Individual Costs and Civic Impacts of Social Artivism in Music: Three Case Studies from Sub-Saharan Africa

Abstract

After a general introduction to music censorship in sub-Saharan Africa and the concept of social artivism, this chapter presents three case studies of African musicians – namely Hachalu Hundessa (Ethiopia), Bobi Wine (Uganda), and Miriam Makeba (South Africa) – who, because of their political activism and the critical nature of their lyrics, were persecuted, imprisoned, exiled, or even killed. Drawing on existing studies, autobiographic material and interviews, the chapter discusses the difficulties and dangers faced by musical activists in their respective countries of origin when practicing cultural and political rights as well as the “freedom of speech” that is guaranteed in many countries and assumed a global standard of our times, but is still a utopia in many regions of the world. The chapter inquires about the motivations of the artists to take the risks involved in publishing their music, and into the impact their works have on individuals, groups, and the society at large.

1. Introduction

“Music may not create a revolution with a song, but studying the way music functions in periods of societal unrest can provide us with important clues about the genealogy, dynamics, and potential trajectories of movements for social and political change” [1].

Music, as one of the oldest cultural practices of humanity, has an undeniable power, uniting people through the shared experience of both esthetic enjoyment of beats, instrumentation and melodies (physical effect), and cognitive understanding of the lyrics and their subtexts (emotional effect, cf. [2]). Artists, bands, and singers are able to reach a large number of listeners with their songs, especially since digitalization made global networks and streaming platforms readily available for audiences everywhere, any time.

The direct influence of lyrical musical content on cognition, attitudes, and behavior of consumers has been the subject of a broad scope of research ranging from misogyny in US-American Rap music (e.g. [3, 4]) to the unexpected catalyzing effect music had on the Arab Spring Revolutions (e.g. [1, 5, 6, 7]). It is exactly this property of music, the ability to move, unite, and inspire people to stand up against injustices, which political leaders fear, especially in unstable and non- or semi-democratic environments. The banning, silencing, and persecution of artists with critical lyrics is thus a common practice in many of these states. Several studies deal with the issue of music censorship, which has been defined by Marcus as a “wide variety of practices (…) [which] combine to ensure that articulation of certain facts and opinions are curtailed and prohibited” [8]. Côté discusses the different forms music censorship takes across the world, providing illustrating examples from the USA, China, Algeria, the former GDR, and others [2].

Regarding censorship in sub-Saharan Africa, two articles in the volume “Les censures dans le monde” [9] discuss the situation in this region. Drewett [10] elaborates on the mechanisms employed to censor musicians in countries such as South Africa, Nigeria, Kenya, Zimbabwe, and Malawi, further noting how the former states of Zaire and Rhodesia were notorious for banning both local and foreign music and literature (see his article for further information). Drewett extends Marcus’ definition of censorship to include the dire situation of African artists in totalitarian, authoritarian, or semi-authoritarian regimes. He argues that the censorship of popular music “includes a wide variety of inter-related practices […] to explicitly interfere with the freedom of expression, association, and movement of popular musicians [as well as] ensure that the articulation of certain facts, opinions or means of expression are stifled, altered and/or prohibited” [10]. Less relevant for the current research project, but interesting for anyone studying (the lack of) press freedom in Africa, the article by Frère [11] presents examples of media censorship in francophone Africa. Other important contributions to the field come from Korpe [12], Devroop [13], and especially Cloonan & Drewett [14], who devote a whole book on popular music censorship in Africa. Giving the artists themselves a space to voice their opinions and share their experiences, the compilation “How Free is FREE?” brings together 25 authors from fourteen African states who describe in detail the socio-political situation in their home countries [15].

Authoritarian regimes justify censorship of music by branding the songs concerned as “hate speech” or “threats to national security”, or by considering them as enhancing insurgence struggle and liberation movements and thus trying to silence non-conformist voices [2]. The success of these actions remains limited to the media under government control and within a state’s territory, however, especially when artists make clever use of underground channels to distribute their music, e.g. via social media platforms, or when they go into exile and operate from the powerful African diaspora communities that have formed all over the world.

