With Ssempeke, a whole music library is gone
TWO words have constantly dominated any conversation we have participated in since the news of Albert Ssempeke’s demise broke: institution and library.
By Dr Susan Kiguli
and Austin Bukenya
TWO words have constantly dominated any conversation we have participated in since the news of Albert Ssempeke’s demise broke: institution and library.
At the risk of sounding banal, we submit that Albert Ssempeke was an institution and at his death, a whole library has gone up in flames. We say this keenly aware of the fact that Ssempeke was a man who revelled in sharing his knowledge. Unlike in many other instances when we have written about a person, in Ssempeke’s case, we are using autobiographical notes from our interviews with him.
He was a great conversationalist who gave the impression that he was quite oblivious of his great profile as one of the most prominent Buganda and Uganda cultural musicians and performers. He loved talking about his lineage, his music and the music and poetry of the Buganda court. In the last lengthy interview one of the writers of this article had with him, he insisted on beginning thus:
“My name is Albert Muwanga Ssempeke. I was born on June 23, 1930 in the Ggombolola of Nakifuma in a village called Lutengo and I still live there. My father’s name is Simeon Ssemuwemba. We are the grandchildren of Mugema and I hail from the Nkima clan. My mother’s name is Roy Nakasi from the Nvuma clan.â€
He was a man very proud of his origins and he talked with the ease of one who had come into his own and who knew which course of action he wanted to pursue. It was inevitable to admire him and relax in his presence. Ssempeke was a simple and charming man. Thinking of him brings these lines from the poet Rudyard Kipling to mind: “If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings -nor lose the common touch...â€
If we did not know that they had lived centuries and continents apart, we could have sworn Ssempeke was the subject of Kipling’s poem.
He talked of his village with deep affection and insisted his love of music started there:
“In 1937, in my village in Nagalama, there was a man called Daudi, he used to come with his gramophone to our village every Sunday.
He frequently played the song Sente Kumi. To hear a person’s voice come out of the gramophone was such a novel experience for us as children, we even used to peep under it to make sure no one was hidden there.â€
His face always lit up when he spoke of how he and his brother Ludovico Sserwanga made flutes out of pawpaw stems and imitated the songs they had heard on the gramophone.
He demonstrated the tunes with ample gestures and that gracefulness of movement only he, Wassanyi Sserukenya, and the late Elly Wamala seem to have been masters at.
Ssempeke always narrated with careful deliberation his connection and attachment to the Kabaka’s flautists (Abalere ba Kabaka).
He also never missed out the detail that his own father had played the flute and had been a mugazzi (custodian) at court. Ssempeke adored the music of the court and a look of reverent adulation appeared on his face whenever he started discussing the influence of court music on him and his performing skills.
In a two-hour interview in 1996, he emphasised that the Kabaka was at the heart of his musical performances.
One of our friends, and now director of the National Theatre, Joseph Walugembe, once remarked that Ssempeke was the surviving key to the meaning and performance of Buganda royal music.
Ssempeke took great care to explain the seemingly difficult concepts at the centre of royal music, one of which was the idea he termed the verbal and musical bisoko (nuances). We even teased him by calling him Taata Bisoko (Daddy Nuance), at which he would let out his characteristically sonorous gale of laughter, lit up by that smile that never left his eyes.
He was also the first person to explain to us in depth the idea of ambiguity and allusion in Buganda royal music. It was most fascinating to listen to him.
He pointed out that the reason he was able to perform both before the king and at weddings was that the royal music lyrics could be interpreted as talking of love for one’s lover as well as love for the king, for example in the song: Njagala Nkwagale (I wish to love you): Nange naganza munnange anambeeranga muganzi wange. Nze nno njagala nkwagale nkusinze abalala ne mwanyoko andabe...(I also loved my dear, the one who will be my companion, my lover I want to love you better than others could ever do so even your brother notices me...)
These lines can be used to refer to the people’s love for their king and to the love between lovers. Ssempeke displayed impressive knowledge on his subject and this earned him honorary doctorates abroad. Maybe it will earn him a posthumous one locally.
One of Ssempeke’s most poignant performances one of us remembers was in Glasgow, Scotland, in 1996. He came on to the stage in his kanzu, holding his beloved bow lyre, and began to play and sing the song Ensiriba ya Munnange Katego (My lover’s talisman is a trap): Anti emagombe teggulwa kya’nnaku, Nange nandigenze ne ssebo (But the underworld is inaccessible. I would have gone with my father).
