes. Ce n’est pas facile.

Jeune Afrique. Ne pensez-vous pas que l’influence de la psychologie moderne, des nouvelles formes d’éducation ne peut manquer de remettre en cause certaines traditions?
Hampâté Bâ. Toutes les traditions ne sont pas à conserver. Il y a des choses qui doivent être dépassées, qui sont dépas· sées. Le droit, par exemple, pour un chef de famille. de disposer de ses femmes et de ses enfants comme il veut. Beaucoup de vieux ne comprennent pas cela, il ne faut pas les heurter, il faut avoir de la patience. Une chose qui est dans la tête d’un vieux est une chose appelée à mourir.

Jeune Afrique. Ne pensez-vous pas que la jeunesse secoue un peu trop le cocotier ?
Hampâté Bâ. Oui, un peu trop. Et même inconsciemment Les jeunes arrivent à se dépersonnaliser sans même s’en rendre compte. II faudrait conserver ce que les pays ont de spécifique, savoir ce que l’Afrique peut donner à l’Europe, puisqu’elle ne s’est pas trop détachée de l’homme. et ce que l’Europe peut donner à l’Afrique, puisqu’elle s’en est trop détachée.

Jeune Afrique. On constate qu’entre les jeunes, les étudiants et les chefs d’Etat africains un désaccord va en s’accentuant. Chacun va dans une voie : les uns sont réprimés, les autres répriment. On ne voit pas comment on peut, avec les chefs actuels et la jeunesse actuelle, faire une harmonie.
Hampâté Bâ. C’est très difficile parce que, d’un côté, le chef, quel qu’il soit, dès qu’il est assis sur le siège du commandement, n’a qu’une idée, c’est d’y rester le plus longtemps possible. Pour cela, tous les moyens lui semblent légaux. La jeunesse, etle, n’a pas toutes les données du problème. Je vais vous citer le cas d’un jeune Peul qui était un grand dirigeant syndicaliste, très virulent, qui a défendu ses idées avec route l’énergie et toute l’abnégation possibles. Le jour de l’indépendance, on en fait un ministre de la Fonction publique. Je dis : « On a eu tort. On aurait dû le nommer ministre du Travail. » Quelques mois plus tard, remaniement du cabinet. Le jeune homme est nommé ministre du Travail. Six mois après, je vais chez un mara·
bout. Le jeune homme aimait beaucoup écouter les marabouts Il avait un peu maigri. Je lui dis :
— Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas ?
Il me répond :
— Les ouvriers exagèrent. Ils demandent l’impossible. Je ne dors plus.
— Tu vois, lui dis-je, quand on est à côté du chauffeur, on a tendance à croire qu’on connaît mieux la route.
C’était un honnête homme, il est parti.

Jeune Afrique. Pensez-vous que le système du parti unique soit un bon système ?
Hampâté Bâ. Oui et non. C’est un bon système tant qu’il empêche les partis de se neutraliser dans l’action. S’il y avait deux partis au Mali, l’un d’eux trouverait toujours l’autre incompétent. Mais quand le parti unique devient un instrument entre les mains d’une poignée d’hommes, il peut être terrible.

Jeune Afrique. C’est presque toujours comme cela.
Hampâté Bâ. Oui. Pourtant, si le chef était assez raisonnable … Mais il est difficile de demander à un chef d’être raisonnable parce que, s’il était raisonnable, il serait ailleurs. C’est un problème.

Jeune Afrique. Pensez-vous que la peine de mort soit une bonne chose pour punir certains délits ?
Hampâté Bâ. Oui et non. Non, si un homme n’a tué qu’une fois. On peut tenter de le soigner. Mais s’il tue deux, trois, quatre fois, si Cêla devient une habitude … Nous avons eu le cas en Côte-d’Ivoire : un bonhomme a tué huit personnes … La prison, oui, c’est une bonne chose. Elle donne au type le temps de réfléchir. Mais pas une prison comme celle dans laquelle mon père a été jeté : il ne pouvait se tenir qu’assis, couché ou accroupi. A la fin, il était ankylosé.

Jeune Afrique. En Afrique, il y a beaucoup de gens en prison.
Hampâté Bâ. Hélas ! On dit que les hommes sont libres, ils s’expriment et on les met en prison …

Jeune Afrique. Pensez-vous que les mots socialisme, capitalisme, néo-capitalisme signifient quelque chose?
Hampâté Bâ. En eux-mêmes rien du tout. Pour moi, tout cela, c’est un vocabulaire appris à l’école. Je me demande même ce qu’on met dans ces mots. Lorsque j’étais ambassadeur au Mali, on avait réuni un jour tous les dirigeants. Moi, j’étais le doyen des ambassadeurs, et presque le doyen de l’assemblée. N’importe qui montait à la tribune : le camarade Modibo a dit cela, le camarade Untel a fait cela … Modibo s’est levé :
— Camarades…
Il a parlé, parlé. Quand il eut fini, on m’a dit de parler. J’ai dit :
— Vous faites une bêtise. A vingt-cinq ans de différence d’âge, on n’utilise pas les mêmes expressions. Moi, j’essaie de comprendre les vôtres, mais si vous me demandez de parler, vous permettrez que je parle mon langage.
J’ai dit à Modibo :
– Tu dis à tout le monde : camarade … Modibo, tu n’es le camarade de personne ici. Comme on dit chez nous : on peut être le frère du roi, le fils de sa mère, on n’est pas son camarade. En tout cas, moi, je ne suis pas votre camarade, je suis votre père.

Jeune Afrique. Dans ces conditions, le système qui consiste à donner à chaque pays un chef d’Etat, une assemblée, des ministres, vous paraît-il une bonne formule pour l’Afrique?
Hampâté Bâ. C’est une formule copiée. Je ne sais pas si elle est bonne ou mauvaise. On verra cela à l’usage.