Researching politics and civic rights through the lens of popular music can be a way of understanding authoritarianism, but also redressing ‘elite bias’ in knowledge production. It recognizes more explicitly the significance of popular culture – defined as the everyday practices, experiences, and beliefs of what has been called “the common people” [16] – and explores how memory, history, and politics are intertwined. Popular music does not just allows us to ‘remember’ knowledge that has been excluded, forgotten, left on the margin, or ‘lost’; it also restores perspectives that challenge hegemonic or mainstream moral, social, and political ideologies, thereby disrupting the status quo. Popular songs are used to share messages in contexts where national media is saturated with official propaganda and private media hardly exists or, if it does, is heavily censored. As Allen (2004) and Mano (2011) have suggested, “African popular musicians sometimes perform the role of journalists” by revealing hidden injustices perpetrated by hegemonic political structures (cited in [17]). Their music is “viewed as a political weapon that connects all the oppressed people. Its therapeutic effect and political function is collectively and individually experienced” [18].

Despite the growth in studies that focus on political songs (e.g. Onyebadi [19] about the political messages of Fela Kuti, Lucky Dube and Alpha Blondy; Künzler & Reuster-Jahn [17] focusing on the “musical open letter” as political commentary in Africa), less attention has been paid to the consequences those musical pieces and miktivism¹ [20, 21] have for their originators – the singers, musicians or songwriters that dare to formulate socio-political topics and criticism in their lyrics. Many of them have been persecuted, imprisoned, exiled, or even killed because of their courage to “speak out loud” against politicians and governments. It is thus the intention of this chapter to acknowledge the courage of these activists by giving visibility to their contributions and exploring how musicians risk their personal well-being to advance social or political causes they believe in. We ask how singers deploy their resources, skills, and talents to address pressing concerns in their communities and societies, discussing their intentions and strategies as well as the consequences they bear. The following pages trace the biographies and oeuvre of three exceptional artists from sub-Saharan Africa, describing both the difficult circumstances of their creative activities as well as the effects their output had on their personal lives and the repressions they faced from governments and political leaders.

While important aspects of this chapter were collected in an extensive literature review and a content analysis of several interviews, both authors contribute vital insights into the matter from different angles. Dr. Gardy Stein holds a doctorate in African linguistics, focusing on youth language practices and the lyrical content of African artists, describing the world-order narratives displayed in their texts. As a music journalist, she has established expertise in music genres such as Reggae and Hip Hop, which are traditionally known for the nonconformist, rebellious, and critical nature of their texts. Professor Tatek Abebe’s research explores the generational dimensions of music and worldmaking, looking at how the music made by young people provides a window into the ways they make sense of the future and history, as well as their capacity to imagine the world differently. His ongoing project in Ethiopia examines lyricists, singers, and music video producers’ practices of musicking not only as a technology of resistance against structural violence such as eviction, dispossession, and displacement, but also as part of a broader struggle for political, cultural, and epistemic justice. In addition to the comparative approach used to collate the three case studies, including a detailed description of the repressive measures taken by the artists’ respective governments and an analysis of the socio-political contexts they work in, the authors elaborate on the theoretical concepts of miktivism and social artivism, expanding existing models by focusing on the individual costs incurred by artists and the civic impact generated by them.

To embed the research question in a scientific context, Section 2 will give some theoretical background on social artivism before, in Section 3, the three case studies are presented. Each case study will first provide a brief socio-political context of the artists’ country, then talk about the life and work of each artist, and, finally, discuss the individual costs involved in publishing critical songs as well as the impact they have. A conclusion is drawn in Section 4, including an outlook on further research desiderata.

2. Social artivism

“All musicking is ultimately a political art” [22].