Indeed, the underworld is a mystery. Despite all he has shared with us, one feels we could not exhaust his skills. And even though we wanted him to come and help out now, mazima emagombe teggulwa ngandabye (the nether world cannot be opened, woe is me).
Apart from being an accomplished musician and performer, Ssempeke displayed a rare gift of wit and humour. He would pick the most seemingly difficult and humorous bits of songs to explain. A mischievous twinkle would slowly come into his eyes as he launched on the clarification of lines such as:
Abalyanga enkejje mulyanga njokye Nemuleka enfumbe ziwunya bubi (Those who eat sprats eat smoked ones...).
He frequently narrated the anecdote of how a friend of his missed the hidden meaning of the royal song Gganga Alula (Gganga’s narrow escape). The song, according to Ssempeke, is based on the story a courtier, Gganga, who was caught in an illicit love affair and was castrated.
Ssempeke attributed his exceptional skills as a musician primarily to Matyansi Kibirige, one of the king’s flautists and Evaristo Muyinda, one of Buganda most acclaimed harpists. Ssempeke’s anecdotes about the king’s flautists and about Muyinda are countless but the space does not allow us to recount all.
He spoke with pride about the current Kabaka and about the times he was called to play at court, particularly in the early days of the restoration of the kingdom. Many times he referred to himself as musajja wa Kabaka (the king’s man).
It would be unforgivable if we did not mention that Ssempeke had numerous friends across the globe and spoke so lovingly of, for example, Peter, Diana and Andrew Cooke, Samuel Kasule, Ssenoga Majwara and so many others. We shall miss calling at his office in the basement of the Uganda National Theatre.
He was very devoted to his family and explained that as one of the reasons his music group was called Aboluganda Kwagalana. He endeavoured to teach his children both girls and boys to love music. It is appropriate to end with these words from him:
“Firstly because I love my culture very much and my performances provide a way of keeping it alive because that which reproduces itself does not perish. Look, for example, at the cows and the amount of beef we consume but the cows still exist.
In a similar vein I see to it that what our forefathers produced does not die, I could liken myself to a footballer that passes the ball to another. I have told you I have taught my son Bisaso and Sekitoleko and others these skills. Even if I die they will continue with the music and they will pass it on to their children.â€
and Austin Bukenya
TWO words have constantly dominated any conversation we have participated in since the news of Albert Ssempeke’s demise broke: institution and library.
At the risk of sounding banal, we submit that Albert Ssempeke was an institution and at his death, a whole library has gone up in flames. We say this keenly aware of the fact that Ssempeke was a man who revelled in sharing his knowledge. Unlike in many other instances when we have written about a person, in Ssempeke’s case, we are using autobiographical notes from our interviews with him.
He was a great conversationalist who gave the impression that he was quite oblivious of his great profile as one of the most prominent Buganda and Uganda cultural musicians and performers. He loved talking about his lineage, his music and the music and poetry of the Buganda court. In the last lengthy interview one of the writers of this article had with him, he insisted on beginning thus:
“My name is Albert Muwanga Ssempeke. I was born on June 23, 1930 in the Ggombolola of Nakifuma in a village called Lutengo and I still live there. My father’s name is Simeon Ssemuwemba. We are the grandchildren of Mugema and I hail from the Nkima clan. My mother’s name is Roy Nakasi from the Nvuma clan.â€
He was a man very proud of his origins and he talked with the ease of one who had come into his own and who knew which course of action he wanted to pursue. It was inevitable to admire him and relax in his presence. Ssempeke was a simple and charming man. Thinking of him brings these lines from the poet Rudyard Kipling to mind: “If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings -nor lose the common touch...â€
If we did not know that they had lived centuries and continents apart, we could have sworn Ssempeke was the subject of Kipling’s poem.
He talked of his village with deep affection and insisted his love of music started there:
“In 1937, in my village in Nagalama, there was a man called Daudi, he used to come with his gramophone to our village every Sunday.
He frequently played the song Sente Kumi. To hear a person’s voice come out of the gramophone was such a novel experience for us as children, we even used to peep under it to make sure no one was hidden there.â€
His face always lit up when he spoke of how he and his brother Ludovico Sserwanga made flutes out of pawpaw stems and imitated the songs they had heard on the gramophone.
He demonstrated the tunes with ample gestures and that gracefulness of movement only he, Wassanyi Sserukenya, and the late Elly Wamala seem to have been masters at.
