This Weekend's Profile...

Michael Nicholas Camera Man from Denmark
And...Why we cant live without Photographers



I just said Michael Nicholas is from Denmark, but he has only been there for a couple of years. I knew Michael when we were part of a fabulous teenage gang called the Gringos growing on the highlands of East Africa. Most kids stuck together because they came from similar ethnic roots or communities but we were different. We were sporty and adventurous. We came from sparse, varied backgrounds and none of us was similar to the other. Even the Spanish word “Gringos” which is used in Latin America for “foreigners” was not adopted consciously. We took it probably to assert our own special (teenage) world that we had created.


Michael was one of the very few mixed race kids at Ilboru Secondary School as such was subtly teased. All sorts of names were used to poke fun at mixed race youngsters: Coloureds. Machotara. Mulatos. Tshombe. Mzungu. Kaburu. Neither fish nor flesh. Half-castes. I find it appalling that today many people still apply this medieval, dinosaur word: Half-caste. The brilliant Guyanese poet John Agard asks in his poem “Halfcaste” whether when light and shadow mix in the sky it is a half caste weather.
Good question. It is the abhorring caste system in India which contributed to this terrible vocabulary that stems from the inhuman class system that is till prevalent there.


....In Gringos, Michael found safe haven, identity, heaven. In Gringos there was no discrimination. We loved fashion. Bell-bottoms. Fun and Girls. Motown. Soul music. The 1970’s. We danced to James Brown music; we were stylish and watched movies during weekends. We did well academically too.


Michael Nicholas was cool, always with something nice to say to folks; a female at his side, witty, intelligent.
I quote one of his poems to a lucky girl:
"It looks so smooth,
When you shake your hips,
With that move,
Makes me want, to prove,
That you are,
My lady..."
Fast forward 37 years later.
Working in ships, having travelled a lot, a father; in his spare time, the camera a formidable companion. Check out few samples from a large collection of unseen footage.




.

This Weekend's Profile...

A small incident called Feeding and Dying. Life is funny, life can be tough; but this word, life, also means, struggle.
Honesty. Struggling is honest.
The struggle.
When Charles Darwin said survival of the fittest, he coined not just a phrase of the century but a life-old, statement. Even God would nod in agreement : “One of my children did say something honest.”
And so…

I am passing by. I hear kids screaming and yelling. What the heck. Youngsters always scream at the most minute things. It was... getting hysterical.
“Boris caught a mouse!”
This cat is always placid. I have seen him around. Lazy chap. Always mister nice guy.
Breaking News. There he was! Prancing, biting, checking the straggling creature. Yes, straggling…
“He is only teasing her.”
“How do you know it is a she?”
Kids question the most minute things. “The mouse is dead.”
“No he is not.”
“It…”
“It?”
“Oh yeh. We don’t know whether it is a he or a she.”
That’s right kids.
The mouse was playing dead.
Playing dead is a skill of survival. In war soldiers do it. It is documented throughout history. Mice are intelligent, that is why they are used in experiments.
“Oh, yes! The mouse is running away!”
You could tell whose side (David or Goliath?) the youngsters were on.
Now Boris the cat was coolly observing, paws ready, ears terse and tense, at the small, grey-black creature, trying to bolt, under the green grass, making a last dash.
The kids jumped and hollered.
Whiskers slightly flicking, as if un-disturbed, the feline animal trailed along, tail wagging, undeterred, ever ready…we were witnessing the master hunter in action.
And this is the theme of this piece. Calling it heroism is wrong, because heroes are fighters ; they wage war for a good cause, to save someone, help the drowning, the suffering and losers and victims. And life?
Life is always about winning. Against odds. A streak that causes strife. Road rage. Divorce and skirmishes. Lying down or standing up. Suicide or Victory. Either, or.
Cat is looking at his meal, mouse( he or she) is sniffing death; live or die. Of course Boris had his meal, the kids were so surprised. That is the calamity, the conclusion; inference and nexus.
“He ate her !”
“Not her… He ate it!”
Depending on where you are in the world, hunting (it)….is....
about somebody else’s food and the other’s funeral. There will always be wars and conquests. I don’t think I should call Boris the cat, a hero. What is it they say, sometimes? Anti-hero? Even that is too easy. You decide....

This Weekend's Profile

Some people are not aware they have good things.
They have to be reminded.



…They are too busy living…
Too unassuming to be bothered with tags and personal glory.
That is what comes to mind when I think of Rahmon Olugunna. A guy with no visiting cards, no brochures...a guy who makes no noise about himself.
On this sunny Friday, where music reigned and shoppers shopped, he was selling his paintings, at this Festival in Barking, East London. Amazing pieces of art.
Pictures can speak louder than sound or words. Images are like feelings. They are deep.
Rahmon Olugunna told me he was born in South West Nigeria and studied under the “late Rufus…”
Who is Rufus? I wondered.
“He was a great painter. He was called the African Picasso.”
True. I soon learnt that Rufus Ogundele (1946-1996) was a very colourful painter and one can see the influence but that is another story.
Rahmon said he has exhibited in Chicago in the USA. He has been doing this for fifteen years…
I could see he was not in the mood to talk too much. People were milling around his wonderful pictures. You know what?
Good stuff attracts…
Rahmon Olugunna gave us his number (+44) 7940-118938 and said if you like to buy his paintings email him at :
colourentertainer@yahoo.com

HUKWE ZAWOSE- A photo from the past- London 1996

Gogo traditional musician, Hukwe Zawose, was simply, a one off.
Gabriel Prokofiev the London musician who stage managed him sometimes, called his work Tanzania's classical music. That is something.
Zawose had his own unique style.
He made everything musical. His voice had a multitude of pitches, melodies and sounds. He played what is known around the world as Mbira. In Tanzania we call it Ilimba or Marimba. His nephew, Charles Zawose toured with him world wide in his last days. They are both dead. But recently the Zawose family band which includes Hukwe's beautiful children has been touring the UK.


I saw master Zawose many times.
I cannot forget a concert at London's Barbican, 1996. A cold night. Audience dressed in coats and gloves. Later we posed.
Les Rickford the Sierra Leone photographer did not do a bad job capturing that special moment. Me, on the left, happy to be with the outstanding man (then in his 50's);  with that famous gap on his teeth, just, happy.
Earlier the legendary musician had shared the stage with Mali's Salif Kaita and other great singers. Hukwe Zawose danced, sang, growled, crooned, bellowed, chanted, screamed, all mellow, all gleeful, aided by his crafty fingers on the Ilimba. His death seven years later was as shocking as it was saddening.
But you know what? Such people, says this photo, never ever die.