Art, next to its esthetic motivation or the wish to express emotions, has always been a site of protest, too: open and direct in democratic societies that adhere to freedom of speech and tolerate criticism, hidden and much more metaphorical in situations that do not allow the outspoken voicing of opinions.

In recent years, this form of artistic protest movement around the globe has come to be called (social) artivism. While there seems to be no widely accepted definition of the term (it is often simply explained as portmanteau word consisting of ‘art’ and ‘activism’), an artivist is defined as someone who “uses their artistic talents to fight and struggle against injustice and oppression – by any medium necessary. The artivist merges commitment to freedom and justice with the pen, the lens, the brush, the voice, the body, and the imagination” [23]. According to Williams, the term artivism – the use of creative and artistic license as methods of expression to denounce, cultivate awareness, and motivate change in society – “was first coined in 1997 in Ref. to the gathering of Chicano artists and the Zapatistas in Mexico” [24] and has subsequently found entry into academic discourse as well (e.g. [25, 26, 27]).

Art as a tool for the creation of a democratic society or for the improvement of living conditions in communities has been implemented in several successful projects (cf. [27, 28, 29]). Art forms such as graffiti, poetry, theater, and especially music have always been a powerful way to voice criticism from the grassroots. In Ethiopia, popular music has emerged “as the most pervasive means for youth to challenge the state ideology of ethnic federalism” [30] as well as diverse forms of cultural ‘unfreedoms’ and structural violence. Several studies highlight the role of music in times of conflict and war, but also as a tool for promoting peace (e.g. [31, 32, 33, 34]).

In the context of decolonization, art plays an important role throughout Africa, both in the discussion about the restitution of art objects [35] and in emerging art forms that are new, independent, and proudly African [36]. In music, this innovation is especially visible in local forms of Hip Hop [37] and the immensely swift establishment of Afrobeats as one of the most successful global genres over the last decade [38, 39].

Introducing the concept of cultural brokerage, Schneidermann [40] argues that musicians are brokers at the intersection of music, market, and politics, and conceptualizing their political agency thus might be helpful when trying to understand the multiple and often ambiguous strategies of musicians in contemporary Africa. Unfolding this brokerage further, Schneidermann explains, how “the new generation” and their music became central points of contestation in the field of politics and elections [40, 41].

In addition to wielding the potent “weapon of song”, popular musicians “may act as representatives for a cause, or they can use their connections and the media’s sensitivity to their actions and movements to draw attention to an issue” [2]. However, musicians engaging in social artivism are especially vulnerable. Pictures, photographs, and sculptures may be crafted and made publicly accessible anonymously if so desired, but to perform a song on stage requires the physical presence of the singer, making them easily identifiable. The instances of singers suffering persecution for their artistic output are manifold: the famous Nigerian musician Fela Kuti was imprisoned for 20 months by the Muhammadu Buhari regime in 1984; the house of South African artist Mzwakhe Mbuli was attacked with grenades and teargas by the apartheid police; Cameroonian singer Lapiro de Mbanga was arrested after telling the republic’s president Paul Biya to lay down his office in a song… the list is long (cf. [10]).

In the present context, we understand social artivism as the attempt of individual artists to bring to the attention of a wide audience social and political issues that are otherwise muted and censored by the ruling elite, such as Apartheid in South Africa, corruption and despotism in Uganda, or ethnically motivated oppression in Ethiopia.

3. Three case-studies from sub-Saharan Africa

What is meant by the “individual costs” evoked in the title of this chapter? For one, this refers to the economic costs the artists suffer when their government or related bodies censor their work. Sales and distribution bans reduce the income they can generate from their releases, and the refusal to play or broadcast their songs results in less listeners discovering, liking, and buying their tracks². The musicians might lose recording and performing contracts, thus their livelihood, and, in many cases, self-imposed censorship is the only way to avoid external discipline. On the other hand, and much more dangerously, are the costs connected to the artists’ mental and physical health, or even lives. As will be seen in the examples below, musicians suffer threats, attacks, imprisonment, and even death due to their courage and resolve to address societal issues they deem important. Some experience harassment and intimidation for voicing their political viewpoints or defending or expressing their cultural identities. Others navigate a fine line between their artistic and professional duties of upholding their rights – language rights, the right to the city, religious rights, racial equality, etc. – and the everyday structural violence that such activism entails. Limiting this chapter to three case studies is entirely contingent on space restrictions – in no way should our choice of artists be seen as a rating of them being “more important” or “more courageous” than others.