Jeune Afrique. Et le projet de francophonie ?
Hampâté Bâ. C’est une grande idée. Si l’on n’y met pas un contexte politique. Il ne faut pas mettre les anglophones d’un côté et les francophones de l’autre. Il y a un côté positif dans la langue française. Aucune langue africaine n’aurait pu la remplacer. Ainsi, Houphouët et moi, qui sommes amis depuis trente ans, nous exprimons en français … Houphouët est vraiment un paysan. II est dans les champs à partir de neuf heures du matin, marchant d’arbre en arbre, et il connaît sa brousse comme son bistouri. Un jour, dans sa plantation, nous arrivons devant un caféier en fleur. Je regarde le caféier et je dis :
— Celui qui secouerait ce caféier maintenant…
Houphouët achève :
— … n’aurait pas de récolte.
Je n’ai plus pensé à ces mots. Et puis, un jour, Houphouët a eu maille à partir avec ses étudiants. Il en a mis quelques-uns en prison. Les juges voulaient absolument les envoyer devant les tribunaux pour les condamner. Houphouët a dit :
— Laissez-les en prison.
II a interdit qu’on leur rase les cheveux. De temps à autre, il les faisait venir dans son bureau, les menait devant une glace :
— Regardez comme vous êtes jolis.
Les juges étaient excédés. Ils voulaient hâter les choses. Houphouët m’a dit :
— Il faudrait que le Seigneur me vienne en aide pour me défendre contre ces juges. Ils veulent que je condamne ces jeunes gens et, moi, je les ai mis là pour qu’ils puissent réfléchir. Tu te rappelles ce que tu m’as dit un jour devant le caféier : qui secoue les fleurs de son caféier n’aura pas de récolte. Ces jeunes gens, ce sont les fleurs de la récolte.
Houphouët a un côté sympathique. Je dis toujours : je regrette beaucoup que l’homme ne soit pas mieux connu.

Jeune Afrique. Quelle est votre activité actuelle au sein de l’Unesco ?
Hampâté Bâ. Membre du conseil exécutif. Nous nous réunissons tous les six mois pour discuter des projets. Nous rejetons les uns, nous retenons les autres. Entre parenthèses, nous les retenons tous.

Jeune Afrique. Etes-vous essentiellement parisien ?
Hampâté Bâ. Pas du tout. Je viens en France deux fois par an, deux mois chaque fois.

Jeune Afrique. En dehors de cette activité ?
Hampâté Bâ. Je suis en train d’écrire mes mémoires.

Jeune Afrique. Et votre travail de recueil de traditions ?
Hampâté Bâ. Cela, c’est ma vie. Je continue. J’ai déjà écrit beaucoup de contes, d’anecdotes…

Interview réalisée par Paul Bernetel.

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Eric Charry is associate professor of music at Wesleyan University and the author of many works on West African music, in particular the superb book “Mande Music” (University of Chicago Press, 2000). In January, 2004, Afropop’s Banning Eyre spoke with Charry at his home in Middletown, CT, for background on Guinea’s greatest modern band, Bembeya Jazz

Banning Eyre: Welcome to Afropop Worldwide.
Eric Charry: Thank you very much.

Eyre: Eric, I want you to give us a context in which to understand the creation and rise of Bembeya Jazz. At the moment when these musicians were coming together in Beyla for the first time—in 1961 or 1962—what was going on in Guinea? What was the situation?
Charry: I think to understand early Guinean modern music, you have to know the politics, the national politics, which was Guinea becoming independent in 1958 and they were the only French West African nation to vote “no” to remaining with the French African Community. They went on their own. So Sekou Toure was elected president right away in late 1958* and in 1969 he created the national orchestra, the Syli national orchestra, and people came from Dakar, the conservatory. They were called back. The orchestra grew and grew in ’59, ’60, ’61, and eventually split into two groups. Besides Bembeya there were two other major groups. There was what became Bala et ses Balladins, and Keletigui et ses Tambourinis. There were these two groups [in the capital], but Bembeya was off on its own. They were not part of this national orchestra. They were a regional orchestra.
What Sekou Toure had done was to create these regional orchestras in the early 1960s. He funded and patronized them. So in Beyla—that was in the southeast of Guinea—the local governor decided he wanted an orchestra. I think that was in 1961. So in Conakry, there was this national orchestra—and that split into two—but in Beyla there was this local, regional orchestra patronized by this regional governor, Emile Conde, and they just started off small. There was this first incredible recording that Leo Sarkisian had done with just acoustic guitar, a small group that looked like they were just starting out. They hadn’t really had any kind of significant training. Somehow by the mid-60s they had really formed into a tight group and began entering national competitions.
By the way, the griot, Sidiki Diabate, who traveled around with Leo Sarkisian on that first trip, was actually Sekou Docteur and Papa’s father—that’s what’s so interesting about this story! He was a heavy-duty musician, who pioneered the guitar between the two world wars, and Sekou Toure put him in charge of forming the national instrumental ensemble. So not only was Leo’s tour guide one of the major and most respected musicians in guinea, but he was also the father of two of the greatest guitarists of the era.
Eyre: What were the criteria of success in those competitions? What made a group like Bembeya rise to the top?
Charry: That’s hard to say. The orchestras that were rising to the top—orchestra at that time meant guitar and brass based bands—usually came from Maninka ethnic groups. So they had these guitarists that came from a jelitradition and also singers that also were affiliated with that. Another important thing to understand about Guinean modern music is these two families, the Kante and the Diabate. In a sense, they had a lock on the musical aspects of these bands. The two other major bands that Syli split into both had Kante as guitarists and singers, and Bembeya Jazz had Sekou Diabate as its guitarist. And so, through the guitar, these bands had a close connection to the jeli or the griot tradition. I think that was probably what Sekou Toure recognized, that through them, they were able to make that local connection. These bands all sounded very Cuban oriented. They were learning right off records. You can tell from their early recordings. But more and more throughout the 60s they became localized and began to dig into indigenous traditions and the strongest ones in Mali were the Maninka jeli or griot tradition.

Eyre: The Bembeya vocalist Salifou Kaba talks about doing research in villages to find material for the band. He doesn’t mention griots so much as popular songs sung at celebratory moments in the village. It’s a big party, a full moon night. What are songs people are singing that we might use?
Charry: Yeah, I think it’s still in the hands of the jelis. They have this deep repertoire that goes back to Sunjata. Then they have more recent ones, songs like “Minuit” or “Diarabi.” And these are songs that are exactly like that, popular songs that are played on Saturday evening for dancing. But often it’s the jelis who are playing the guitar or kora or balafon. Those are the ones who are animating it musically, so even though they’re talking about local folklore and popular traditions, I think it’s still in the hands of the jelis.
Now there’s a second stream of musicians who are Western educated, French educated Africans who have had training on the guitar or banjo or accordion actually. That stream, they were playing French pop music, and so the Syli National Orchestra, also Bembeya Jazz and the orchestras from the early 60s, they were a product of these two streams, one stream of the jeli tradition and one of the French popular, colonial tradition. So these two blended in the 60s and by the 70s they got their own national, Guinean sound.

Eyre: One more thing about the folkloric scheme. Salifou talked about ritual sources too. He mentioned initiations, even circumcision rituals, especially for the song “Lefa,” the fan the girl uses to cool herself off during a dance that accompanies the ritual. Would songs like that also be controlled by griots?
Charry: No, not necessarily. I can’t really talk a lot about that. I don’t know much about it. Those kinds of songs are probably more in the hands of drummers, djembe drummers or other kinds of drummers. Griots don’t usually preside over circumcision ceremonies. So they were probably drawing on these other traditions in addition to the griot tradition.

