Good people, when will we stop killing and misrepresenting artists?
Over a decade since Evison Matafale died, the media continues calling the living body of his unique compositions as songs by the late Matafale.
What could be faultlessly termed “the late” is the clichéd obsession with artists’ deaths—for the same mouths seldom spit the ‘deceased thing’ when talking about international names.
Elsewhere, you hardly ever stumble into the ‘the late’ next to the celebrated names of Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, Michael Jackson Tu-Pac and other musicians; painters Leonardo da Vince and Pablo Picasso; writers William Shakespeare and Chinua Achebe; and actors Bob Hastings and Meshach Taylor….
Why then are we repeatedly killing ‘the late’ Saleta Phiri, Stonald Lungu, Du Chisiza of ours instead of immortalising their names for they selflessly helped shape, entertain, inform and educate this nation?
The annihilating school of little thought—yes, whether the author is dead or living remains a suffix not worth using in reference to quotable works in academic enterprises—could be a result of a popular parody that artists are human beings like any other.
They are not. They will never be.
Artists are a larger than life kindred. That is why Shakespeare remains Shakespeare centuries after Elizabethan times.
As local artists are striving for improved offerings to save their names from being overshadowed by their unpreventable end, another tendency is becoming widespread— calling artists by their babyhood names, not their cover names.
Imagine a radio presenter proudly terming Amaona Kuchedwa as a song by Francis Phiri. Whistle the hitmaker’s whistling song and it becomes unmistakable why he chose to be known as Lawi. Francis might be boyhood name like yours, but Lawi is the creative being in him and he must be recognised that way when talking about his creativity.
That is why George Orwell of Animal Farm, Homage to Catalonia and other books is still known by his Orwellian identity although he was born Eric Blair.
Before I become the late Chavula, this my plea: end the mortifying habit of killing and underestimating artists’ living identities.
