Some Semblance of Glory

I always imagined I would be playing late into my seventies. Or eighties, if long life is genetic.

Not being a washed-up artist at 38.

The doors open and I walk in. I can read all the expectations in their eyes. Kazi Imelda. Some in the back sneak in a few photos even though I was particular about that when I agreed to come play for the class. No pics. No videos. No social media. No publicity of any kind. In fact, the children were not supposed to tell their parents either, but I guess some things can’t be helped.

They lined up their piano at the side, an intimidating black monster that has circled all my dreams, waking or otherwise.

I bow and take my seat. I haven’t needed to make an introduction in this country in 12 years. I ready myself to do what I am well known for.

Before, this was a sacred dance. I would whisper to the piano and take the lead. It would follow, we would daze our audience, but mostly we were just entranced with each other – lost in the music, oblivious to the rest.

Now I’m so aware of the rest.

I let my fingers rest atop their lover. Breathe in. Breathe out. I calm my thoughts.

We can do it just like before.

Except it's not.

I drop the tune and pace one staff in. I’m alarmed but I have to dumb down the gravity of it for my audience.

“Ha ha ha,” I dare to look out at them, “That is how I was playing when I had just begun. A little taste of Imelda through the ages, eh?”

They laugh along with me. Or is it at me?

My condition has not been made public yet. But it scared me enough to step back from the limelight and the people are catching on that something is not right. This is why this event meant something. Sure I want to inspire young minds but I thought a small intimate audience would keep the nerves at bay and let me do what I believe I was born to do.

I start again.

"Let’s try something lighter," I tease. My voice is not my own. It’s some happy preppy thing that I have not felt in weeks.

If I’m being honest…years.

I make it all the way to the chorus before I start to slip up. My fingers blur their movement and there is almost no way to salvage this blunder since some of them were already joining in.

"Whoops," more fake laughter, “Here I am acting like I wrote this song and giving it my own spin."

My audience is gracious, and their laughter is polite.

“Well,” their teacher picks up on my incompetence and claps himself to share my stage. “Perhaps, now is a good time to ask Ms. Kazi all the questions we’ve been bottling up.”

“Anyone?” He prods.

“Come on, don’t be shy!” And I smile along to encourage them.

A shaky hand goes up and their teacher lets out a breath.

“Yes, Asia, go on.”

Asia reminds me of everything I aspired to be as a teenager.

“Hi, Kazi Imelda.” I wave to her, “So I’ve been taking lessons since I was three.” The rest of the class groans, “It’s true. I’ve always known that this is what I want to do with my life. I’ve read most of your interviews and I think you and I have a lot in common.” For her sake, I hope that is not true. “Anyway, I think what I’m asking is, did you always know? And just to play devil’s advocate, what would you be if you weren’t,” she sums me up with her hand, “you?”

“Right. Hi Asia. And the rest of you.” I do not move from the stool. “I started playing at the age of 20. So, child wonder, I have to disagree that we have a lot in common.” The class snickers. I also know this is not common knowledge because I’m pretty guarded in my interviews, scared someone will figure out that I am a fraud.  “But a head start is always good in life,” I balance it out because I’m not here to add to some strife.

“At 20, I got a job in a music school just like this one but…not, if you know what I mean. Terrible chairs, peeling paint, teachers who knew they were doing everyone else a favour. That kind. I was there for the money, a paid internship as a Communications Specialist. They allowed me to sit in for some rehearsals and I was drawn to this beast,” I fondly rub the piano, “So, I lingered. I stayed behind after everyone else had gone and played to my bones.

One day the music producer heard it and kept me back. The rest as they say is history. So, to answer your question, I didn’t always know. And I guess it’s okay to not know. Just make sure you are making use of every opportunity. If I wasn’t me, I would most likely be in communications. Writing forgettable pieces about music in some forgettable paper. Obviously, I don’t have any complaints about how my life has turned out.”

All except one.

But I can’t rain my misgivings about life on people who have the rest of their future ahead of them to figure it out.

The first time my fingers failed me during rehearsal, I obsessed over the worst. I spent that night reading up on stars whose careers had been cut short, sudden blindness for a photographer, depression for a rising journalist, a devastating knee injury for a footballer. Much as the human body is capable of so much greatness, it is ridiculously fragile.

Another hand goes up. A lean boy with unkempt hair and big round classes.

“Which artist inspired you the most? And just for the record, you inspire the most. I think more so now that I know you took only 6 years to get to the top.”

My smile is weak.

“I think, respectfully, having one artist that inspires you the most boxes you in. I have borrowed from many, many artists. Dead or alive. Till I found my own style – mercifully. You don’t want to take inspiration to the point that there is no more originality to you. I played with many styles over the years. Some resonated with me and my audiences, some I loved and my audiences hated. You just keep trying till you find yourself in the art.”

“What’s the first piece you played fully on piano?” A quiet voice from a round boy at the front.

“Let’s see if you can guess it.” I ready myself. It’s not the first piece I fully played. At the time I was playing full pieces, it was for my personal pleasure, I didn’t know I was building a career and had to hold such moments in high esteem.

The doctors can’t explain why my fingers are failing at this age. They keep insisting that I should be pleased it is only my fingers and nothing else. But at this rate, I feel that I would rather it were anything else but my money-makers.

I didn’t expect to fall completely in love with an inanimate object as I fell for the piano.

I play a nursery rhyme with unnerving concentration. Making sure that my fingers hit the keys they should. It’s a mockery to the latest news feature that claimed I could play the music blindfolded.

By the time I’m done with that little piece, I’m breaking out into a cold sweat but luckily I’m too far for anyone else to notice.