Eyre: How exactly did Sekou Toure actually get bands to leave aside the Cuban repertoire and focus on local traditions?
Charry: I don’t know what the actual order was on top. I don’t think anyone I’ve talked to went into that. But you can hear it, though. That’s the interesting thing is that it’s coded in the music. So the early recordings of Bembeya sound very derivative of Cuban music, and even on the LPs, they tell you whether it’s a biguine or a cha-cha-cha or calypso. But that stops in the mid to late 60s. I think one turning point is that “Regard Sur le Passé,” that epic recording by Bembeya Jazz done in the late 60s. There’s a balafon present, and I think it’s really significant that they integrated a balafon into a guitar and brass based orchestra. That’s this epic rendition of the story of Samory Toure, who was a grand warrior in the late 19th century who resisted the French. It’s a 30, 40-minute piece, along the proportions that you would normally hear from a griot, but in the context of a formerly-Cuban based band. So I think around the late 60s, there was this turning point when they began to look inward and began to shed their Cuban influences bit by bit.

Eyre: Samory Toure is actually an ancestor of Sekou Toure, right?
Charry: It’s a bit controversial. He claims him as his ancestor. Some historians are a little skeptical about that. Same Toure family. The only question is whether there’s a very close blood relationship or a more indirect relationship.

Eyre: Sekou tells about going back to his griot family and friends, to do research on things he had not been much interested in before.
Charry: They rose to the occasion. The piece was called “Keme Burema,” named after the brother of Samory Toure. It’s originally played on the balafon. Nowadays kora players play it also, but you can hear how the balafon part is the way they normally play it, just stuck in with electric guitars, a vocalist and drum set. It’s a bona fide rendition of a Mande or Maninka epic. The balafon player on that, by the way, is El Hadj Djeli Sory Kouyate, who is the most well-known balafon player in Guinea. And he’s actually touring the U.S. next month (February, 2004). He’s giving a concert in Zankel Hall in New York. He’s an elder statesman right now.

Eyre: Did other groups use traditional instruments too? Is this something that happened a lot?
Charry: The integration of traditional instruments into the orchestra didn’t happen until the mid- or late-60s, or early 70s, and it was a slow process. It was primarily the balafon, largely because the guitarists often came from jeli families and they had learned the balafon first and then transferred the balafon to the guitar. So it was a natural combination. And the style of guitar playing that they did in the orchestras was balafon style. In Guinea, at least. In Mali, it’s a different story. It’s more ngoni, this lute-playing style, or kora-playing style. So I think the balafon was the first. It wasn’t until really the ’80s that people like Mory Kante’s cousin Djeli Moussa Diawara would play kora with acoustic guitar. There was a market for that, and it came to be more and more popular. It was probably Mory Kante—who is Guinean but grew up playing in Bamako, Mali, bands—who brought the kora into the electric orchestras in the mid-70s when he joined the Rail Band.

So again, a slow process, starting with the balafon and then the kora. By the 80s and 90s, any of the jeli instruments could be played in this context, kora, ngoni or balafon.

Eyre: Guinea has a lot of great and innovative guitarists. How does Sekou “Bembeya” Diabate stand out from the pack?
Charry: He just had a lot of talent, and at a young age just picked it up and absorbed the Maninka style of making music. Whether or not he was trained as a balafon player, he absorbed the style. There were a bunch of great Guinean guitarists, Manfila Kante, who made his name with Les Ambassadeurs in Mali, and then the other Diabate, like Sekou “Docteur” Diabate who was with a rival band. They each had their own special talents. Sekou “Bembeya” was able to grasp the African polyrhythm and integrate it into the context of a modern orchestra.
He’s a showman. He’s definitely a virtuoso and a showman, and probably more than the other guitarists. I’ve seen photos and videos of him in the ’70s, and he’s on his back, feet up in the air, playing guitar, or playing the guitar behind his neck. And if you look at their outfits in the early 70s, they have wide bell bottoms with flower power shirts. So they very much were influenced by American styles too. What was Cuban music in the 1960s became American rock in the 1970s. They had shed the Cuban music by the 70s, but there was this rock flashiness that had replaced it. They were still playing in their indigenous style, but there was a somewhat psychedelic aspect to their music.

Eyre: Let’s talk about the Cuban thing. Sometimes I feel that the Cuban tinge actually held on more in Guinean music than in, say, Mali or Gambia.
Charry: Hmm. It’s hard to say. The arranger Boncana Maiga, who is Malian, spent the mid-60s at the conservatory in Havana studying, and he’s the brains behind the Africando operation. So there’s a strong Cuban component in Mali also. I think these three Francophone countries—Mali, Senegal, and Guinea—have such strong Cuban influences right from the start in the 60s. I would say that through the past several decades it’s come and gone, and come back again. In the 70s and 80s, they let go of that overt Cuban sound. In the 90s and more recently, I think there’s a move to come back to that.

Eyre: In Senegal with mbalax and in Mali with all the traditional styles, I feel like there was a more radical rejection of the Cuban sound than in Guinea.
Charry: Yeah. And again, I can’t overestimate the importance of the guitar in Africa, and particularly in West Africa, in Guinea and Mali. The guitar brought in outside influences, but it also was connected to local instruments. So it was this mediating force that could bring local traditions onto the international stage, and bring international traditions into a local context. So when they were learning Cuban music, they played it on the guitar. When old timers nowadays want to play what they see as local, traditional music, they may go back to Cuban music, which was the first kind of guitar playing that they had done.

Eyre: What about brass players? What was their experience and what did they bring to these bands?
Charry: They were at a disadvantage, because those instruments were not so common and they were expensive. Brass players came from a more aristocratic or noble class. Because their parents could afford to send them to school, they were often civil servants, and they had access to a French-style education. It’s not like you can just pick up a trumpet or a saxophone and just play it right off. Guitar is a little bit easier. The guitar is one of the most widespread instruments around the world. People can pick it up and make decent sounds from it pretty quickly. Trumpet and saxophone is not so easy. You need training. So brass players were not from griot classes. They were from the aristocracy(!).

Eyre: Also the music they would have learned was very different, wasn’t it?
Charry: Yeah. I think probably exercise books, French popular tunes, maybe even some classical music.

Eyre: Also marches I think. You can hear that character sometimes in the brass arrangements. They’re foursquare, bold, even a bit clunky at times. I’m thinking especially of that long, rather formal song they did for Sekou Toure’s part, the PDG.
Charry: Keletigui Traore was a horn player, and he was the leader of one of these three top Guinean bands, but in terms of the soloists, it was really the guitarists who ruled. When they wanted to get people dancing, it was the guitar solo that did it, not the brass section.

