PAUL Matavire, the late immensely gifted musician, enriched Zimbabwe’s music tradition. Today, one has to part with some dollars to access his songs from online sites like Deezer.com, licensed under Believe Music and The Orchard Music.
BY TAPIWA ZIVIRA
On the streets of Harare, thousands of pirated copies of the well-loved musician’s CDs are traded everyday, with vendors pocketing precious dollars.
Matavire defied his visual impairment to conquer the country after transforming the charity Jairosi Jiri Band into a professional group, producing a string of timeless hits that still play on radio, YouTube and other virtual spaces.
But at his homestead in Maranda, Mwenezi, where his grave is, the place tells a different story.
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For a legend that he was, Matavire lies in an unmarked grave that sits a few metres from a half-built house, which he did not complete until death stole a march on him.
And deep in Mwenezi, 480km south of Harare and far away from the beat, lives an 84-year-old heart-broken and ailing woman, Mafirechuma Makanani.
Betrayed by fate and almost washed out by the harsh march of time, Makanani lives in the shadow of poverty everyday of her life.
Her son — Matavire — must be turning in his grave. At the height of his flourishing career, the Jairos Jiri Band leader, who rocked Zimbabwe with his unique, often rib-cracking musical compositions, lived a flashy lifestyle.
Matavire’s octogenarian mother, who now lives in her son’s incomplete house, tells the story of the anguish she has had to endure since her son’s death in 2005.
“Since my son’s death, I have been living in poverty,” she said, close to tears.
Mother of a music legend, she now survives from hand-to-mouth. She travels long distances in the arid Mwenezi district to find something to fill her stomach.
“This year, it’s is worse because of the drought, so I rely on hand outs from well-wishers. As you can see, my legs are swollen because I am ill and I cannot do any work,” she said.
All she holds onto are the fond memories of how great her son once was, the unfinished house he left, and the music that she, unfortunately, has no access to, while it enriches strangers she will never know.
It’s an old story that now sounds like a broken record. Many a musician have been richly punished for signing skewed contracts without first understanding the fine print, a trap that Matavire probably fell into.
Matavire’s path in music could have followed that of other music outfits of the 1980s and 90s, whose members lived artificial lives of fame and glamour on stage, while behind the scenes it was a tale of abject poverty, financial mismanagement, promiscuity and recklessness.
In the end, the life of Makanani — just like the dependants of the many late musicians — will remain that of agony, confusion and unanswered questions. They still hear the music being played, and they expect some financial benefits from it, yet nothing ever comes.
Unlike other musicians of his time such as Leonard Dembo and Simon Chimbetu, who have had their offspring keep their legacies going, Matavire appears to have died with his music — and fame.
Interestingly, no musician has attempted to rejuvenate or imitate Matavire’s style. Perhaps, such a gift cannot be reproduced.
Dr Love, as Matavire was known, who died on October 18, 2005, joins a list — quite a long one — of local musicians, who died, and appear to have been forgotten by the rest of the world.
These include System Tazvida, who died unexpectedly, followed by his younger brother, Peter, who had attempted to resurrect System’s band, leaving the outfit floundering; Cephas Mashakada, whose prowess on the lead guitar and art of reworking traditional gospel songs into jit beats is yet to be matched; John Chibadura, the legend and one of the founders of sungura, and the great James Chimombe, among many others.