This always brings me back to the things we take for granted. I had never paused to thank my fingers for grabbing something or moving just as a thought went through my mind. Now, they need some help and I’m frustrated. Does that say anything about me?

They clap and whisper among themselves.

“You were involved in some scandal four years ago,” The girl who asks, face littered with piercings and hair cut to a fade, winces as she finishes. Like she was told to not ask that. “I know that we can’t take what we read as the gospel truth. But your career kind of stalled after that. Do you wish you had handled everything differently?”

Instead of using my platforms to get the truth out, even though they really didn’t want to hear it, I don’t think so!

“Greatness… or fame and popularity is such a tightrope to walk. And unfortunately, it also draws the naysayers who will stop at nothing to throw you off it. The scandal – was not really a scandal though we won’t go into detail, just aimless gossip by an agent who had been fired for not doing his job right. I think I handled everything authentically. I’m not known for taking any crap sitting down.” Some of them laugh at it, “And I would rather have taken the route most authentic to me and suffer for it than sit back and keep wondering.”

“If you are wondering about scandals though,” and I see her give a slight nod. It’s not hard to imagine the gossip she must incite, “I want to say ignore them and rise above it but I know that’s easier said than done. Be too good. Too good that they can’t deny your talent. The phrases will go something like ‘She is a real player…In life but more so on the keys.’” That was the headline from The Watch when the rumors started. The girl smirks and a firm nod. “I assure you it is only small minds that will want to reduce the wonder of your talent to your worst moment for the rest of your career. And it’s a good tell-tale sign of who you want to avoid going forward.

“Set boundaries too. I knew that all I was offering to the world was music. That’s the only thing that was up for discussion. Not my home, not my family or friends, not my interests, or whatever else I did when I wasn’t playing. Setting those is hard at the start. People try to wiggle more information out of you but with time the message gets home.”

“I would like to play a duet, is that okay?” A short girl with flaming red braids that call for a second look and look better with each passing minute.

My mind is in a full shutdown moment. I can’t have someone close enough to see me play. And yet, this will also reflect badly on me, raise smoke to the fire that is my condition. Why can’t Kazi play a duet? What is she hiding? And the right questions to the right people will eventually expose me.

Luckily, my alarm goes off. I always do this to cut interviews short. After 25 minutes, they start to wander from their purpose and ask about things they have no business knowing.

“I guess I can’t afford that today,” I answer waving the alarming phone. I switch it off and wait for the teacher to close this off.

Instead, he walks over to me.

“This has been rather short,” His whisper is rather harsh, accusatory in a way, as he twists his fingers all over the place, “and honestly the conversation isn’t what I hoped for. I thought you would encourage them and tell them about discipline and hard work, humility, honesty, and integrity, not paint some fantasy about achieving stardom mastery in 6 years, ignoring people who are invested in your career, or thinking you are the be-all and end-all of your craft. These children need direction, not a boost in their already inflated egos.”

I think to answer him, say that I answered honestly and couldn’t do much about the leading of their questions. I want to tell him that teaching the students what he wants to teach them is his job, not mine. I want to scream at him too because he begged and begged me to show up even after I had turned him down seven times.

I settle for a shrug.

He walks to the front for his ending remarks.

“We are lucky that the Kazi Imelda took time out of her very busy schedule to come see us.” I don’t miss his pointed words and just roll my eyes.

“I know we didn’t get to the crux or crust of our meeting. She didn’t tell us about her first concert, the pitfalls of attaining success when you are hardly ready for it, what goes into having a successful tour, the patterns of a life sold out to success – which I assure you is waking early and putting in the work. There’s no off-day for greatness. You hear that, Opio. She didn’t tell us about bringing to life this industry in a country that doesn’t appreciate this kind of music, what it means to go first and open doors. In fact, I would say she didn’t tell us anything about being Kazi.”

I play two notes. I play them over and over. Loud then soft, then loud then fast then slow.

He stops talking and I build some confidence from playing the two notes.

All I ever wanted to be known for from the age of 27 was the music! Who cares if I wake up at midday or five? Who cares if I’m battling some food disorders or loneliness? Who cares what anyone else is saying if it’s not feeding into becoming a better musician?

I’m not going to play again. The doctors told me not to. Take some time off and see if the condition corrects itself with rest.

But there are just some things you know. Even when you are trying to delay the inevitable.

Like the fact that your lousy boyfriend will leave in a few months. Or that you really need to change your job. Or that you need to move to a quieter town. Or that there is no healing for you.

There’s no healing for me.

“Here’s my final act, guys,” I announce and they cheer.

I breathe in and out and will my fingers to do this dance this one last time.

One last time, I whisper.

One last time, I beg. Let me go out with a bang. Please. Like we have always done before.

I close my eyes and I play. I play like I have never done before. I play like I was saving to do at my final concert. I play with all my heart and mind.

I play.

With my eyes closed it’s easy to paint the scene. I have arrested my audience with the wonder that is my talent. They are speechless, jaws wide open, asking themselves how they would ever get to this. They are recording the moment, not daring to blink because they might miss it and they don’t want to miss it.

In reality, I know I’m fumbling a lot more than I should. I’m humming louder to distract them. I’m spilling through the cracks and not in the most dignified manner. The whispers I hear are not about my talent.

I open my eyes and there are teardrops on the piano keys.

I stand and bow. There are no words to salvage my poor performance. Maybe they’ll see beyond it, to the Kazi Imelda I once was.

They give me a standing ovation anyway.

They send me away with gifts and heartwarming letters they had dedicated to a legend, not a star burning out.

They allow me to depart in some semblance of glory.