Draft timeline

Here is a draft timeline attempting to map the relationship between music and politics in Cote D'Ivoire. I am really hoping that it will aid me in my analysis. Notice how dense the year 1990 and the period after 2002 are? This is finally a graphical way to illustrate my argument. The problem is that I am not even close to being done!!! This is going to be so much work but I am very excited!

http://www.tiki-toki.com/timeline/entry/467423/Ivory-Coast-MusicPolitics/

Processes of social embodiment in Ivorian popular dance music

Dance is many things. Across cultures and peoples, it has often functioned as a salient instrument of expression and even at times communication. Undeniably, with its cultural codes and its symbols, dance has interested many researchers who have approached its study and analysis from a multitude of perspectives. These approaches have ranged from semiotic to psychological, and objects of study have varied from classical to folk dances. But before any serious analysis is undertaken to examine dance as a subject, it may not be redundant to recall the primary instrument through which dance is performed: the human body.

More than being a simple chassis onto which muscles, organs and skin are attached; the human body is an intricate whole, which is formed by the world but simultaneously also serves to form the world. As such, the body becomes an item that constantly evolves and is made subject to numerous societal influences and could be argued to be a reflection of the culture in which it has evolved. Thus the body is a testimony of the setting in which it has been engendered, a glimpse of the realities that shaped it. We can consider it to be the most universal and basic tool of identity creation, more important than personal names, nicknames, passports driver’s licenses and other forms official and non-official nomenclatures that assist in establishing our selves. It is hence with the body that we affirm our identities, constantly meandering between our desire for individual assertion and the laws or forces that regulate communal behaviors. As the body does not offer unlimited pliability[1], our helplessness in the face of conceding to the givens of a particular body – its physiological trappings – have often been the causes for great individual and societal struggles. Moreover as the self is captured within a physical body, the physical body is in turn also victim of the physical and cultural world and its incessant pressures. At times these pressures are deposited on the body, and can trigger reactions or require channels of evacuation. From a physical perspective it is obvious that certain triggers such as physical trauma elicit very specific somatic sensations such as pain or shock. But if as argued earlier, our bodies are as equally shaped by the world as they are able to shape it; how does the body respond to the pressures of the world?  How does it express itself when the bearings through which it previously identified itself are vigorously shaken? How do certain bodily practices serve as traces of culture and inform us of the world through which they have been crystallized?

These questions are particularly poignant in the context of dance, and its ability to be as Hanna (1979) states “a more effective medium than verbal communication to express needs or desires, or to mask intentions…”.  Dance is therefore, as posited by Hanna a meta-communicative medium that takes various forms depending upon the setting in which it is presented.  Moreover Glasser (1991) argues that dance could serve a political function, in addition to its other purposes such as entertainment, recreation, aesthetic expression etc. In what instances can a non-verbal communicative medium such as dance, serve to express political views and could certain dances ever be seen as an attempt to subvert political power – a form of resistance, or perhaps resilience? Yet in fear of being too general, it may be helpful to specify the spatial and temporal context with in which I propose to locate my analysis of dance – the urban landscape of Abidjan, the Ivorian capital in the years that led to and followed what has been defined as the Ivorian crisis. Of interest to this work are two specific musical styles/dances that emerged in the context of political turmoil – they are namely Zouglou and Coupe-Decale, two ubiquitous genres dominating the urban soundscape of Abidjan to this very day.

While considered by many to be at diametrically opposite ends of the music/dance spectrum, leading to much contention and inner tensions between adepts and performers, it is my argument that these styles actually form part of the same continuum and that one (Coupe Decale) could be considered to be the evolution of the other (Zouglou). Prior to advancing any further in the discussion, it would be useful to provide a quick contextual overview of the conditions in which these dances emerged. In a previous discussion, I try to explore Zouglou and its semantic implications by considering the origins and meanings of the terms and its trajectory from the days of inter-school sports cheerleading competitions (Wôyô) to the university protests and demands in the 1990s  - a period conterminous with a wave of democratization of the political field that swept across many African countries. Kamate (2006) describes the Zouglou dance as "a set of jerky steps with handwork that form a tense combination between incantations and street fighting. The dancer flexes his/her legs and performs a zigzagging advance while his/her hands cross each other akin to a knife-edge slicing through an imaginary body". Moreover in Zouglou terminology and amongst adepts of the genre, it is often repeated that “one does not dance Zouglou, but rather releases/liberates through Zouglou” (on ne danse pas le Zouglou, mais on libere en Zouglou). This semantic appropriation of the verb release as applied to Zouglou dance implies a primary cathartic purpose of this music/dance. Bilié Didier in his seminal 1991 song “Gboglo Koffi” provides the audience with a very overt reading key to deciphering this dance and its erratic and uncoordinated motions.

Ah! Student life is beautiful.

But there are lots of problems.

When you see a student, you get jealous.

Always Sapé[2]

Beautiful boy, without any Ghanaian products.

But one needs to step into his environment

To appreciate the misery and hardship that the student faces.

Oh! Dear God, what have we done to deserve such a fate?

And it is this manner of imploring the Lord that has spawned Zouglou.

A philosophical Dance which allows the student to meditate and somewhat forget about his problems.

Let’s dance Zouglou then.