Eyre: Yeah. The brass is more about ornamenting the singing. Coming back to Bembeya Jazz, talk a little about what happened after that golden period in the 60s and 70s?
Charry: Another important thing to help understand Guinean music is the Syliphone record label. Guinea was unique in that this was a national record label. Mali didn’t have it. Senegal didn’t have it. Even the Congo, Zaire, didn’t have it. So you have the government supporting local orchestras. Then when the government hits hard times, then things fall apart. That’s exactly what happened through the 70s. Bembeya Jazz had this golden age in the ’70s, but by the late 70s, there were serious economic problems in Guinea. Syliphone released about 80 albums. The last ones were in the late 70s, early 80s. Guinea just fell apart economically. It was as simple as that. There was no patronage, no opportunity to earn a living. When Sekou Toure died in 1984, that definitively spelled the end of it, and people and people looked to France for further opportunities.

Eyre: By that time, world music is beginning to catch on in Europe.
Charry: Yes, but Bembeya Jazz missed the initial boat. Guinea in general, compared to Mali. If we’re talking the mid-80s, the world music boom was happening in Paris and London. There was a nice migration from Mali to Paris led by Salif Keita and Bembeya just was not there at the right time. The first two francophone West Africans to get on the boat were Salif Keita and Youssou N’Dour. Bembeya didn’t have international record support. It was really solo singers that were supported, not bands. Les Ambassadeurs had broken up. Rail Band in Mali and Bembeya Jazz in Guinea stayed together, but under hard times, and did not reap the benefits of the world music boom until very recently.

Eyre: The international audience was more prepared to comprehend a star singer. King Sunny Ade was more or less both, a singer and a bandleader. Guitarists were appreciated but not in the same way.
Charry: I guess Franco would have been the person. He was this great soloist. Maybe the only other guitarist who had that kind of charisma would have been Sekou “Bembeya,” but he wasn’t a singer. It’s vocalists who rule, for sure, as in any pop music.

Eyre: What do you think about the last recordings the band made in the ’80s. They were going for drum machine production and all that Paris stuff.
Charry: Yeah, for Sonodisc. They’re hard to listen to for me. I don’t really have much to say about them. It seems like they’re following a trend and don’t have much to offer.

Eyre: It seems like Bembeya Jazz, even more than the Rail Band, kind of lost track of its local audience as we come into the ’90s. For some years, they would only play if the government or someone with a lot of money called them together to do a show.
Charry: I was there in ’95, either ’93 or ’95. Sekou was totally approachable. I went to his home and he was doing nothing. He said, “Come down to the club and meet me.” So I went down to the club and I think it was him and Achken [Kaba] and maybe two others just sitting around drinking coffee, doing nothing. I don’t think they were playing. No opportunities, and no tourists. Nothing was happening for them, where at least in Bamako there were tourists coming through and that strong French connection. That’s why I was surprised when I heard that the band was really happening again.

Eyre: And they are. Their shows here last summer were spectacular. Whether they have the ability to innovate anew and create new songs remains to be seen, but they sure can play. In contrast to, say, the newest work from the Rail Band, Bembeya’s new album and shows pretty much reprise classic material.
Charry: And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, particularly to introduce it to a new audience. And again, I think the Mali situation is different because in Mali, they’ve had a scene all along. It never really disappeared. In Guinea, I think they had much more tragic consequences because of what Sekou Toure reaped upon the country. And then they were under a military dictator in the mid and late ’80s.

Eyre: What’s you’re overall impression of Sekou Toure? He seems a very contradictory figure, a visionary and a dictator. The Bembeya musicians I spoke with wanted no part of commenting on him. Even Salif Keita—who’s pretty fearless—is reluctant to say a critical word about him.
Charry: He’s an enigmatic figure. Sometimes in this world, there are no easy answers. He’s one of these guys where he was a great patron of the arts. Musicians loved him. He did a lot for the music culture of his country, and Guinea became one of the leading African countries in terms of its musical culture, presenting it to the outside world in the 1960s, due to Sekou Toure. But he became increasingly paranoid in the 1960s. That’s what happened. He began to think that people were plotting to overthrow him. He began putting people in jail and they began disappearing. One of the most dramatic was Fodeba Keita, who was the founder of Les Ballets Africains, the first African ballet in Guinea. He was the founder. Sekou made him the Minister of the Interiors. By the mid and late 60s, Sekou began to feel that this guy Fodeba Keita wanted to overthrow him, and he put him in jail and he disappeared. It’s not even known when he died. I believe his date was around 1971, but no one really knows. What happened was [Sekou Toure] became increasingly paranoid and ruthless. It’s a very different kind of dictatorship from, say, Mobutu in Zaire. Sekou Toure was not embezzling billions of dollars from Guinea. He was very much a patriot for his country. He just turned to be very ruthless in terms of dealing with his political opponents.
So what happened was in the decade of the ’60s and the early ’70s, Guineans reaped the benefit of a very strong musical culture. But throughout the ’70s, there became more and more of an economic disaster and political disaster too. I think millions of people literally fled Guinea, into Mali and neighboring countries. But again, it would be hard to find a Guinean musician who would criticize him because they’ve reaped the benefits of strong musical patronage.

Eyre: Even now, after all they’ve suffered since.
Charry: He was a revolutionary hero, and you can’t take that away from him. He thumbed his nose at the French and he organized his people, and he was one of the first to organize an African country and say, “We want to go it on our own.” And his people supported him. So throughout the ’60s, this was a revolutionary hero to look up to, and he was successful. And he had musicians supporting him, and they were making great music, so in a sense, how can you criticize that? It just turned out that he became increasingly paranoid and this very, very dangerous and evil side of him came out, and eventually wrecked havoc on his own country.

Eyre: Finally, looking to the future, what can we expect from Bembeya Jazz after all this? They’re back on the scene, but what can they really do now?
Charry: Sekou “Bembeya” is such a great guitarist that it’s in the cards somewhere for him to do an acoustic album with some interesting, creative musicians, maybe putting him with some non-Guinean musicians. I think he’s due to be in the spotlight as an acoustic guitarist. That should hit a nerve in the international market. As far as Bembeya Jazz, it’s hard to say. These guys came up in the 60s so they’re in their 60s now, if not older. I don’t know if you should expect innovation from them or just getting tighter at what they did. That may be their main contribution at this point.

Eyre: Sekou did one acoustic album in 1995, Diamond Fingers. Did you hear that one?
Charry: Yeah. It’s a little disappointing. It’s great to hear him play. But he needs a more interesting, international setting.

