By Gabriel Manyati
Some interviews end when the notebook is closed and the recorder switched off. Others follow you long after the story has been published, finding their way into your memory and acquiring a significance that only time can fully explain.
My encounter with Zimbabwean sungura maestro Alick Macheso was one of the latter.
It was either December 2003 or December 2004. I cannot confidently pin down the year without checking my records, but I remember the circumstances vividly. Macheso was preparing for a United Kingdom tour, and before his departure, he was scheduled to perform at Chitungwiza Aquatic Complex. I was working as a reporter at The Manica Post in Mutare, but I had an assignment for Trends magazine, a publication produced by Zimpapers. I wanted to write a feature on a musician whose influence was becoming impossible to ignore.
That night, I travelled to Chitungwiza Aquatic Complex with my brother, Oscar Tapera.
We were going to a musical performance, but I had another mission. I wanted to get inside the mind of the man behind the music.
A Night With the Sungura Maestro
There is something about interviewing a celebrated musician in the environment where his music comes alive. Away from the formality of a studio or an office, you get to observe the relationship between the performer and his audience. You hear the music, feel the atmosphere and begin to appreciate why certain artists command the devotion they do.
Chitungwiza Aquatic Complex provided that setting.
Macheso was already a formidable presence in Zimbabwean music. His intricate bass guitar playing, infectious rhythms and distinctive vocal delivery had established him as one of the country’s most exciting sungura musicians. His band, Orchestra Mberikwazvo, was building a reputation for performances that could turn an ordinary evening into an unforgettable musical experience.
Yet I was not interested merely in celebrating his popularity. I wanted to understand the man, his music and the thinking behind the words that had captured the imagination of so many Zimbabweans.
So I asked questions. Lots of them.
I wanted him to explain the meanings behind some of his songs, including lyrics that listeners might sing enthusiastically without necessarily understanding the ideas beneath the surface. I was particularly interested in the name of his band, Orchestra Mberikwazvo.
What did it mean?
Macheso explained that the expression conveyed the idea of going beyond one’s very best. Having given everything you could give, you somehow push further still. It was a description of exceeding your own highest standard, of refusing to treat your best effort as the final destination.
I found the explanation fascinating.
Here was a musician whose reputation rested partly on his extraordinary technical ability, yet the name of his band carried a philosophy of relentless self-improvement. Excellence was not a fixed destination. There was always another level to reach.
As he explained his songs and their meanings, I began to appreciate another dimension of his artistry. Macheso was not simply a musician who could make people dance. He was a storyteller, an observer of human behaviour and a man who understood the power of language.
His music could entertain while inviting listeners to think about their lives, their relationships and the society around them.
Oscar and I were deeply impressed.
When we eventually left Chitungwiza Aquatic Complex that night, we found ourselves exchanging the same verdict.
This guy is a genius.
We were not saying it merely because the music was infectious or because Macheso was a star. We had just spent time with a man whose understanding of his craft appeared to extend well beyond the stage. The interview had revealed a thoughtful artist capable of explaining the ideas behind his work with an ease that made his brilliance even more striking.
I returned to my writing with a story to tell.
Taking Sungura to the City
My Trends magazine feature was a substantial article about Macheso and the changing place of sungura in Zimbabwean society.
At its heart was an argument that seems even more significant when viewed retrospectively: artists such as Macheso were helping to dismantle the social prejudices that had long surrounded the genre.
Sungura had deep roots in the everyday lives of ordinary Zimbabweans. Its rhythms were familiar in rural beer halls, township drinking places and neighbourhood gatherings. It was music that spoke the language of the working class, drawing on experiences that ordinary people recognised.
But that popularity came with a stigma.
For some people, sungura was too closely associated with the poor, the rural and the socially unpretentious. It was not always accorded the cultural respect enjoyed by musical genres perceived as more sophisticated or fashionable. The problem was not the music itself. It was the social hierarchy through which people judged the music and, by extension, those who listened to it.
Macheso was helping to change that.
Through his musicianship, his growing popularity and the sheer force of his performances, he was dragging sungura, kicking and screaming, out of the margins and into the mainstream.
The journey was from rural beer halls and taverns to the central business district, from working-class neighbourhoods to prestigious venues such as the Harare International Conference Centre.
Sungura was becoming difficult to dismiss because its appeal was no longer confined to any single social group.
People from different backgrounds could gather in the same venue, respond to the same bass lines and sing along to the same songs. The music did not require listeners to abandon their social identities, nor did it demand that they belonged to a particular class. It simply required them to appreciate what they heard.
