On my way from my hustle, I passed by a Liquorshop, got myself a few six packs and proceeded to my house.
It has been a terrible day for me with so many things that happened in the profile of the day. The most terrific and shuttering being the death of our friend, Martse. It was hard to believe such news but as cruelty may have it, the reality is notoriously sinking: the brother is gone.
The sad news compelled me to take a sit and sift through the records of his talent by playing his videos on YouTube. I am taken aback to 2016.
Seeing his face in his music videos, a series of memories of our personal interactions began to emerge: “Ankolo, ndamva zoti mwafika Lz, ndiye titani?” he said in one call and I told him I was going to see my Mother in Mchinji.
He told me to find him by Sammy or Sammies, something like that around Chitipi. He was still at NRC by then and he told me this was one of the places he hung around.
We started off for Mchinji – the two of us. I was the driver, he was the DJ. He played a few of his unreleased songs then and of course, some of the already released hits.
In a scenario like, few drinks and good, loud music, you got to experience Martse.
“Umadziwa Adha Kelvin, ineyo ndimatha zinthuzi, ngakhale tima hater tina take timafuna kuphweketsa,” he said while sipping his bottle.
Usually, a statement like that by Martse would be accompanied with a moderate laugh, the one you give when people are forcing things. I laughed too.
We got to my village, Ludzi in Mchinji and spent some time with my Mother before we went to a nearby drinking joint within the trading center.
It did not take long before the whole place filled with people who came to see Martse. In a village like mine, a trading center to be exact, news travels faster and Martse’s presence was one of them.
Boys, girls, women and men all came out to see Martse. The whole place was flooded with people who later started making demands that he performs just a song.
He argued that the DJ was already playing his songs. In the end, he was given an opportunity to speak. He stood up and said a few words.
“Magaye, kumalimbikira in everything you do. Kaya mumatani, but work hard. Ngini imatheka, kumapusha osagonja,” he said.
There were jeerings and cheerings, but just as everything must come to an end, our stay in the village reached its end. We said goodbye to the people who followed us to the car while chanting, “Martse! Martse! Martse!”
This is the greatest memory I have with Martse. In my small village, people showed him love and he gave it back. It’s still hard to process that he is gone.
Just like any person, Martse had his shortcomings, but the balance leans to how good he was and the great creative memories he has left behind.
Death is cruel, it couldn’t wait a few more years or months, weeks or days. It couldn’t wait even a few more minutes and neither could it wait just seconds for our Brother to say, “I am getting better”.
The Ghetto is mourning. Hearts are saddened. Our cheeks’s terrain are coursed with bitter tears. Our brother is gone, gooone, too soon. It’s a no ghetto no gutter, as he rests, to be missed by all.
R. I. P. Martin.
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