Eyre: He’s got a new one he’s just done. I haven’t heard it yet. The producer Christian Mousset is very excited about it. So we’ll see.
Charry: You know that Guitare Seche album, with four acoustic guitarists? Someone needs to put Sekou “Bembeya,” Manfila Kante and Djelimady Tounkara in one room. That would be a superstar album that I think could be a smash. I think all three of them would enjoy being put in the spotlight and being put on tour.
Eyre: Well, we’ll wait for that. Thank you very much.
Charry: Thank you.

Source: Afro Pop Worldwide

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Les Ballets Africains de Guinée
Créés en 1948 par Keita Fodéba et Kanté Facély

Un demi-siècle d’art et de spectacles

• M. Huet & Keita Fodeba. Les Hommes de la Danse
• L’Art africain en deuil. Kanté Facély n’est plus

Echassiers de la Forêt	Punition du violateur (Italo Zambo) des lois traditionnelles
Ballets Africains. Scènes de Malissadio

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Banning Eyre. Afro Pop Worldwide

Bembeya Jazz National
Interview de Salifou Kaba. Vocaliste

Angouleme, France. 2002

While Bembeya Jazz was rehearsing to record their comeback album, « Bembeya, » in May 2002, Banning Eyre had the chance to sit down with lead singer Salifou Kaba to discuss his nearly 40 years with the band. Here is their conversation.

Banning Eyre: Why don’t you start by introducing yourself?
Salifou Kaba: I am Salifou Kaba, cabinet maker and musician by profession. I was born in Kankan in 1943. I went to Koranic school, French school. In the end, I was oriented towards an apprenticeship center and cabinet making. I spent four years there and I emerged as a cabinet maker. That was how I went to Beyla, two-hundred and some kilometers from Kankan to work making tables, chairs and cabinets. I had my brother there who had done his studies in Havana. He came back with lots of Cuban records. I sang along with those records. At my workshop, I sang lots of Cuban songs. [SINGS] Things like that. During my vacations, I went to Kankan to buy wood. I had studied carpentry with [Aboubacar] Demba Camara. But when I went back to Kankan, he wasn’t there. I went to his family. His father was a train conductor, and he was in Mamou with Demba. Demba had abandoned carpentry and was repairing bicycles. I telephoned his father to say, « Your friend has left Beyla to find you in Kankan. Can you come to Kankan and meet with him? »
He came and found me in Kankan where I had bought my wood, and we went to Beyla together. When we got to Beyla, my diploma said that I was an engineer. On his diploma, it was written, « passable. » The head of the workshop saw that I was an engineer like him and demanded proof for Demba. We [did something to the diploma] and he was hired at the same salary as me. As we had been accomplices in Kankan before arriving in Beyla, the Cuban songs I was singing, we would bring them home and sing them together. We knew them already. So there was a tourist hotel in town called Relais. Every night we found Bembeya already in place. But there were no real singers. There was a girl, Djenne (?), who sang, but it was not really the thing. Everyone was singing.

B.E.: Was the group already called Bembeya Jazz?
S.K.: Yes, the group was already called Bembeya. But there weren’t any real singers. They had called it Syli Jazz. But six months after they changed the name to Bembeya, we came.

B.E.: So what year was that?
S.K.: 1962.

B.E.: So that first record made by the American, Leo Sarkisian…
S.K.: We were not on it.

B.E.: You and Demba.
S.K.: No, no. We weren’t there yet. After this record, we came. So as I say, everybody was singing—the drummer, the bass player. Then we came. Sekou, the guitarist, he had passed by our workshop and seen us working and singing. He asked us to come by the Relais that night. « We are going to form a little group. » That night we went to the Relais at about 8:00. Sekou had his acoustic guitar. The tourists were there, eating. We introduced a song and we started to sing. As my voice was softer than Demba’s, they took me. My voice was higher, more feminine—right up to the present. Demba was a tenor. But I said, « I can’t come into the group if Demba doesn’t come also. » That’s how it happened. They said, « Okay, if that’s how it is. Demba will come too. » That’s how we started.
We started working—one month, two months. Then the wood was finished again and I took a truck and went to Kankan again to look for wood. Demba stayed behind in Beyla. As he was staying behind and he had nobody to care for, he stayed at my place. After awhile, he got bored. He wasn’t being well paid, so he left for Nzerekore, and when he left there, he went on to Lola. But Bembeya had now got used to having singers. But we had left. I was in Kankan; Demba was in Nzerekore. The band was worried. They sent the drummer Mangala to Nzerekore to find Demba. But he didn’t want to come. A week later, I got home to Beyla. I wrote to Demba and sent the letter with Mangala. When he saw my letter, he decided to come back, and that’s how the band continued.

B.E.: After that, Demba went on to become a huge star.
S.K.: Yes, after that, we sang together. Bembeya started to have success at festival after festival. We went to Havana together.

B.E.: Really?
S.K.: In 1964.

B.E.: Wow, and you were such a fan of Cuban music. What was it like to go there?
S.K.: We saw the Cubans and they were good. We sang in Manding, but before leaving, we had learned a song by Abelardo Barrosa. [SINGS] This song was called « El Guantanamo. » We sang this song. You know that the Cuban musicians used written music. But we had nothing like that. We came, we played. And Abelardo Barrosa was astonished. He said, « Is this song known in Africa? » Demba laughed and cried. He said, « If you come to Africa, they are going to eat you alive, because everyone loves you there. » Old Barosa cried also. He said that Demba was his son now.
So we stayed there for a couple of months, and afterwards, we came back to Guinea. We continued home to Beyla. At that point, we were not yet a national orchestra. We were still a Federal band. We stayed there and we kept competing in the competitions, because at that time, every year, there were competitions among the regions. Best band. Best theater group. Best football team. Even writers. They would choose the best. So in Beyla now, in the band competition, there were two runners up. There was Kébendo Jazz of Géckédou, another Federal district, and there was Bembeya Jazz of Beyla.
Afterwards we went back to Beyla, but we were angry. We didn’t want to be runners up. We want to come in first. So when we got back to Beyla, we started looking hard. We went to the griots, the old people, in the moonlight where the children sing and clap. We went and listened, and we took these things. It’s like [SINGS « Akukuwe »] We took these things because they were popular. So now, at the second competition, we were first!

B.E.: And Kebendo Jazz?
S.K.: Second place! So that’s how we got to Conakry as a national orchestra. With us, when you are national you have become truly professional. After we arrived in Conakry, we did nothing other than music. We were paid by the government and every morning, we rehearsed from 10:00 or 11:00. In the evening, everyone went to meet their friends, their girlfriends, parents. We had become professional now. But at night, starting at 9:00, there was dancing in the capital. We started at 9:00, right up until 2:00 in the morning.

B.E.: Every night?
S.K.: Except for Friday, because on Fridays in Guinea, there were the neighborhood meetings. People would meet to discuss the problems they were having in the neighborhood. So there was no music on Fridays. Monday also. That was the day of rest.