For many West-African societies catharsis is a very important instrument to manage and regulate social tensions. From joking relationships, to satire and dance, West-African societies created through some of these behaviours and rituals, mechanisms to release mounting pressures and used them as a frame to pose a critical gaze onto society. In addition, catharsis as understood by the Greeks was a form of purification of repressed emotions through the arts.  In the context of Zouglou music, this same process could be said to be taking place as the dancer through their body finds a way to discharge the accumulated stresses that their world would deposit onto them. It wouldn’t be too far-fetched to even define stress in this context in its engineering sense as the ratio of the forces applied on a body to its surface area. Viewing the human body as a whole to which only finite amounts of pressures can be applied before rupture occurs, it may explain why an imperative existed for some societies to devise ways to rid their bodies of these pressures fearing that an emotional or physical outburst would occur. With a body constantly being affected by the tensions of the world of which it forms part and which it forms, it concurrently creates an impetus for release through bodily practices of expression and the performance of social dances in a context of social or political oppression. In the case of Zouglou music, it may be necessary to look at the political landscape of Cote D’Ivoire in the years that sustained the emergence of this particular genre – the early 1990s.

By the beginning of the 1990s, a decade had already passed since Ivory Coast had been subject to structural adjustment measures imposed by the Breton Woods Institutions. In the face of systematic mismanagement of funds and endemic instances of what Paul Bayart has termed “politics of the belly”, the Felix Houphouet Boigny government was forced to implement drastic austerity measures through all layers of society. Students who had until then benefited from full bursaries from the state and enjoyed a rather satisfying lifestyle were now hardly even supplied with semi-bursaries. Moreover, university campuses suffered from chronic overpopulation as flocks of students arrived in facilities that had originally been designed to accommodate a significantly fewer headcount.  Of importance to also note is a key speech that has significantly marked the imaginaries of many Africans. Delivered to African presidents by Francois Mitterand, then president of France, in the coastal city of La Baule in a post-fall-of-the-Berlin-wall context, this speech stressed to African leaders that the only way to achieve sustainable economic development was to democratize their political field as excerpted below:

But I want to say this: just as much as there is a vicious circle between debt and underdevelopment, there is another vicious circle between economic crisis and the political policy. One feeds the other. Therefore it is appropriate to examine together how we could, on the policy level have a number of institutions and ways of being that could help restore confidence, and at times trust between people and their leaders, and also between one State and other States, in any case trust between Africa and developed countries.

…

We need to talk about democracy. It is a universal principle that has just appeared to the people of Central Europe as absolute evidence to the point that in the space of a few weeks, regimes considered as some of the strongest, were upset. The people were in the streets and in squares, and the Old Power feeling its fragility, ceased all resistance as if it knew that it already was, and for a while now, emptied of its substance.

…

We must understand that this wave will go around the entire planet. This is something we know very well: the occurrence or glaciations or warming on either of the poles now affects the whole world. This is a reflection that should not remain in the realms of climatology; it also applies to the society of men! ... At last, we breathe, at last we hope, because democracy is a universal principle.

…

If there is dispute in a State, well, have the leaders of these countries discuss it with their citizens. When I speak of democracy, I am tracing a path, I am saying that it is the only way to reach a state of equilibrium when the need for greater freedom arises. I obviously have a scheme ready made which consists of: representative systems, free elections, a multiparty system, freedom of the press, independence of the legal system, the rejection of censorship etc. Such is the scheme that we have at our disposal.

Even if on the surface this speech exalted the importance of democratic systems for African nations; it was also connoted with a message implying that from this point forth, France would establish a selective aid policy favoring those African States which had implemented an effective democratic system of rule.  Nonetheless, the aforementioned events served as catalysts leading to an increase in demands for an end to the single-party ruling system in Cote D’Ivoire, and the university of Abidjan’s campus served as the primary locus for the formation of many anti-regime ideologies. It is also in these years that the FESCI (Student Federation of Cote D’Ivoire - Federation Estudiantine de Cote D’Ivoire), emerged as a dissenting voice against the MEECI (Students and Pupils Movement of Côte d'Ivoire-Mouvement des Etudiants et Elèves de Côte d'Ivoire), believed by many to simply be an extension of the PDCI-RDA – Cote D’Ivoire’s only legal political party. It is also in this climate of political turmoil, that the Zouglou dance formalized its own ideologies and acquired a definite form.

From this illustration, we see how spatial (university campus) and temporal (1990s) influences from their world have affected the precursors of Zouglou to generate empowering dances containing narratives of subversion. If the Zouglou dancers ended up imploring a higher power (God) in order to liberate their selves from their problems, it is because they felt their government failed to meet its obligations. With its eccentric motions – qualified by some as resembling those of a disjointed puppet – and its self-mocking name[3], Zouglou embodies a spirit of derision already present in ancient forms of African orature tracing their roots back to the Mali empire and its famed griots. This recurring idea of the emancipation of suppressed feelings through the act of dancing is once again connotative of the cathartic function I mentioned earlier.

