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By Aaron Deslatte
In the beginning of a dream, there is nothing. Darkness and unfamiliarity engulf the cognitive realm. Then the conscious and unconscious greet each other as one clocks out, the other in. Their conversation stokes the fire of recollection and the dreamscape begins to form. To communicate the message of a dream, a common language must be established. A bridge between the unconscious and conscious must be built. Samite, the "Ugandan dream weaver," chose long ago that music would be the embodiment of his unconscious thoughts and the vessel in which to share his dreams.
Much like a dream's origin, Monday's performance (March 9, 1998) began in darkness. The crowd of Missouri Southern State College students, staff, faculty, and others assembled in Webster Hall auditorium awaited the onset in curiosity and uncertainty, many of whom were unfamiliar with Samite's music or origin. But, much as it must have sounded years ago in the Ugandan King's Courtyard, the concert's opening melodies come shrouded in the guise of nature's own song - the call of a bird, the rustle of the bushes. Then, Samite's song emerged. The kalimba carried the melody. Congas leaped into percussive support. The flute lent harmony to the mix. Samite was awake, alert, and dreaming.
A passive crowd looked on in dumbfounded stagnancy. They clapped when the overture was complete, but they weren't getting the message. Samite continued to sing his life's story. Song after song, his thoughts and emotions poured out in harmony and lyric. Their message began to paint a portrait for the crowd of a land separated from their own by sea and thousands of miles. Separated by languages and diplomatic policies, and yet somehow similar, and in some respect yet undetected, both places were the same. As the music continued, Samite's audience became more acutely aware of the mood, and more obtusely unaware of the surroundings. A slight transformation had begun. Feet begin to tap. Hands begin to clap. The Ugandan begins to sing "Silina Musango." "Homeless is not my name," Samite says. "My mother calls me baby." And like a hand reaching out taking hold, a link between the entertainer and the entertained is established.
The native tongue of Luganda does nothing to impair the change. Communication has begun, transcending clumsy verbal expressions. Mothers and children are dancing in the isles and in front of the stage. But the bulk of the audience lingers in hesitation. Children, the least inhibited by the possible social repercussions of spontaneous improvisational behavior, lead the wave of defecting Joplinites given their first taste of a new treat. At Samite's urging in between pieces, the crowd unites in uniform, non-verbal communication. As if Samite's soliciting serves as some sort of socially applicable get-out-of-jail-free card, the audience suddenly becomes engulfed in the song. Samite, like a gardener planting wild flowers, smiles as his creation grows beyond his control. The crowd is awake, alert, and dreaming. The message is a simple one. It is a message Samite learned while in a refugee camp in Kenya.
"I learned that despite class or education, we all share the same feelings," he says. "There are many differences and complexities, but in the end we all share our common humanity." "It's a brilliant way to spring into another culture," said Dr. Karl Schmidt, assistant professor of history at Southern. "If you live in Joplin, you might never see this." And almost as soon as it had begun, the performance is over. The crowd that left Webster Hall might not have been any more capable of locating Uganda on a map, but they felt closer just the same. Despite social, economic, and physical barriers separating Uganda from America, both lands share the same horizon when viewed from the heart. |