B.E.: So that’s how things went. Now Sekou told me about the death of Demba [Camara], and how it broke the spirit of the band for awhile.
S.K.: Very much so! His accident happened like this. We were invited to Dakar by an association called Les Daganois. They are Peuls. Before leaving, the Minister of Youth invited us to his place. He said, « You have been invited by the Senegalese. What must we do? » He told us we must play very well. Demba listened to his words and then said, « M. Minister, we must go, but we have no instruments. »
At that time, in Africa, there were no sound system rental companies. None. Every band had to travel with its own instruments. It was not like now. So Demba said, « We will go to Senegal, and present ourselves with our broken instruments. Truly, this will not make me happy. »
The minister said, « Okay. The government has ordered new instruments from Italy. They will come. But as the date is close, you must go as you are. When you return, you will find the instruments waiting. » He said, « Don’t worry, » and everyone went home. The next day, Demba came in his motorcycle. It had a sidecar. We were rehearsing at the Jardin de Guinée. Before the rehearsal, he told us, I am going to visit a woman in Coya, 50 km from Conakry. This woman had told him that Bembeya had to make a sacrifice, that there would be an accident. …. After the rehearsal, he called us together and told us this. This woman in Coya, she threw shells and said that there would be an accident, that Bembeya had to make a sacrifice. When he said that, each member of the band gave 100 francs, 100 francs each to buy kola nuts. And we prayed with them and gave them away.
After we parted, Demba took his motorcycle. In turning in front of the dancing [club], he crashed into another car. We said, « Ah! Demba was right. If we had not made this sacrifice, it would have been serious. » It was two days later that we traveled to Dakar. We took the plane and we left. In the airplane, he and I were together. We had a thing when we travelled. We always took a little money of the country we were traveling to and after the plane landed, we went to the bar and had a coffee. This time, it was my turn to buy the coffee. So when we landed, I bought the coffee. Demba used to drink coffee three times a day. He loved that. I said, « Demba, I’ve bought the coffee, » and he said, « Ah, really, I don’t feel like coffee now. » He had a novel with him, « The Count of Monte Cristo. » Even on the plane he was reading that. So now he said, I don’t feel like drinking coffee. He said he was tired and wanted to rest.
We got our baggage and left the terminal. There was a car from the embassy there to meet us. Now, as I was both a singer and the sound engineer, Sekou told me to go in that car and go to the venue to listen to the amplifiers and make sure everything is okay. I said okay and got in the car. Demba followed me with his book. I said, « Demba, stay here. » He said, « No, no. You will drop me at the hotel, and then you can go on to the see where we’re playing. » That’s how he got in.
We took the cliff road. The driver was very happy. He did not have the price of a ticket. He told us he would leave us at the hotel, go and find his girlfriend, then come and find us at the hotel and go dancing! He was happy, pumping, pumping. I saw the speedometer rising. 80, 90, right up to 110. I felt something rising in my mouth, but I could not say it. I could not tell him to slow down. So it was me, Demba and Sekou. Sekou was in front with the driver. I was in the back with Demba. Demba was to my right. So as the car reached full speed, we saw another car approaching. The chauffeur veered and then he couldn’t get control of the car again. We hit the sidewalk and the car rolled. I saw the streetlights above, below, above, below. The door flew open and Demba was projected out. His head hit the sidewalk. He was curled up like that when we found him.

B.E.: That is terrible. Thank you for recounting that.
S.K.: When Demba was gone, we trained three singers. There was me, Nagna Mory Kouyaté and Moussa Touré. We named this trio Bazoka. Bazoka was like the guns used in the military.

B.E.: So that was the vocal sound for the group after Demba died, three voices.
S.K.: Voila. Trio Ambiance Bazoka.

B.E.: Interesting. Demba Camara was not a griot, right? But Nagna Mory Kouyaté was.
S.K.: That’s right. That was the first time a griot sang in Bembeya Jazz.

B.E.: But you had already done « Regard Sur le Passe » by this time.
S.K.: Yes. Demba sang that. But Nagna Mory redid it after the death of Demba.

B.E.: And he also did one of the songs you’re recording now, « Akukuwe. »
S.K.: Yes. That was his song.

B.E.: So this was the group that went to FESTAC in Nigeria.
S.K.: Yes. In 1977. That was something. Where were staying as artists, 300 meters away, there was Fela’s place. And there, with Fela, we met Bob Marley.

B.E.: Naturally you knew Bob Marley’s music by then.
S.K.: Absolutely.

B.E.: And Fela too?
S.K.: Yes, him too. I slept at Fela’s place.

B.E.: But was Fela’s music known generally in Guinea at that point?
S.K.: Of course. His music was known in Guinea. Bob Marley too. His music was also known in Guinea. So, there had been lots of festivals, but this one in Nigeria was the biggest. It was really good. All the African musicians, Europeans, Americans. It was full. Everyone was there.

B.E.: So tell me about meeting Bob Marley.
S.K.: There was me, the current chef d’orchestreAchken Kaba. We had a trumpeter, Sekou Legros , the fat one. He’s in business in Guinea now. He doesn’t play music anymore. We went also with Barry of Kaloum Star. He was there too, but not with us. He was working with a childrens’ theater, but as he was a musician, he was often with us. So we went to Fela’s together. Because Fela really liked Sekou Touré. Fela in his bar had posted the photographs of African heads of state, Sekou Touré and everyone, even Idi Amin

B.E.: Oh!
S.K.: [LAUGHS] Yes, even Idi Amin. Well, we can’t condemn him. That’s what he did. So Fela, when he came to sing at midnight, he took the microphone and he said, « There are musicians here from Guinea who are happy to come to our bar. Bembeya Jazz. » And he cited the names of the musicians. And Bob Marley came and said, « I want to meet the musicians of Bembeya Jazz. » We went. He spoke in English and I understood a little. We spoke in French and he understood a little. That’s how we talked. He presented his wife, Rita. In the end, he left me with his wife and he went, I don’t know where. I thought he had gone to [MAKES SMOKING GESTURE].

B.E.: With Fela.
S.K.: Voilà. They went. So that made me happy to meet him. We stayed there until 7:00 in the morning.

B.E.: So after that, Bembeya’s success continued for awhile.
S.K.: Yes. We toured Africa, a little bit everywhere.

