My earliest memory of listening to Papa Wemba takes me to when I was 10. Mum and I sat on a mat outside our house in Arua. The vast compound on which I played football with the kids from the neighbourhood was green with the exception of one spot that was clear. It’s where we played “Tich” (or dulu,) a game in which we would hit the opponent’s stone or nuts with our own bicycle nuts. It was on that compound that I learned to ride a bike two years earlier.
My friend Moses – whom we called Mos – allowed me to learn using his bike. The bike’s brakes were loose and out of control.
Mos briefed me. He told me how the pedals worked, showed me how to turn the bike to change direction, pulled the brakes to give an indication on what I’d need to do to bring the machine to a halt.
I told him his instructions were clear.
I got on the bike, started well, pedalled my way in a zig zag with no control over my speed. Mos ran after me in an attempt to save me from an accident.
“Hold the brakes and place your feet on the ground,” he shouted.
“How should I do that?”
“By lowering your feet to the ground.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I can’t’.”
“You can.”
I lost control. There was only one destination for me. The garden. I crashed into our maize garden, got cuts on my arms, a bruise on my shin, soil in my hair. I didn’t feel any pain. Got up like a solid young man ready to hit the ground running again. I climbed back on that bike and tried another time. I did it over and over. It clicked.
I got the hang of working my foot on the pedal. I figured out how to control the handle, how to turn the bike away from the garden, and to stop it with my feet on the ground when the brakes couldn’t help. I didn’t want to return Mos’ bike. He took it after I’d learnt that day.
Mum nodded to the music from our radio. My brother Christopher walked across the compound, drooling, picking up stones to throw at birds that sat on the tree growing out of the anthill in our garden.
Our red radio was tuned to 87.8 Paidha FM. It sat on a shelf that had albums with a few of my late dad’s photos.
Papa Wemba’s Sai Sai was on the speakers. The rumba and afro jazz in that song got mum tapping her feet. She was moving her shoulders, swaying her head to the beat. The bars in the rap section brought a hiphop feel to the song. And to finish it, the tempo changed with the groovy Congolese guitar that gets you on your feet, dancing with your waist and back side. Mum smiled through the song. She felt it in her skin.
The beauty of that song and how it made mum feel got stuck in my mind.
As I made my dinner last night, I played Papa Wemba in the background.
I marinated the beef with black pepper, red pepper, salt and a meat seasoning. I cut onions and carrots. I like the appealing orange color carrots give to food. I cut green paper, garlic and mushrooms.
The mushrooms were a leftover from a recipe I had experimented with the day before. I had baked mushrooms, minced meat, cream and dried onion at 200°C for 50 minutes. The end product looked like a burnt cake and tasted like a concoction of salty peanuts soaked in yoghurt. I ate it all because I’m not in the business of wasting experiments. It had no negative repercussions to my tummy. I’ll keep trying these random recipes.
Six Millions Ya Ba Soucis soothed my background. I hummed a long to Yolele and Show Me the Way.
I poured oil in a pan, brought it to a steaming place, added the beef in hot oil, stirred, covered and left it to fry. I added all that I’d cut to the saucepan.
Blessure filled my house. Mr. Wemba – may he rest in peace – took me to my pre-teen years. I moved my feet on the wooden floor. Swayed my shoulders the way mum did almost two decades ago.
I added tomato paste and reduced the heat under the pan. Left it to slow cook for 20 minutes.
I was pleased with what I made. Ate it with Basmati rice as Papa Wemba entertained.
That’s how we used to learn ridding bikes those days. They belonged only to adults, there were no children size bikes. My dad bought one called HERO for my late grand PA and ROADMASTER for himself. Yes, I too learned the hard way, stealthy took roadmaster to a footpath as my dad took a power nap. I successfully hoped on but was too short to complete the pedal. The sloping footpath led to a well in a swamp, had sharp turns dodging plantain. I failed to negotiate one bend that curved around an anthill, the bike went direct for it. I found my self flying over it, for a moment I could see down the swamp from up there. It was only about 3 seconds but a beautiful view, one that made me love flying that I grew up to become an aviator.
Just like planes crash land, it’s terribly painful if done by a bike. I can’t explain the pain I felt upon landing. I hit the perineum on the metal rode so hard that I still recall that pain 23 years later. I didn’t think of holding the brakes, the bush did that for me.
As you know our home people, my father already knew about his brand new bike bush escapades before I got my acts together to return home. If you were raised by a true African father, then you know what awaited me that day.
Your story got me laughing. Hilarious!
I’m sure your dad waited patiently to instill discipline the “African” way. 😂
That’s not how I learnt. It took several Mos-es and several bikes. One fall wasn’t enough.
And after I learnt, our own bike got spoilt. It’s been so long I think I’ve even forgotten how to ride. 😭
Learning to ride always involves falls. It’s like a right of passage.
I think you still have the muscle memory of how to ride. You might need just one try to get your riding mojo back.
I always get lost in your world reading your work.
I wonder why its always the brakes that fail us.
When I was Learning I picked up speed and I was told to hit the brakes but I kept imagining how the guys in the movies always flip over when they hit the brakes so I kept riding in circles while screaming my lungs out, I couldn’t bring myself to stop until I was heading for a cliff my uncle had to run after me and literally hold the bike. After my near death experience never tried again. Am a tri cycle expert.
And since your become an expert cook I know were am spending my weekends when you return home.
Thanks Tikia. Brakes are the true test of control.
Do we have tricycles for adults? Hehehe. I might become a weekend cook running a weekend restaurant.
I took me less than a day, I think that explains why am ever getting accidents
As long as you learnt, the skill to avoid accidents will be there.
This bike story reminded me of a Mo-ses of mine. The age 14 i also badly wanted to learn how to ride. This Mo brought his bike and the advice that the best way to learn riding is starting from a relatively hilly place. He never told me about how brakes work. You can all guess how i landed after suddenly braking. I only remember seeing a very white man standing over me asking whether everything is okay. Thank life it had rained, so i landed softly.
Oh, you also have a Moses I see. Learning downhill is a trap. It’s a recipe for falling over. Hehehehe. Lucky you had a “soft” landing.