Kora Musician Baba the Storyteller

October 1^st of 2006 I was scheduled for an outdoor performance of music and stories at the Getty Museum in, normally, sunny southern California. I look forward to outside performance, enjoying the heat of the sun and the feeling of the breeze but this day was slightly different. The sky was overcast, clouds were threatening rain and the temperature had dropped just enough to introduce a small chill.

On the drive to the museum I began to lament the dreadful conditions. I tried to push this negativity out of my mind but, hey, I’m only human. I had thoughts of standing in the rain all by myself telling stories to the birds huddle beneath the branches of nearby trees. When I arrived, I took care of the initial setup and preparation with the staff at the Getty and retired to the green room to tune the Kora, dress and enjoy a little quiet time before performing.

Outside the window of the green room I could see the sky growing darker and darker by the minute. I recalled the old adage, “the show must go on.” I made up my mind to venture out to the plaza where the performance was set to start and, even if no one was present, perform the music and stories I had come to perform.

As I made my way to the plaza I noticed a light drizzle starting to occur. I kept to my decision and tried not to think of the warm, dry, quiet room I had just departed from.

When I got to the plaza, I was pleasantly surprised. There were already about 4 families that were seated and waiting for me. The drizzle had not deterred them. As I began the performance with a song and music of the Kora, the light drizzle turned into a light rain. From the steps behind where my 4 families were seated, I could see the employees from the information kiosk in the main entrance of the museum escorting a convoy of about 30 people down to the plaza for the performance. A feeling very difficult to describe welled up inside of me; it was a mixture of joy, pride, humility and contentment.

These people were actually braving the rain to attend the session!

My enthusiasm kicked my performance into another gear. I sang, played my Kora and delivered narrative as I had never done before. During the performance I could not help but feel grateful to these souls whose actions spoke volumes.

By the middle of the performance, the drops of water had become a bit heavier. Still, no one moved. Parents covered children with blankets; men took off coats for the women they were with. Although these people had come to witness a performance, I was feeling that I was witness to one of the most memorable scenes that any artist could hope to be a part of. I thought for sure that I would lose the attention of the children, most of who were bundled such that a drop of water could not have touched them anywhere even if it had been a downpour, but the children’s attentiveness to the tales did not waiver.

Almost as if on queue, at the completion of the performance, it began to really rain. It felt as if the clouds had been watching the performance and, at the playing of the last note of the Kora and the speaking of the last syllable of narrative, chose release that which they had been holding back so graciously.

This moment was memorable for me in more ways the one. It taught me something about myself and my own expectations. It taught me, more than anything else that my work is more about service than performance. If these people were willing to brave in climate conditions for a simple taste of music and storytelling, then why not give them more than they expect. Every time I think of this moment, I feel the same sense of pleasure that I experienced on that day.

This is one of the reasons why I do what I do.

“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”