3.1 Hachalu Hundessa (Ethiopia)

“[As] I am one of the oppressed, I express my disappointment against…subjugation through my music. Art is a tool to tell the truth and expose tyranny” [43].

Institutional music censorship in Ethiopia spans the experiences of artists across generations, ethnicity, religion, and political affiliation [30]. Historically, the Ethiopian state’s policies of music censorship involve practices such as the underfunding of the development of culture and language as well as imposing restrictions on the content, production, distribution, broadcasting, and performances of music. Mollenhauer [44] demonstrates how a long history of censorship of Oromo music by various ruling elites has made censorship one of the major features of Oromo’s social and esthetic processes. During the Imperial Haile Selassie regime, songs and music of ethnic groups were not seen as an expression of culture and identity, evident in the regime’s “One language (Amharic) and One religion (Orthodox Christian)” policy that imagined Ethiopia as a unified, coherent nation. During the socialist regime (1975–1991), Oromo music was largely absent from the national music scene due to the fear of sentiments of pan-Oromo nationalism. Yet, Oromo folk music played a valuable role in political critique using, in most cases, metaphors or satirical lyrics so as to veil the message in a humorous and, therefore, socially acceptable manner [45]. The socialist regime saw music as a contradictory resource. On the one hand, music was a potentially dangerous weapon of dissent and resistance, so its production was regulated nationally. On the other hand, singers had to include at least one patriotic song about the ‘motherland’ in their albums for obtaining approval for their music production. This is because such music was believed to inculcate ideals of patriotism in the minds of the young, facilitating socialization to certain ideologies and the formation of political subjectivities. During the Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front (EPRDF) rule (1991–2018), it was not uncommon for artists to be prevented from holding concerts or have their songs ‘delegitimized’ and, subsequently, not be able to air their songs on national media outlets [30] or even ‘free’ Frequency Modulation (FM) radio stations. Whereas the EPRDF regime selectively preserved Oromo culture, musicians were imprisoned, intimidated, and disappeared for making certain kinds of music [44, 46]. Artist Ali Birra spoke about the criminalization of musical culture and hidden forms of denigration and dehumanization of artists and said that any form of political activism through music needs to be understood against the backdrop of the state’s sanction and music censorship practices [47].

Born in 1986 in Ambo, Oromia, one of Ethiopia’s ten national regional states, Hachalu Hundessa tended cattle as a child and sang locally, so when he became an activist for Oromo freedom, his roots were recognized and revered. He was arrested at age 17 by the EPRDF regime for taking part in protests and imprisoned for 5 years at Karchale Ambo (a state detention center), which became his “academy” of political activism, enabling him to acquire valuable political knowledge. Hachalu’s music career took off after his release from prison and, within a short period of time, he became a well-known singer and songwriter whose powerful lyrics and unapologetic singing style resonated with millions of people both within Ethiopia and abroad. His first album “Sanyii Mootii” (‘Royalty’), released in 2009, was written while he was in prison. The album contains nine tracks that address socially conscious themes of homeland (Mada Walaabuu), national identity (Oromumma) as well as politically charged struggle songs. He published his second album “Waa’ee Keenyaa” (‘Our Cause’) while he was on a tour in the USA, and the album became the #1 sold African music album on Amazon.