Ssempeke always narrated with careful deliberation his connection and attachment to the Kabaka’s flautists (Abalere ba Kabaka).
He also never missed out the detail that his own father had played the flute and had been a mugazzi (custodian) at court. Ssempeke adored the music of the court and a look of reverent adulation appeared on his face whenever he started discussing the influence of court music on him and his performing skills.
In a two-hour interview in 1996, he emphasised that the Kabaka was at the heart of his musical performances.
One of our friends, and now director of the National Theatre, Joseph Walugembe, once remarked that Ssempeke was the surviving key to the meaning and performance of Buganda royal music.
Ssempeke took great care to explain the seemingly difficult concepts at the centre of royal music, one of which was the idea he termed the verbal and musical bisoko (nuances). We even teased him by calling him Taata Bisoko (Daddy Nuance), at which he would let out his characteristically sonorous gale of laughter, lit up by that smile that never left his eyes.
He was also the first person to explain to us in depth the idea of ambiguity and allusion in Buganda royal music. It was most fascinating to listen to him.
He pointed out that the reason he was able to perform both before the king and at weddings was that the royal music lyrics could be interpreted as talking of love for one’s lover as well as love for the king, for example in the song: Njagala Nkwagale (I wish to love you): Nange naganza munnange anambeeranga muganzi wange. Nze nno njagala nkwagale nkusinze abalala ne mwanyoko andabe...(I also loved my dear, the one who will be my companion, my lover I want to love you better than others could ever do so even your brother notices me...)
These lines can be used to refer to the people’s love for their king and to the love between lovers. Ssempeke displayed impressive knowledge on his subject and this earned him honorary doctorates abroad. Maybe it will earn him a posthumous one locally.
One of Ssempeke’s most poignant performances one of us remembers was in Glasgow, Scotland, in 1996. He came on to the stage in his kanzu, holding his beloved bow lyre, and began to play and sing the song Ensiriba ya Munnange Katego (My lover’s talisman is a trap): Anti emagombe teggulwa kya’nnaku, Nange nandigenze ne ssebo (But the underworld is inaccessible. I would have gone with my father).
Indeed, the underworld is a mystery. Despite all he has shared with us, one feels we could not exhaust his skills. And even though we wanted him to come and help out now, mazima emagombe teggulwa ngandabye (the nether world cannot be opened, woe is me).
Apart from being an accomplished musician and performer, Ssempeke displayed a rare gift of wit and humour. He would pick the most seemingly difficult and humorous bits of songs to explain. A mischievous twinkle would slowly come into his eyes as he launched on the clarification of lines such as:
Abalyanga enkejje mulyanga njokye Nemuleka enfumbe ziwunya bubi (Those who eat sprats eat smoked ones...).
He frequently narrated the anecdote of how a friend of his missed the hidden meaning of the royal song Gganga Alula (Gganga’s narrow escape). The song, according to Ssempeke, is based on the story a courtier, Gganga, who was caught in an illicit love affair and was castrated.
Ssempeke attributed his exceptional skills as a musician primarily to Matyansi Kibirige, one of the king’s flautists and Evaristo Muyinda, one of Buganda most acclaimed harpists. Ssempeke’s anecdotes about the king’s flautists and about Muyinda are countless but the space does not allow us to recount all.
He spoke with pride about the current Kabaka and about the times he was called to play at court, particularly in the early days of the restoration of the kingdom. Many times he referred to himself as musajja wa Kabaka (the king’s man).
It would be unforgivable if we did not mention that Ssempeke had numerous friends across the globe and spoke so lovingly of, for example, Peter, Diana and Andrew Cooke, Samuel Kasule, Ssenoga Majwara and so many others. We shall miss calling at his office in the basement of the Uganda National Theatre.
He was very devoted to his family and explained that as one of the reasons his music group was called Aboluganda Kwagalana. He endeavoured to teach his children both girls and boys to love music. It is appropriate to end with these words from him:
“Firstly because I love my culture very much and my performances provide a way of keeping it alive because that which reproduces itself does not perish. Look, for example, at the cows and the amount of beef we consume but the cows still exist.
In a similar vein I see to it that what our forefathers produced does not die, I could liken myself to a footballer that passes the ball to another. I have told you I have taught my son Bisaso and Sekitoleko and others these skills. Even if I die they will continue with the music and they will pass it on to their children.â€