But these emblematic early 1990s along with their climate of world agitation and their winds of democratic change were not eternal. By the year 1993, Felix Houphouet  Boigny was no more and left behind a political scene that hadn’t been prepared for his succession. Beginning with the elections of 1995, boycotted by most of the opposition parties, the country began a descent into a state of increasing political turmoil. In 1999, a mutiny that turned into a Coup D’État deposed President Henry Konan Bédié of his function, placing the General Robert Guéï as temporary head-of-state in a bloodless military operation. Termed by many as Santa Claus in fatigues, Guéï initially enjoyed unanimous popularity since he – as he liked to claim – had only come to sweep the house. However, his discourse quickly changed and he soon announced his decision to bid his candidacy for the highest office. Riding on the xenophobic ideology of Ivoirité already put to use by his predecessor, Guéï further modified the electoral code to disqualify most of his opposition believing it would ensure him victory.  However, it was not Rober Guéï, but Laurent Gbagbo – one of Félix Houphouët Boigny’s most vehement opposants – who won by universal suffrage. Two years into his rule, on September 19th 2002, Gbagbo and Cote D’Ivoire were once again victims to another coup attempt.  Rebels probably coming from southern Burkina Faso failed to capture Abidjan, but managed to take a hold of strategic cities the northern part of the country such as Bouaké and Korogho. In Abidjan, a general sentiment of fear reigned as curfews were put into effect. Announcements on TV and on the radio informed the population of the advance of the assailants[4] aggravating the general feeling of anxiety already present in Abidjan. In the words of many Ivorians, it was a period during which they were “too sad” – a time of extreme anguish. Inhabitants of Abidjan who had until then developed a festive culture, started feeling the oppression of their situation. For the first time in its history, all of Abidjan was plunged into a slumber by 6 pm.

It is in this context of deep societal anguish that Douk Saga, a young Ivorian man who had been residing in Paris arrived in Abidjan, bringing with him a flamboyant dress style, peculiar dance steps and a musical style reminiscent of Congolese Rumba and Ivorian Zouglou. It is thus that Ivorians discovered Coupé Décalé, a neo- popular dance music genre with a very clear message: Let’s dance! Let’s party! Let’s be joyous! But how does one dance when one’s country is experiencing its most debilitating military and political crisis? Does being joyous at such a grave juncture imply a form of irresponsibility? Would it have been a more appropriate response to participate in the patriotic surge that encroached the spirits of so many Ivorians during that time? It is impossible to even attempt to shine to glimmer of light onto these complex questions without first realizing that West-Africans, and Ivorians in particular, use fundamentally different tools to cope with suffering. This dawned at a very unexpected occasion which I am hoping to illustrate through the following anecdote.

A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine who’d lost his dad invited me to the funeral. We had met a couple of weeks earlier for an interview and had developed a bond. It was very important to him that I attend, and I, fearing to break some courtesy code cleared my agenda for this event. I arrived late with a friend, cautiously making our way across the open-air plaza. Chairs had been laid out on both axes of the stage offering guests a central view of the action unfolding in front. Above us, a streetlamp tinted the scene in golden shades with its soft shimmers of light. We sat as the sermon was coming to an end. As the preacher left, leaving his final benediction behind, the stage opened a Wôyô orchestra. Soon, the patrons’ faces which had until then been sealed with expressions of grief loosened up. A gentleman in a red T-shirt leapt unto the stage, beginning an energetic performance to the sounds of the drums. Never once expunging the grin on his face, he filled the space tracing winding lines as he went from one end of the stage to the next. Soon, women dancing in the same manner followed him and a dancing rainbow made of men and women donning bright garments formed onto the stage. This approach to mourning profoundly puzzled me, and I queried my friend Willy.

“Why are they dancing?”, I asked.

Pausing for a moment as if to gather his thoughts, he replied “Well it is to accompany the deceased”.

“But, isn’t a funeral supposed to be about mourning? This looks more like a party to me.”

“Yes, but we were sad earlier when the preacher was there. We cannot always be sad.  There is a time for mourning, and there is a time for rejoicing.”

Through Willy’s words I realized that Douk Saga’s attitude of joy in the face of military or political hardship was neither irresponsible nor unpatriotic. It constituted a form of resistance against forces attempting to disturb the existing conditions. Using music and dance, Douk Saga and Ivorians have managed to, as Mbembe so eloquently put it, use “music as a celebration of the ineradicability of life, in a long life-denying history.”  The Coupe Decale artists surely managed to use their lifestyle to affect the imaginaries of Ivorians such that their music “expressed, in the most haunting way, a raging desire not only for existence but more importantly for joy in existence – the practice of joy before death” (Mbembe, 2001). It is thus through this lens that Coupe Decale could essentially be considered as a mouvement de joie (joyful movement). Dancing during hardship should then no longer strike us an oddity, but rather a necessity. It is in periods of great grievances that the body needs to express itself the most, it is also in these periods that dancing becomes paramount as an instrument to battle forces attempting to contest our very humanity. 

[1] even though current advances in the fields of medicine and technology have pushed the limits of the dynamics of bodily alteration)

[2] Sape: Société des Ambianceurs et des Personnes Élégantes (The Society of Merry and Beautiful People). An acronym and culture which emerged in Zaire in the late 70s and was a form of protest against Mobutu’s regime. Today the term is used widely across French-speaking Africa and is synonymous with "well-dressed”.

[3] Origins of the term Zouglou remain blurry. However, the preferred etymology alludes to the Baoulé term Zuglu which means garbage, odd, or junk.

[4] This is the term which has been used to designate the rebels throughout the decades that shaped the Ivorian crisis.