Hachalu’s powerful miktivism, which captures the loss, existential precarity, and the subjugation of Oromos within modern Ethiopia, is most obvious in the single hit “Maalan Jira” (‘Do I even exist?’), mobilizing a generation of youth protestors (qeerroo [21, 49]). In “Maalan Jira”, Hachalu sings about the pain of displacement – from love and places – in multi-layered lyrics. The corresponding music video, which makes references to historical figures, was released in 2015, as the Ethiopian government was implementing Addis Ababa’s Integrated Development Plan, vernacularly known among youth protestors as the “Master Killer Plan”, to extend the city’s borders and administrative scope into surrounding Oromia towns [21, 49]. “Maalan Jira” not only showcases the story of accumulation through dispossession, but it also unravels the complex ‘choreography’ of urban revanchism that justifies landgrabs and successive Ethiopian states’ narratives of nation-building. Its euphemistic lyrics made it a “message music” [48] and the soundtrack of Oromo protest and resistance, contributing to the momentous political awakening of youth in Ethiopia’s most populous region.

Another song that inspired youths to stand up for their rights was “Masaan Gamma” (‘Field Over There’). The remix of “Masaan Gamma” is part of Hachalu’s second album “Waa’ee Keenyaa”, but it was further popularized through his several live performances. Its lyrics focus on universal themes of equality and freedom, but also on the importance of defending one’s nation and how one never rests their head before justice is served for the killings, displacement, and exploitation people endured and continue to suffer from. An excellent example of the track’s mobilizing power is found in the ways young people engaged with it during the 2016 celebration of Irreecha³, an annual thanksgiving ritual that marks the end of the rainy season and the beginning of the harvest season.

Hachalu’s poetic musical lyrics inspired and facilitated the youth protests and revolution which, in 2018, led to the implosion of the EPRDF regime that ruled Ethiopia in iron-fisted, ‘developmental state’ rhetoric for nearly three decades [20, 21, 49]. His songs and music videos are crafted to express, promote, and assert multiple rights of the Oromo people – the largest ethnic group that accounts for over a third of Ethiopia’s 110 million inhabitants. Despite being a demographic majority, Oromos have been kept at the margins of social, economic, and political power. One example of this marginalization is that the language (Afan Oromo) was not used in schools until the mid-1990s, and it was only recently it got promoted to a status of a federal language, alongside Amharic. As Abebe and Aitken [21] note, Hachalu’s music speaks to these questions of (the lack of) right to political freedom, right to culture and identity, and right to stay put in a political environment where dissenting voices are discouraged [21, 49].

Since Hachalu’s miktivism taps into the oral tradition, it appeals to multiple generations, but most prominently to dhaloota qubee (‘the younger generation’) [21, 49]. His performances in front of live audiences or recordings on CDs and music videos on YouTube created unique political soundscapes that spread counter-hegemonic discourses and ideas about rights and freedoms. Hachalu is described as “at once a provocateur, social critic, and an inspiration and outlet to a generation suffocated by a deep state hell-bent on clinging to power through the barrel of the gun” [50]. As of June 5th, 2023, “Maalan Jira” was watched on YouTube 13,541,078 times, generating 6819 comments⁴, whereas its sequel, “Jirra” (‘We are still here’) has over 4,924,130 views and over 4760 comments⁵. Similarly, his live performance to raise funds for 700,000 displaced people during the Oromo-Somali inter-ethnic conflict, “Jirtu” (literally meaning ‘Are You Alive?’), which is now adopted as a greeting, a slogan, and a political statement that signifies the survival and defiance of the Oromo people against all odds, has received widespread admiration both on and off stage. It is worth noting that Hachalu’s works all speak to the multiple facets and dimensions of human existence as well as what it means to be Oromo both historically and in contemporary times.