B.E.: Things got harder after the death of Sekou Touré, I understand. You had Club Bembeya, but not as much work as before, right up until the last recording in 1987. What did you do during those quiet years?
S.K.: It was a bit difficult. Before the death of Sekou Touré, he explained that the government had a lot of problems. He wanted the national artists to be payed as public functionaries. He said, as there is Bembeya Jazz, Keletigui and his Tambourinis, Horoya Band, Bala et ses Baladins, you are all going to have your autonomy. Keletigui stood up and said, « M. President, we want to stay as public functionaries. » But we in Bembeya, we did not. We wanted to be independent.
The president said, « Try. You must try. If it’s not good, the government is for you. We are your brothers. You can come back, but first, try. » They gave each group a « dancing » with some money. I think it was 60,000, for the building, to get chairs, to paint a little. The government gave us this money along with a complete set of instruments. We had to manage from there. So each group worked its corner. Club Bembeya was for us. La Paillotte was for Keletigui. Jardin de Guinée was for Balla. La Minière was for Horoya Band.
But soon, this coincided with the death of Sekou [Touré]. The military rose to power. They verified everything. The musicians? They just left us like that. Up to this moment, they have just left us as we are. We have our bar. We have no instruments now. No sound system. But we have our place. So if Bembeya remains like that, we have to struggle. If not, we will just sink.

B.E.: Mangala told me that the bar provides a little income for the band, but not much, I imagine.
S.K.: Not much. I am still a cabinet maker. I have my workshop. I make bar decorations now.

B.E.: Now, the music is starting again. This really is a new chapter for the band, isn’t it?
S.K.: We’re counting on you now, the journalists. What counts in the world now is the media. We musicians we can play, but if we are not in the media, it won’t work.

B.E.: We’ll try! Let’s talk about the songs here. Let’s talk about « Sabou. »
S.K.: It’s like I was just saying. The journalists are the cause. In Malinke, sabou is the thing that is the cause of your success. That’s what we sing in « Sabou. » If it weren’t for that, I couldn’t have done this. It was Sekouba Bambino Diabate who wrote this.

B.E.: About when?
S.K.: Ohhhhh… the date now…. 1982? He says in « Sabou, » it was Bembeya that was the cause of my fame. I was in my village, Siguiri. It was Bembeya who brought me to the capital. If it weren’t for Bembeya, I would not be known. He’s telling his story. He was in the federal orchestra of Siguiri. And we took him to the capital to sing with us.

B.E.: What year was that?
S.K.: The date… His first song was « Telegram. » After that, « Sabou. » That was his second song.

B.E.: Okay, let’s talk about « Gbapie. »
S.K.: « Gbapie » is a song from the forest. We had a saxophonist who had been in Horoya Band before. A Horoya Band wasn’t working much, he came to us. « I am a musician. I can’t sit at home. I want to play with you. » That’s how he came. He told us he had a song called « Gbapie. » He sang it for us and we took it. With us, when you are a national orchestra, your are obliged to sing in Pulaar, in Guerzé, in Soussou. You can go everywhere in the forest to play, so you have to be ready.

B.E.: And « Gbapie » is in what language?
S.K.: In Kono. That’s a language of the Forest

B.E.: And the saxophonist is Diagbe Traoré. When did he come to the band?
S.K.: In 1987.

B.E.: So what do the words of « Gbapie » say?
S.K.: In a small village, as always, in the full moon, a young man has seen a beautiful girl. To have this girl, he sings this song, to charm her. « You, beautiful girl, you are perfectly formed, like a pear. When you speak, your teeth are also beautiful. You please me. »

B.E.: This song starts out slow and winds up with the rhythm of the forest.
S.K.: There, you have the boy, after he has charmed the girl, and there is a dance. He takes the girl by the arm and he sings, « Hey mano-ye. » Bam-Bam! « I want to bring you here. » So in the musical arrangement now, we augment the rhythm and it becomes a popular dance.

B.E.: « Bembeya International. »
S.K.: Bembeya left Beyla to come to Conakry [in 1966]. We had arrived in the capital. Now it was time to find clients. This song was a way of presenting ourselves, our band, to the Conakry public. « When you arrive in the capital, Bembeya Jazz greets you at the Jardin de Guinea….Horoya, liberty and fraternity! » Demba and I arranged that. [Salifou Kaba and Demba Camara. HE SAYS 1968. SEKOU BEMBEYA DIABATE SAYS 1965.] Every week, we tried to create new songs to attract the clientele. There was competition between the bands. We had to create. That’s how it was.

B.E.: « Akukuwe »
S.K.: It was me and Nagna Mory who arranged that one.

B.E.: You told me that this came from a traditional song sung in the streets.
S.K.: Yes, but it wasn’t like that. We arranged it at my place.

B.E.: So should I say it’s a traditional song arranged for Bembeya Jazz by Salifou Kaba and Gnagna Mory Kouyaté. Is that right?
S.K.: Yes, that’s right. This is a popular song sung in the moon light. The girls sing with the boys. [SINGS] A « koukou » is a type of drum made with a calabash. When you hit it, it makes a deep sound: « Kou kou. » So the song says, in the moonlight, I am going to tap this drum for my friend. [SINGS] This one came after the death of Demba, when we got Mory Kouyaté and Moussa Toure. I sang this with Mory Kouyaté.

B.E.: So that would be about 1974.
S.K.: That’s it, a year after the death of Demba.

B.E.: « Lefa »
S.K.: Lefa was with Demba. He wrote that. It was his wife’s uncle who gave us the tune. It comes from Wassoulou. Wassoulou is shared between Mali and Guinea and Cote D’Ivoire. Demba’s mother was from there. [SINGS RHYTHM] That’s where the rhythm comes from, but we modernized it a little.

B.E.: So what does the song say?
S.K.: « Lefa » is a song sung when young girls were circumcised. In the neighborhood, every family, your neighbors, when your child had been good—she came to help you pound millet, or to help you wash clothes—the day she was circumcised, 15 days later, they take her to [Margot] to put on other clothes. Then at night, everyone came to bring a little gift.

B.E.: To her.
S.K.: No, to someone you like. « Lefa » is a fan. While dancing, each person put a gift into a small calabash—fabric, rice, even money and gold. She takes the fan here. We call it Lefa. « You must wave the fan. My first girl is circumcised today. There is friendship, and there is friendship. It is today that I will show that she has helped me. » People gave the gifts during this song. There were lots of girls. There could be 15 girls. The one who helped you was the one you gave to. The person who created this song first sang it for the daughter of a neighbor. It was a person who had no children, but every day this girl came and washed her clothes and worked for her. So when this girl was circumcised, as she had no children, she brought gifts and sang this song. [in Malinke, for Bembeya in 1968.]
Interviewer’s note: The members of Bembeya Jazz want their listeners to know that they do not approve of female genital mutilation. The fact that some of the folklore they have adapted over the years has associations with this traditional ritual should not be interpreted in any way as an endorsement of what is plainly a brutal practice.