Zouglou! A first draft

Zouglou! C.I (Cote D'Ivoire!) Present on the Ivorian music scene for almost 25 years now, Zouglou has certainly now imposed itself as a leading musical genre in Cote D’Ivoire contributing to the formation of the country’s cultural identity. Through its creative melodies, humorous lyrics and defiant allures, Zouglou slowly positioned itself as a medium through which marginalized youths have asserted themselves as a group, and have created a discursive space to communicate their demands for social inclusion and intergenerational justice to a national audience (Schumann, 2012).  Prior to my arrival in Abidjan, many skeptics had warned me that Zouglou had lost all its ground to newer genres such as Coupe Decale and Nigerian Afropop.  However, today as one tours Abidjan, it is all but impossible to miss the numerous Maquis proposing live Zouglou or Wôyô at least once a week. Every weekend, the sounds of Zouglou drums saturate the neighborhoods of the city as patrons gather in Maquis to socialize, drink and “liberate” (dancing in Zouglou terms). So how does Zouglou remain so popular to this day? What were the conditions of emergence of this music? And to what influences has Zouglou been subjected to produce its current form. In order to fairly elucidate these questions, it is critical to look at the origins of Zouglou, and analyze its trajectory through the Ivorian socio-political field throughout its years of existence.

Zouglou: Origins and meanings of the term.

To Bilé Didier, singer and dancer to whom some people attribute the paternity of Zouglou Music, Zouglou is the “expression of a set of behaviours and a way of thinking through gestures" (Adom, 2013).  In one of the first songs in the genre, “Gboglo Koffi  (The Hyena) (1991)”, Bilé Didier loads the Zouglou dance and genre with meaning  by describing a “philosophical dance”, a form of corporal expression for students and a way of “implore the Lord, and meditate so as to forget their problems”. Yet, research amongst scholars demonstrates that Zouglou itself may have existed in other forms and with other purposes prior to Bilé Didier’s opus. Indeed one has to go back some 20 years earlier to the days of inter-school sports competitions organized by the OISSU (Office Ivoirien des Sports Scolaires et Universitaires – Ivorian Office for School and University Sports) and their cheerleading orchestras known as Wôyô (according to Adom, this word means banter in Djula) or Ambiance Facile (Easy vibes) groups. Usually composed of a lead vocalist, some backup singers and some instrumentalists (a djembe drum or any surface that could be struck and a bell or a simple bottle), these student groups often toured the country with their sports teams and eulogized their own teams or denigrated their adversaries through their vibrant songs. In addition, these artists were also often called to perform at weddings, baptisms, funerals and other ceremonies due to their ability to captivate their public and the general popular nature of their songs. This attractiveness to the genre from the public could be justified by alluding to Wôyô’s sense of déjà-vu due to it being a music that heavily borrows from other styles (such as Aloukou in the Gouro ethnic group, or the Gbé Gbé amongst the Baoulé etc.) present in the diverse cultural landscape of Cote D’Ivoire (Cote D’Ivoire is made up of more than 65 ethnic groups, spread over at least 5 large cultural groups.). Consequently, Wôyô artists are often accomplished polyglots capable of fluently speaking in several other languages aside from French.

In the 1980s, several of these artists had completed secondary school and while the more fortunate found themselves studying at the prestigious University of Abidjan, a lot of them found themselves in situations that did not permit them to further their education. Oscillating between odd jobs and their performances, many of these artists kept to their Woyo traditions even as it was no longer practiced in the context of inter-school athletics. Yet, in to Bilé Didier and to many of the Zouglou connoisseurs that I have had to speak with, Zouglou is often described as not originally being a musical form, but rather being a set of specific dance steps.  Several theories and genesis stories exist regarding the conditions of emergence of this dance. One theory posits that these steps are attributed to a group of students namely Gogoua Christian aka Joe Christie, Bakary Ouédraogo aka Esprit Bakry and Bruno Porquet aka Opokou N’Ti (Lokpo, forthcoming) who may have developed their dance as a form of mimicry and/or mockery of a philosophy teacher who accompanied the delivery of his lectures with very articulated gestures. Another one claims that the origins of the Zouglou posture takes from the Baoule statues which represent a deity known as  Gboglo Koffi (or Gbokrokofi). Tchimou describes the statue as follows “Gboglo Koffi personifies the hyena. It is usually represented by a tall statue; it has a human body mounted with a hyena head. The knees are bent and the hands hold a small cup at chest height, to receive offerings.” (Tchimou, 1996).  It is worth noting that there is a striking resemblance between the Gboglo Koffi statues and the typical Zouglou stance (see illustration below).  