Macheso was instrumental in that transformation.
His music demonstrated that artistic sophistication and popular appeal were not mutually exclusive. One could make music rooted in ordinary people’s experiences and still command respect across social boundaries.
That was the central thrust of my article. I wanted readers to understand that Macheso was not merely enjoying commercial success. He was helping to change perceptions about an entire musical tradition.
When the feature appeared in Trends magazine under my byline, Macheso was delighted with it.
I did not know just how much the article had meant to him. Indeed, I would go for perhaps two or three months without speaking to him. I had written the story, submitted it and returned to the routines of journalism. Meanwhile, the musician whose work I had tried to capture had apparently taken the article to heart.
I was about to discover that my words had travelled further than I realised.
The Night Macheso Called My Name
Macheso subsequently came to Mutare to perform at Queen’s Hall.
By then, I had resumed my ordinary routine as a reporter at The Manica Post. I attended the show, accompanied by another brother of mine, not Oscar. I went as a music enthusiast, with no particular expectation beyond enjoying the performance.
I had no idea that the evening would become one of my memorable experiences as a journalist.
Shortly before the show began, Macheso spotted me. He called me over and invited me to sit at the stage, where there were some reserved chairs.
I accepted, still unaware of what was coming.
As the performance unfolded, the band worked through its repertoire, delivering the rhythms that had made Macheso a household name. I sat close enough to watch the action from the stage, enjoying a perspective that ordinary audience members rarely experienced.
Then came the moment I had not anticipated.
In front of the audience, Macheso addressed me directly.
“Manyati, Mr Manyati,” he called out, asking which song I would like him to play.
For a moment, the attention was flattering and slightly overwhelming. Here was one of Zimbabwe’s biggest musical stars, addressing a 24-year-old me by name before a crowd of his fans and offering to play a song of my choosing.
I did not need long to think about my answer.
“Play Charakupa,” I told him.
It was one of my favourite Macheso songs.
And he played it.
There I was, sitting beside the stage in Mutare, listening to a musician I admired perform a song I had specifically requested, in front of an audience that had just witnessed the exchange.
It was a small moment in the life of a major musician. For me, however, it became a treasured memory, not least because I understood, in retrospect, that it was his way of acknowledging the work I had done.
Word spread around Mutare, including at my workplace.
Some colleagues who had attended the show jokingly suggested that I must have tipped Macheso off beforehand, arranging for him to call my name and ask for a song.
The suggestion was amusing, but entirely wrong.
I had made no such arrangement. I had not even known he was so pleased with my article.
The gesture was spontaneous, an expression of appreciation from an artist who had read something about himself and felt that the writer had understood what he was trying to achieve.
For a journalist, there are few compliments more satisfying than knowing that a subject recognises the care with which you have told their story.
The Power of a Well-Told Story
Looking back, what stays with me is not simply that Macheso played Charakupa at my request. It is the connection between the interview at Chitungwiza Aquatic Complex and the moment at Queen’s Hall.
The first encounter gave me an opportunity to understand the artist. The article allowed me to communicate that understanding to readers. The second encounter revealed that the effort had resonated with its subject.
There was a lesson in that sequence.
Journalism is often measured by deadlines, page space, circulation figures and the next assignment waiting to be completed. Yet its most rewarding moments can be deeply personal. A story can make someone feel understood. It can recognise an achievement that others have taken for granted. It can give readers a fresh perspective on a familiar name.
That night in Chitungwiza, Oscar and I left convinced that Alick Macheso was a genius.
The years have not diminished that impression.
If anything, his enduring place in Zimbabwean music has reinforced the significance of what we witnessed. He was not merely producing popular songs. He was demonstrating how extraordinary musicianship could transcend class prejudice and bring people together through a distinctly Zimbabwean sound.
And somewhere in the story of that remarkable journey sits a young reporter from The Manica Post, a magazine assignment for Trends magazine and an interview conducted on a December night whose exact year I can no longer confidently recall.
I may need to consult the archives to establish whether it was 2003 or 2004.
But I do not need an archive to remember the conversation, the excitement of discovering the mind behind the music, or the look of surprise on my face when Macheso called me by name in Mutare.
Nor do I need one to remember the verdict Oscar and I reached on our way home.
This guy is a genius.
And, for one unforgettable evening at Queen’s Hall, he made a journalist feel like a special guest.
