Illustration By Josh Cochran
By Alexis Okeowo
When Armand
Diangienda picks up an instrument that he has never played, he looks for
its hidden rule. There is always a rule, just as in math: a principle
that tells him that when he plays one note, or one chord, the next one
naturally follows. His fingers mimic how he’s seen others handle the
instrument, and then they find the patterns themselves, gaining
assurance on the strings, or keys, or valves. “I thank God for that
talent, because I can just look at someone playing and I can figure it
out,” he said. That skill enabled Diangienda to learn piano, guitar,
cello, trombone, and trumpet, and it was crucial twenty years ago, when
he started the Kimbanguist Symphony Orchestra, in Kinshasa, the capital
city of the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
On
a muggy recent evening, he walked to the orchestra’s practice room, a
few steps from his office in the compound that contains his family home
and the church he helps lead. Dozens of men and women, including young
teen-agers and middle-aged mothers, sat in plastic chairs and shared
music stands that held the score to the “Marseillaise.” In keeping with
church tradition, everyone was barefoot, and Diangienda slipped off his
sandals as he passed through the door. Wearing a blue-and-white striped
shirt and beige pants, he settled on a stool facing the musicians and
wiped sweat from his brow. “Are you listening to me?” he called out.
Musicians leaned into one another, talking and exchanging tips; the
sounds of horns and strings clashed as players warmed up. The space was
cramped; an oblong yellow-and-beige room with plastic flowers adorning
the walls, it had transparent doors that let in a weak breeze from a
courtyard. A small crowd from the church was watching outside. “I want
us to be very focussed,” Diangienda said. “If someone feels this is not
going to work, just tell me, ‘Papa Armand, this is not going to work,’
and I’ll find something else to do, because I’m a realistic person.”
Outside
the compound, Kinshasa is a city perpetually under construction and in
motion. Many intersections have no traffic lights, and so Kinois, as the
residents call themselves, cross first with a few tentative steps and
then at a full sprint. Venders dodge cars and buses as they hawk Ya Mado
and Ndombolo CDs; music stalls blast Congolese pop—springy,
guitar-driven rhythms made for dancing. One day, on the congested Avenue
Kitona, I watched a man in a pin-striped suit elegantly balancing a
bass in the midday sun. Soon afterward, a kid leaped toward my car
window to try to grab my phone.
The city is divided into moneyed enclaves like Gombe—where the well-off live and where many Kinois work—and the cité, where everyone else resides. In the cité,
people live nearly on top of one another, in a noisy, sleep-defying
maze of eateries, bars, hair salons, street venders, churches, and
shops. Diangienda lives in a quarter called Ngiri-Ngiri, near a vast
market that sells meat and vegetables alongside electrical and plumbing
parts.
The
orchestra used to practice in a hall in town, but that arrangement fell
through, so Diangienda’s home has become a conservatory and a practice
hall, a place where music and singing are always heard. Diangienda never
attended music school, and most of his musical knowledge comes from his
childhood church. But Héritier Mayimbi, the concertmaster, told me that
he was tireless: “He works only for musicians and his orchestra. He
does nothing else.”
Diangienda has
the look of a favorite uncle: a broad, genial face, with close-cut
hair, a slightly grayed mustache, and an attentive manner. At the
podium, he put on a stern expression. “Food is not going to come from
Heaven like it did for the children of Israel,” he said. “Do not expect
such miracles. People are making and inventing things of many kinds; you
and I have chosen music. What I can’t stand is people saying that I’m
not going to rehearse; I’ll just come for the concert.” He reminded the
musicians that the French Embassy had invited them to perform, during a
week of events promoting French economic and cultural activity in
Kinshasa. “The compositions we are playing are becoming more and more
complicated,” he said. “When you come here, some may come on time, but
they take too much time chatting with others, and take more time
laughing instead of rehearsing.” Everyone erupted into laugher.
Diangienda allowed himself to smile.
He
called out to Mayimbi, “Héritier, will you gather the strings to
rehearse?” Mayimbi, short and slender, with a lisp, was floating in the
black suit that he sometimes wears to rehearsals. He nodded. Diangienda
held up his baton, and they began to play.
Diangienda
was born fifty-one years ago, on the same land he lives on now. His old
house has been torn down, replaced with a renovated family home and
church—a sprawling concrete building painted in the Kimbanguist colors
of green and white and surrounded by a green metal fence. In the
orchestra’s general office is a large portrait of Simon Kimbangu, the
founder of the sect and Diangienda’s grandfather: full face, hefty
build, serious but kind eyes. Kimbangu, who advocated a new African
version of Christianity, was regarded by his followers as a prophet
anointed by God. In 1921, the Belgians put him in prison, and thirty
years later he died as a martyr there, but his movement only gained
strength, and it now has about eight million adherents throughout
central Africa.
1 comment:
the Kimbanguist is not the sect but the whole church. it's the third in DRC and other country in africa.
I know this church and orchestra. we are very proud of that.
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