Moreover,  as pointed out by Tierou (2014), there is a close relationship that exists between sculpture and dance in African traditions. Tierou’s hypothesis alleges that all forms of African dance emanate from a basic somatic posture wherein the knees are flexed and the chest is more or less straight. Just like a Gbokrokofi statue, the Zouglou dancers keep their knees bent and their hands held out, hoping and imploring the Lord, searching for a means to better his/her situation. The group the Parents du Campus explains:

First of all, Zouglou is a dance of misery, a dance of hardship. When dancing, one lifts the arms towards the sky; it means that the student is imploring God, asking for a blessing from our Lord because he has many problems. When we bring down our arms toward the bottom, it’s to show that the student after all of his studies, is blocked, because he cannot find any work. (Man and Kraidy 1991: 10 – cited by Schumann, 2012)

Would it be too far-fetched to claim that a parallel exists between Zouglou and these Baoule sculptures? Furthermore, it would be worthy to also outline that in addition to being a Baoule deity, Gboglo Koffi is also a prominent villain archetype in Akan folklore. Using such figures to deliver social commentary was already present in the songs of the celebrated Ivorian group Woya who had previously recorded a song named Kouakou Ananze (Kweku Anantse). In this sense, it is as if artists named their songs after familiar folk figures such as the hyena (Gboglo Koffi) or the spider (Kweku Anantse) to buttress the function of these characters as vectors to educate and provide social commentary.

Nevertheless, my exploration thus far has yet to reveal any real meaning associated with the word Zouglou. According to the artist Poignon (on the precursors of the genre), the word Zouglou was simply an onomatopoeic interjection void of any real meaning.  Yet, with time it appears that the term has been inflicted with meaning. As Soro Solo hypothesizes, Zouglou is a Baoule term that means “garbage”, “junk” or “rubbish”.  This has been confirmed by another informant who adds that Zouglou is a pejorative term in the Baoule language which refers to something that may be “dislocated” or “strange”. A strange dance that Joe Christie and his friends used to practice with its jerky motions and peculiar steps, unlike anything that anyone had previously seen. At a party on campus, seeing his friend Joe Christy and his odd dancing form, Opoku Nti mocked him claiming that he was “dancing in Zouglou” (Adom, 2014).  The term caught on and with a slow but sure evolution and this dance became engrafted to the Wôyô rhythmic basis to form this new “philosophical” genre. Many observers have read this form of corporal expression along with the themes articulated in Zouglou music as a direct reflection of the condition of Ivorian society during the 1990s. In this sense, it is important to note that in Zouglou (and in Coupe Decale as we will later see), the nexus between dance and music is very present and intermingled – yet not inseparable as it is often claimed is the case with African music/dance (See Tierou, 2014). My informants have constantly affirmed that more than anything else, they listened to Zouglou music thus implying a certain passivity, but also a form of maturation of the genre. On a rainy evening in Paris, Yode and Siro told me “You see, today if you go to Abidjan you will notice that it is Zouglou that people play to attract people to their maquis. And today on the Ivorian market, it is only Zouglou albums that still sell” (Personal communication, 2015). My own observation of live Zouglou in spaces such as the Maquis (open air restaurants) and Bars Climatisés (air-conditioned bars) of Abidjan have revealed that unlike Coupe-Decale, these spaces are frequented by people who have, to borrow Borrow Koenig’s terms, graduated from the social cadet status. It is through backing from this social class that artists ensure their survival today by means of live performance.

Much like its fan base, Zouglou has also established itself today as a “mature” music genre still expressing the distresses of a marginalized youth, but surviving mainly through the patronage of a bourgeois sphere which has managed to establish and assert itself in Ivorian society.

“Cet autre que je ne suis pas” (This Other that I am not) - Reflections on a slam poetry night in Abidjan.

The last time I had been to a live poetry recital was in Toronto when I still fancied myself a poet. Then, I was still involved with the Parkdale Street Writers and we occasionally performed at the Gladstone at least once every year. Despite promising myself that I was going to attend a least one slam poetry session in Paris (there is a very vibrant scene over there), things were just too busy. However, never had I imagined that 1) Abidjan would offer me my first live slam poetry recital and that 2) it would be so good! It helped that I was already at the Institut Goethe where the performance would take place in the doing some work that afternoon. From the library, I could already overhear the sounds of the rehearsal permeating through my earphones. I paid no further attention.   

A few hours later, I found myself in the middle of one of the most interesting poetry gigs I’d attended to date on an powerfully controversial topic: Homosexuality. However, the sheer brilliance and complexity with which it was tackled left me completely stunned. Not because I didn’t believe in the talent of these poets, but because my own presuppositions precluded me from believing that such a delicate topic would be tackled in a fair and sincere manner.  The results were way beyond my expectations.

Homosexuality in Ivory Coast, just like in the West, remains a widely controversial issue. As countries slowly embrace more liberal approaches towards the issue, a certain level of apprehension is still present in all communities on the basis of religious, moral and societal underpinnings.  However, this apprehension more often than not has caricatured the debate presenting the very two extremities of the question: homophobia and “tolerance”. Nonetheless, the debate is often significantly more nuanced. People not supporting homosexual marriage are not necessarily intolerant, they are occasionally torn between societal and religious pressures and their own moral codes.

As Amina Meliane Bamba’s piece demonstrated (even if presented more eloquently than this), “God does not hate gay people, but it is against his scriptures. And He simply hates it when we stray away from his scriptures”. Upon first hearing these lines and the crowds loud cheers, I couldn’t help but impose my own precipitated judgment on the piece and label it as “homophobic”.  But it was not until I heard the following recitals that I understood that the tolerance/homophobia dialectic often present in most of the debates on the issue fails to capture its cultural complexity. As an example Olili Armelle Renée Zako’s piece mostly recited in Bété, showed that culturally the word “homosexuality” simply does not exist in the language, thus illustrating the incredibly foreign nature of the concept and the tension that one could face while trying to come to grips with it. Another poem presented by a gay poet certainly shocked some with its graphic content but appealed to everyone through its lyrical complexity. It received identical cheers and ovations.

