Ketchup's Baby Paulina (ft. Uhuru)

In Baby Paulina, Nigeria's enigmatic Ketchup looks and sounds and moves, decidedly, like Awilo Longomba, who is his musical father. Indubitably. The same agility, the same joie de vivre, is all we see. But there's a kind of hyper-schizophrenic wariness and unease in the son that the father is not burdened by, as I remember. A Bond-like concern with ever-present existential dangers from sworn but unknown enemies afflicts the son. Or is it (it is) all an act, to remember?

Ketchup's alter ego simply can't have any other relationship, but with Baby Paulina -- whom he can't quite have! He's on a permanent quest, for her. That's the root of his recurring anguish, despite the availability of tempting alternatives. Anguish morphs into these bursts of primeval despair we hear in the chorus:

"Baby Paulina dey do like sey 
She no give me her numba eh!
And Baby Paulina dey do like sey 
She no dey feelin de lamba eh!..."

[Y sez: Fyn poetry dat!]

Yet Ketchup is steadfast, and this makes for a sensitive and wonderful song. Though it is the case that all novelty in due course fades, I think you'll never forget the first impressions that form in your mind with this captivating song by a man anguished by the love he has for his elusive babe. Images, sounds, voices, passions -- and the crazy story-line -- all blend into a brief moment of a highly-charged spectacle.

Uhuru, a South African group, features strongly in Baby Paulina, as they have done in an unusually large number of pretty good songs by various artistes across Africa. They are a true credit to the finished song, with a shoulder to lean on always at the ready for their restless buddy. Their signature hollering, which here tempers Ketchup's despair, adds a rich flavor to the offering. Their presence represents balance, and the promise of a good ending, even if only after we, the audience, are long out of the picture.

What lets the production down is the unnecessary and careless copycat instrumentation that's so noticeable in the first 25 seconds of the song. But all is soon forgotten as the feeling frenzy sets in and overcomes everything that there is there to overcome. And the ending is a truly spirited and even agitated affair, and itself culminates in a veritable montage of unfettered voice and body language and percussion and trumpeting and (did I hear?) sax. All as one. And all in the name of the one Baby Paulina that there is in the whole universe.

NOTE: Baby Paulina was published on December 4th, 2015. It has garnered 40,397 views to-date, as I publish this commentary.

A Turn, Always

There's always a turn in the road -- indeed, many turns -- which you have never taken, and may long have been intrigued by. Take such a turn, and you will see: see things you've never seen, and which not even the Internet has an account of whatsoever, from your way of seeing. And not just see: feel. Have feelings that make you not simply the person you presently are, but the one you're becoming, truly.

I took such a ('left') turn today, and came upon many lovely homes that I'd never seen, in which people live that I don't know -- perhaps just don't know yet, or perhaps know but have not imagined live quietly here -- in a serene neighborhood which was suddenly new to me. 

Hardly a resident on the sidewalks, but a scatter of parked and parking cars -- arranged as the neighborhood and the city desire that visitors arrange them. Hardly any sight or sound of children behind the fencings, nor of their parents and minders. Not of their older siblings and cousins either. 

A sense, nevertheless, of an unstoppable digital migration. A sense that belying the laid back physical ambiance was a vigorous and dedicated electronic chatter all over the air.

Anonymous people, then; yet people I have probably seen elsewhere -- in the streets of downtown Iborian, in the suburban malls, in other 'elsewheres'. Or who have seen me drive by -- seen the car I drive (and which is my, truly my, wife's) driven by as frequently as they think they remember. 

People who may even remember my face from behind the wheel, or from many chance encounters in public places, shared venues. People you wouldn't want to call strangers, because you had this deep feeling that living in the same city somehow bonded you, the all of you, mysteriously and gladly, into a oneness; and that the bonding was the reason the city continued to be as it was -- and to evolve as it was.

But one guessed, alright, that today the residents were probably there, taking it easy near mid-day on a sun-shiny Saturday. Or if not, then, perhaps like me, they were mostly out -- the day being what it was, the time seeming proper: out to/from the supermarkets, out to/from the malls, out to/from the barbers and the "saloons" and the tailors and the petrol stations and all the places worth being at.

I was, thusly, 'left' to my own devices. I was on my "own O!" 

I soon came to a dead end, though, and did a U Turn at once disappointing and prepared for. The turn I'd taken didn't exit at the other end and so couldn't take me to a road I'd thought/hoped/ doubted it might -- the hope that had prompted me to take the turn in the first place, on this day.

I turned left, at the point I'd moments earlier turned left, and drove home.