The music is pumping.
The hip-hop star spits his twang-and-swag-laden rhymes to a tight metronome beat at an impromptu underground hip-hop session.
You know, where the real artists go (concerts at some Dome named after a cooldrink are so commercial, so fake, so sell-out-like).
The rapper sounds like Jay-Z, maybe he’s in Jay-Z’s entourage or something.
Everybody’s dressed in Sean John and Rocafella gear.
Gold chains and finger-sized rings galore.
Ah, everything is well with the world.
The song finishes.
You open your eyes and sober up from your music-induced trance.
What in the world?
Is that a shack in the distance?
And, was Maskandi music blaring from the taxi that just passed?
And you swear you saw one of these fine sisters at the get-down sporting a kanga.
It’s enough to make one order a cab to take you to your momma’s house to make it just on time for Thanksgiving dinner.
Then it hits you.
Contrary to the voices in your head, who’ve got accents from Kentucky (like the chicken), you are not in America!
Could it be?
But you have practised and polished Uncle Sam’s dialect so well, and you rejoiced when Obama got into the White House because everybody knows you’re a Democrat.
But what is this new wisdom that blinds your mind’s eyes?
You are in Africa.
That explains the mosquito nets and fufu.
And your name is Sipho, not S-2Deep.
So you decide to ditch your American accent (pronounced ex-en) and settle with the truth.
TIA. This is Africa.
Goodbye to your Nike high-tops and hooded sweaters, you need to get your loincloth on.
You decide to keep it real and act like the African you are.
You know, speak a local language or something (probably Zulu coz you regal like dat).
You resolve to “not anymore listen to the imperialist regime’s attempts at songs produced by a hybrid culture in a foreign land. Why I must listen to it? Me I can’t do that. No, that is wrong and a full investigation must be launched into the matter”.
But wait, what is that faint sound in the background?
Another song is coming on.
You nod along, catchy beat.
Soon enough you are remembering the days when you used to lace the Bronx’s streets with your mean B-ball skills with your boys in the ’hood.
Ah man, wasn’t that about the time when Clinton got into office?
That brother kept it real!
Too bad you couldn’t make any of his rallies, you were spending time with the fam over Thanksgiving dinner.