But of all the poems performed, it was the ones delivered in Nouchi that I found the most interesting. They were rich in imagery and utilized very complex and imaginative syntactic forms. Most importantly, they powerfully delivered opinions from a very poignant vantage point – that of the everyday man struggling to make ends meet. “Si ils veulent il n’ont qu’a aller grayé Cabri/ moi je cherche Cabri a manger” (if they want they can go have sex with goats/ I am simply looking for a goat to eat). This  illustration does not aim to offend or portray homosexuals in a demeaning manner, but rather portrays a form of tolerant indifference, typifying an average Ivorian with too many economic, social and political challenges to face to even be bothered by this "new" issue.

The session ended with an invitation from the public to voice their opinion on the issue by anonymously presenting their views on a piece of paper that had previously been dissimulated under our chairs. This slam recital has certainly reignited my passion for spoken word poetry and reformed the gaze that I was posing on this issue in this very specific context. It was a salient illustration of the complexities of a society positioning itself in an increasingly globalizing world and torn between its customary conventions and the stresses exerted from religious, social, ethical and cultural factors.

Joking relationships and Couper Decaler - any parallels?

Joking relationships - The foundation of humour in Cote D’Ivoire?

To any tourist in Ivory Coast, it is all but impossible to not acknowledge Ivorians exceptional sense of humour. Humour entwines itself through all aspects of daily life and often serves as the underpinning for many human interactions. This humour and apparent light-hearted approach to situations has always fascinated me as a fellow West-African. One must note that due to Ivory Coast’s hegemonic position in Francophone West Africa, its urban culture and language has always found a way to export itself to neighbouring countries. Thus, most people on the west coast of Africa understand basic nouchi words, and for many youths Abidjan has long been a preferred city for immigration due to its superior infrastructures and vibrant lifestyle – but also perhaps because of Ivorians legendary sense of hospitality? The national anthem – L’Abidjanaise – depicts this central value very early in its first stanza

 We salute you, O land of hope,

Country of hospitality;

To many interlocutors that I have encountered, this hospitality the work of Ivory Coast’s first president, Felix Houphouet-Boigny. “He instilled in us a sense of hospitality and respect for one another”, I am often told. Yet, to an outsider the manifestation of this respect is at times done in a very atypical manner. Between ethnicities, groups, nationalities and friends, stereotypes abound. “You see these Bété people are this way…” “Baoulé people are that way…” “You Sénoufos are just like that!” While this stereotypical manner of categorizing individuals is present in almost every culture (thinking of stereotypes associated with races, nationalities in the West) including my own, the way it is handled in Ivory Coast has always intrigued me. It is only recently that I was introduced to the concept of “joking relationships” apparently very present in Cote D’Ivoire due to its cultural diversity.

What are Joking Relationships

The anthropologist Radcliffe Brown (1940) defines a ' joking relationship ' as a relation between two persons in which one is by custom permitted, and in some instances required, to tease or make fun of the other, who in turn is required to take no offence. He further identifies between two types of such relationships – symmetrical and asymmetrical. These relationships are found among many world communities ranging from Africa to North America. However, the circumstances of their occurrence and their function vary widely. They can occur between the members of the same family, between families (patronymic or matrimonial), or between clans (inter-ethnic). Unfortunately, for many of the instances that occur in West Africa, the term ‘joking relationship’ poorly captures the meaning and function of the phenomenon. Unfortunately the term “parenté à plainsanterie” used in French does not do a better job to capture the depth of the term. This is because, more than mere relationships, these social conventions are often pacts adopted by ancestors of previously warring factions, and in effect resemble alliances or covenants. Professor Urbain Amoa provides a few examples:

a) Nan is the abbreviation for Nanan in Agni or in Baoule. Nanan (grandfather or grandmother or ancestor) yields the phrase "ye nin bè di nan” which means we have a covenant with them"; such allies refer to each other as "nanan" and to each nanan, every person from the other group is "his slave" as prescribed by the practices of language juggling between grandparents and grandchildren.

b) According to Professor George N. Bouah "Toukpê" is an institution from ancient times designed to resolve social conflicts and to manage peace perpetually. "Toukpé, means "tou" as "jump" and "kpè" which means “cut” or “go through”; in other words “Toukpê” means “transcend”. (Amoa,2009)