B.E.: « Yelema Yelemansso »
S.K.: That’s in Konianke. A troubadour gave us that. He was someone who sang in the neighborhoods and small towns. We got that from him. When he sang, he sang the chief of the traditional canton who was there in the time of Samory. He sings about these people. « Where are they now? » Yelema Yelemansso. The world changes. We live in a world of changes. Youssouf Bah adapted the song to Bembeya Jazz in 1987

B.E.: « Sanfaran Moussoukoro »
S.K.: This is also a popular song. I sang this with Nagna Mory and Moussa in 1974. [Trio Bazoka: Salifou, Gnagna, Moussa] There is a small village called Safaran, and in this village there is a sorcerer. If you are having problems with your children, or you need a job, or your crops did not yield a good harvest, you come and he explains to you the necessary sacrifices you must make, and he gives you remedies. If you have problems, you must see Safaran Mousoukoro. Moussoukoro is an old woman. [SINGS] « Old woman of Safaran, you are right. No one must anger you. If you are angry, it is not good for us. You are our hope. We must not anger you. »

B.E.: So you are singing for the people of Safaran, that they must not do this.
S.K.: That’s right. They must not annoy her. It is not good for the village.

B.E.: « Soli Wassoulou »
S.K.: This is like « Lefa. » There was one very impolite girl. When you greeted her, she would insult you. When she was circumcised, she even hit the old woman who did was doing that. That’s what the song talks about. This is in a language of Wassoulou, but it’s Malinke, the Malinke of Wassoulou. It’s folklore, arranged by Bembeya Jazz. It was the mother of Demba who gave us that. I sang this with Demba. She told us that when she was a young girl, she experienced this. She and this rude girl were circumcised together. This girl had wounded the old woman. So now after 15 days, they brought the new clothes for the girls, and everyone brings the gifts. But as this girl was rude, he mother had died. Here cruel mother sang this song. The girl insulted everyone; she respected no one. So when it was time to give the gifts, the cruel mother came with her gift, singing that what this girl did was not right. It was impolite. She sings this as she gives the gift. [1968]

B.E.: Thanks, Salifou. I look forward to seeing you in the United States.
S.K.: And you must come to Guinea.
B.E.: I will do that. S.K.: And when you come, we are going to dine on you! [LAUGHS]

Source: Afro Pop Worldwide

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• Religions révélées
  • Islam
    • P. Marty. L’Islam en Guinée : Fouta-Diallon. 1921
    • Dinguiraye. El-Hadj Oumar Tall
    • Gilbert Vieillard. Notes sur les Peuls du Fouta Djallon. 1939
    • Gabriel Féral. Remarques sur l’Islam en Guinée : 1945
    • M. le Gouverneur Beyries. Islam en Guinée Française. 1954
    • Mamadi Koba Camara. L’implantation de l’Islam en Haute-Guinée et ses conséquences. 1976
    • Education islamique : message du Président Ahmed Sékou Touré à la 1ère Conférence mondiale sur l’éducation islamique. 1977.
    • Visite du Grand Imam de la Mecque en Guinée, 1975
    • Mohamed Abdallah Al Soubahil. L’Imam de la Mecque en Guinée : sermons
    • Mohamed Bah Morigbé Kaba. La clé de l’Islam : la foi et ses principes, la propreté en Islam, la prière sous les diverses formes, les prescriptions islamiques. 1978
    • ISESCO. Culture et civilisation islamiques. 1988
    • Les Cinq piliers de l’islam
    • Interventions du président Ahmed Sékou Touré au 4e Sommet de l’organisation de la conférence islamique : Casablanca, 16, 17, 18 et 19 janvier 1984
  • Christianisme
    • Joseph Michel Teilhard de Chardin. La Guinée Supérieure et ses missions : étude géographique, sociale et religieuse des contrées évangélisées par les missionaires de la Société des missions africaines de Lyon. 1910
    • Association des églises et missions évangéliques de Guinée.
      – Consultation sur l’évangélisation des peuples non-atteints de la Guinée (CEPNA) : Conakry 3-5 September 1997
      – Guide de prière pour les peuples de la Guinée : les peuples de la Guinée pour Christ
    • L’Eglise catholique
      • Conférence Episcopale de Guinée. En route avec notre peuple vers la démocratie : déclaration sur la situation guinéenne. 1992
      • Conférence Episcopale de Guinée. Lettre apostolique de Jean-Paul II : « Tertio millenio adveniente » : vers le jubilé de l’an 2000. 1994
      • Conférence Episcopale de Guinée. Assemblée ordinaire. Vaincre la pauvreté : déclaration sur la situation guinéenne. 1996
      • Conférence Episcopale de Guinée. Relire le sens d’un cheminement démocratique. 1998
      • Conférence Episcopale de Guinée. Lettre pastorale : « vous ferez retentir le cor dans tout le pays, vous proclamerez la liberation pour tous ses habitants ». 1999
      • Mgr. Raymond-Marie Tchidimbo. Noviciat d’un évêque : huit ans de captivité sous Sékou Touré. 1987
      • Sermons et déclarations de Mgr. Robert Sarah, Archevêque de Conakry. 1978-2001
      • Repères pour … l’histoire de l’Eglise Catholique en Guinée, 1890-1986
      • Le Pape Jean-Paul II en Guinée : Conakry, 24-25-26 Février 1992
      • Visite pastorale de sa Sainteté le Pape Jean-Paul II en Guinée : arrivée de sa Sainteté Jean-Paul II à Conakry les 24, 25, 26 février 1992
      • Archevêché de Conakry. L’église d’Afrique toute entière, lit la Bible toute entière : programme de lecture de toute la Bible de 1998 à 2000
      • Sous le signe du Laïcat : documents pour l’histoire de l’Eglise Catholique en Guinée
    • L’Eglise anglicane
      • Bref aperçu de l’histoire du Diocèse de Guinée

• Religions non-révélées
  • Bohumil Holas. Les Masques Kono (Haute-Guinée Française): leur rôle dans la vie religieuse et politique
  • Denise Paulme. Les Gens du Riz : Les Kissi de Haute-Guinée
  • Jacques Germain. Guinée. Peuples de la Forêt
  • Pierre-Dominique Gaisseau. Forêt sacrée: magie et rites secrets des Toma
  • M. de Lestrange. Les Coniagui et les Bassari (Guinée française)
  • Claude Rivière. Fétichisme et démystification. L’exemple guinéen.

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Culture
Musique traditionnelle

Sori Kandia Kouyate

Sori Kandia Kouyaté, soloist des Ballets Africains de Keita Fodeba, 1955-1958

Sori Kandia Kouyatée jouant le koni

1937-1977
Maître-Griot (Jeli), Fuutanke de Ditinn (Dalaba)
bilingue Maninka-Pular, chanteur, musicien, compositeur.

Biographie

Discographie

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