The term ‘Joking relationship’ or “parenté à plainsanterie” proves too vague to describe the specifics and particulars of these kinds of alliances found all over West-Africa. In terms of function, these alliances through humour, serve primarily a peacekeeping purpose. Amongst the 8 objectives listed by Yacouba Kouadio relative to the rationale for the existence of these alliances, I am of Prof. Urbain Amoa’s opinion when he points out that one of the most important functions of these relationships is the obligation to defuse or make less alarming nascent or existing conflicts amongst peoples observing the pact. Prof. Alain Joseph Sisao further adds to the definition by elegantly noting that joking relationships could be defined as the social management of various sources of possible tensions through laughter. It is a question of evoking linkages to defuse tensions, to play on know-hows to let one know what was or what is, and to situate the Other at the optimal distance, close enough to be the same, yet far enough to remain Other. (Sissao, xxxx).  In this sense, Sissao’s emphasizes the use of humour and ridicule as powerful agents in the social management of conflicts and other dramatic incidents such as war or death. Thus, practices such as Sanankuya which is synonymous to Toukpê (previously described) are ways for allied peoples to “play war so as not to make war” and to “act crazy so as not to become crazy” (Konate, 1977). Tense situations then become defused through humour and ridicule in the sense that social communication through humour aims at the rehabilitation of morality when it has been affected by a violent incident or one that is difficult to bear and forget. Insofar as the act to forgive is a decision that is taken by the offended party, the act of forgetting, ever more difficult to make, takes from a constant and continuous social practice. Therefore through play, one magnifies the facts (hyperbole) by voluntarily exaggerating and distorting the initial act to comical or even ridiculous extremes (Amoa, xxx).

Toukpê as a key to understanding the success of Coupe Decale?

Going back to the definition of the word toukpê (synonymous with Sanankuya), Amoa defines it as semantically made up of two verbs “tou” (which means remove, jump, fly, or take away) and “kpê” (which means “cut”, “sever”, or “go through”). According to him, Toukpê would then literally mean “cut” and “jump” (i.e. “break away from” and “get on top of” or “transcend”). Notwithstanding the apparent similarity that already exists between the literal translation of the phrase Coupe Decale (literally Cut and Shift) and Toukpê, other elemental parallels exist between the two. From my discussions with various artists, DJs, producers, journalists and other informants there is an unshakable truth about Coupe Decale: it served as an outflow of social tensions through music and dance, a form of cathartic mechanism shortly after the failed coup of 2002 and the ensuing state of emergency. “You see, before Douk Saga came, we were way too sad” declared an informant, “he really brought us joy”. Additionally in one of his songs, it is noted that Douk Saga “has put joy in our hearts and makes us forget about our worries”.  Coupe Decale’s function as identified by its aficionados thus implies a liberating and gathering function through a transcending approach. By at times dramatizing war (prudencia, cacher-regarder concepts by Don Mike le Gourou), or simply evoking the daily (colgata), Coupe Decale, through its pantomimic approach has offered Ivorians during that time more than a simple distraction, but a channel through which social, political and economic frustrations could be released. In addition, as the overt political message often associated with its counterpart, Zouglou, was silenced Coupe Decale crowded dancefloors by welcoming everyone, regardless of political affiliations. Could Coupe Decale and Toukpe thus function in the same fashion as mechanisms of social release and social alliance activated through the social subconscious? It may be hazardous to affirm it without further pushing the research.

An attalaku for Abidjan's Maquis

Yepi sanga Yeip sanga - Ei Maquis é...

The Maquis can be considered the nexus of social life in Abidjan. As such it must be celebrated. Its wooden or metal truss structure over which a cloth, sheet metal or thatch roof is laden, offers a refuge from the unforgiving blaze of the sun during the day and a sanctuary for party-goers at night. Commanded by their thirst, the Maquis’ clients seek its shade, its good ambiance and its cold beers. The main road, often never too far constantly affirms the presence of the city with its unending parade of vehicles: orange taxis, yellow taxis, luxurious and diplomatic SUVs, run-down Gbakas all speed across only leaving behind the fumes of their exhausts and the echoes of their engines.

The Maquis’ floor surface is often a concrete slab or bare sand over which a dozen or so seats and tables are disposed. Depending on the time of day, the tables feature food, drinks or both. Lunch options may not be very varied but are very popular and can be quite scrumptious. Garba, the people’s favorite is a dish of cassava powder (Attieke), fish and freshly diced vegetables (condiments).  The act of eating is rarely solitary and as such often becomes a social and collective experience.

Assembled around a central dish, two or more people banter about and aloud. Two bowls of water (soapy and clear) often precede the food and are used by the patrons to wash their hands pre- and post- eating. With one hand (never the left) digging into the food and the other manning the beer glass or chasing away the undesirable flies, eating requires effort and dexterity; it becomes a form of work/skill that must be perfected. Its work facet betrayed by the beads of sweat found on the clients’ foreheads after the meal. In the words of Francois Kouakou N’Guessan, “The word “Maquis” in Cote D’Ivoire evokes a reality that is simultaneously gastronomic, cultural and political… the commotion, shouts, interpellations and discussions give to the maquis an exceptional ambiance which transcends its primary gastronomic function, and turn it into a true cultural centre with all the implicated human interactions, reflections, discourses and projects” (N’Guessan 1983).

If in 1983 the culture of dancing in the Maquis hadn’t yet gained prevalence, the failed coup of September 2002 in Ivory Coast, and the crisis that later ensued surely changed the social dynamics of the Maquis. As curfews were declared in Abidjan (sometimes starting at 6 pm, other times earlier), social angst swelled, insecurity levels augmented and the climate became tense. However, “Just like the Messiah came a young man, with his battalion armed with joy and gaiety” His name was Amidou Doukoure Stephane Sagacité aka Douk Saga. With his Coupe Decale, his flashy attires and most importantly his constant “Travaillement” (the art of rewarding fans with money), Douk Saga crystallized himself and his Coupe Decale as a new model of success for Ivorian youths. Moreover, Maquis owners and patrons found innovative ways of circumventing the state of emergency by opening their doors in the mornings or afternoons and offering patrons the opportunity to liberate some of their worries to the hypnotic sounds of Coupe Decale music. The Maquis thus became the terraneous grounds onto which Coupe Decale music took its roots.

Nowadays as night falls, vibrant music emanates from the Maquis and usually does not stop until at least 6 AM. Savvy owners append night-clubs or air-conditioned lounges (bar climatises) to their Maquis and offer their clients a fashionable décor in which to spend their nights. Special Zouglou or Coupe Decale nights are featured on big banners and serve to attract either one crowd or the next. If N’Guessan had previously identified 3 categories that characterized the Maquis, today a fourth can certainly be added: entertainment. Moreover its popularity has now become transnational as the word exported itself to counties as remote as Paris' Chateau D'eau and Chateau Rouge districts. The Maquis is no longer an Ivorian phenomenon, it is now international.  

You think you know? …but you have no idea!

Abidjan isn’t what you think it is. It is better. The trip from Charles De Gaulle started awkwardly. I found myself in an adventure involving excess luggage, hustlers selling me jute bags for 10 Euros (when it would have normally cost me about 3) and having to abandon my carry-on suitcase in the terminal. I successfully managed to board my flight without any additional incidents. My seatmate was a young Ivorian named Jean, who had just left a Swiss city and was a manager in an expensive watch store in a local Abidjan mall. He showed me pictures of his store and the mall in which he worked. First thing that struck me is how closely it matched the malls and stores I had seen in Canada and France. Unfortunately, despite my own firsthand experience of West-Africa through Benin (2 years ago) and Ghana (10 years ago), these two places have come to crystallize my vision and have frozen my view in those specific times and places. There were no malls when I left Accra 10 years ago. There are still no malls in Cotonou. However, Abidjan has at least 3 that people have told me about.

When Jean told me the prices at which designer watches in his store were sold – and they seemed quite exuberant to me (then again I am not much of a watch guy) – he mentioned that there was a huge market for these things (especially at Christmas and on Valentine’s Day). “Can you see how quickly we absorb things?”, he said, “20 years ago, no one in Abidjan knew anything about Valentine’s Day. Now we can’t go without it”. Right before our landing, he exclaimed “Zota!”. This immediately caught my attention. Was this the Zota aka La Petite Zota – i.e. Serge Beynaud’s dancer (arguably the biggest Coupe Decale star) he was referring to? Yes it was. I immediately chased after her (from my Economy seat all the way to Business Class) and obtained her number! Moments later, the pilot announced “We are about to begin our descent in Abidjan. The outdoor temperature is 28 deg C with clear skies.” The research forecast appeared hot and quite promising!

Customs were smooth and completely painless. As we arrived, medical staff systematically sprayed everyone’s hands with hand sanitizer reminding us that Ebola is still a very real threat. This offloading didn’t resemble what I had become used to in Cotonou, materializing through the heat and rude border police. My host picked me at the airport and brought me to his house. It had been 15 years since I’d last seen this city and all of its glory. We sped across the brand new highway (le pont d’ADO as it is locally called), with the Plateau (Abidjan’s business district) gleaming like a jewel in the darkness across in the distance. Yet, the thick veil of the night had not yet been pulled over Abidjan. It is in the districts of Marcory, Yopougon or Mawu that the action happens.

An array of elegant lounges called “bars climatisés” are interspersed across the city. Each of these lounges features a typical interior layout consisting of mini-living rooms and a central, but relatively small dance floor. The dance floor always features a massive mirror that dancers face as they move to the music. It is my reading that this mirror, along with the copious amounts of alcohol consumed in these places, provides a certain sense of confidence to the dancers. This is in stark contrast to other clubs and entertainment venues I have come across both in Canada and Europe. Yaya Kone, a professor of anthropology, explained this to me when we met in Calais “you see African people dance to express something and they need to be seen. It is a communicative event. In order to do this they need an audience. This is why Maquis in Abidjan are laid out in that way. Dancing in Western clubs is very different because everyone comes to enjoy themselves in a very individualistic manner”

It is in these places that Abidjan’s nightlife distills into an intoxicating brew of dancing, alcohol and sex. The parties start around 1 AM and can go up to 10 AM. As a resident of Ontario, it was quite unimaginable since last call is usually about 2.30 AM. As I appeared incredulous, a friend jokingly said “That is because you guys work the following day!”. Gazeurs (revelers) who are apparently also brouteurs (literally grazers. But it is a term to designate cyber-criminals) turn up to celebrate life by ordering buckets of beer bottles (1 bucket has about 10 bottles) accompanied by beautiful women in their entourage. I have learned that some of these women are often discrete escorts known as Kpoclés, who to the unsuspecting eye blend in perfectly with the rest of the party. A trained eye can also easily spot brouteurs from the clothes they wear, their demeanor, the cars they drive and the way they perform the “travaillement”.

On one of my very last trips to Chateau d’Eau in Paris (a place with a high concentration of West-African immigrants), I was told that Coupe Decale was dead and was being overtaken by Nigerian music. While this may be true in France, the Coupe Decale scene in Abidjan seems very much alive from what I have witnessed so far. Over the course of the following months, I believe that my primary challenge will be to retain analytic distance, scientific neutrality and enough soberness to retain all the information I am learning!