“Maal Maallisaa” (‘What Could Be The Solution?’), Hachalu’s third album, was released on Spotify and YouTube posthumously in July 2021, on the first anniversary of his death. The album was widely listened to, making it to the top of the Billboard charts for weeks. The track “Maal Maallisaa” has two seamlessly interconnected parts (indignant resistance song and poetic recital) and – like many of the songs in the album – serves the dual purposes of resistance and revolution. The lyrics of the gerersa part in the track (a melody-infused, poetic recital that is often performed by warriors before going to a battle, hunting, or after victory) are replicated from Hachalu’s several live performances, most notably the July 2018 concert that was attended by thousands of people, including Ethiopia’s prime minister Abiy Ahmed and Eritrea’s president Isayas Afwerki. The concert was held in the Millennium Hall in Addis Ababa, following the peace agreement between Ethiopia and Eritrea that resulted in Abiy Ahmed winning the 2019 Nobel Peace Prize. Hachalu’s poetic recital at the live performance captures the political climate of the time when the protracted youth revolution – or, to use Lefort’s [51] words, the “Ethiopian Spring” – was at its height, generating hopeful futures and a new discourse of governance. In it, Hachalu weaves together powerful messages enmeshed in culture and history, activating collective memories, and capturing, inspiring, and aspiring the future in ways that are electrifying [21]. He mobilizes the youths and declares why they need to organize and dare to speak to power.

Hachalu Hundessa was murdered on June 29th, 2020, a few days after an interview on the Oromia Media Network, where he criticized the government and insurgent groups fighting in the Oromia region. In that interview, he unpacked some of the narratives informing his music, but his remark on decolonization of monuments and restitution for stolen horses of Oromos – who see themselves as gallant warriors and horsemen – became controversial topics on social media, where his death was called out [21]. Hachalu also spoke about the imminent danger to his life, saying: “Every day I walk in this city, I know I walk alongside death” [52]. The circumstances under which he was killed triggered a wave of protests and mass mourning in ways that demonstrate how he is seen as a hero by millions. In the days that followed his death, internet was switched off by the government, and demonstrators clashed with government security forces over the question of where his body will be laid to rest. Whereas hundreds of people were killed in Ethiopia, protestors also destroyed the statue of Haile Selassie in Wimbledon (London) and that of Makonnen Wolde Mikael (military leader under Ethiopian emperor Menelik II and father of Haile Selassie) in Harar [53] as a decolonial move of erasing symbols that embody histories of oppression.

OPride voted Hachalu Hundessa “Oromo Person of The Year” in 2017 “for capturing and expressing the frustration, anger, and hope of Oromo protesters through revolutionary lyrics; for courageously defying forcible suppression of dissent (…); for providing a stirring soundtrack to the budding Oromo revolution; for breaking down fear and structural barriers through rousing musical storytelling, and for uniting the Oromo masses and amplifying their collective yearning for change” [50]. His songs are characterized as enabling Oromos “to imagine beyond the given-ness of present arrangements”, showing how “the present is not inevitable, [but] that things could be different and better” [54]. His music activism gave millions of people a sense of pride and future predicated on the recognition of their language, history, culture, and identity. His lyrics, which are enmeshed in tradition and culture, do not just invoke history and activate collective memories in ways that are relatable but also connect groups that are otherwise divided by gender, generation, religion, political ideology, and class.

Hachalu’s murder led to a surge in ‘justice music’ that recognizes his political activism in ways that also pay tribute to the deeds of fallen justice warriors (gootottaa) through which social struggles and visions are sustained. Many singers dedicated songs that invoke the notion of gumma, demanding justice for his murder – which is seen as a “watershed moment” in Ethiopia’s recent history – as articulated in, for example, Gelana Garomsa’s hit music video “Wal Agara” (‘We Shall Rendezvous’) [55]. Soreti Khadir [56] and Leta K. Aga [57] produced poetic narratives that connect the legacy of his life’s work as an artist, activist, father, husband, son, brother, colleague, and friend, explaining his youthful struggles for freedom and the politics of future-making with which he was deeply implicated. Tadele Gemechu [58] places him alongside main freedom fighters and their aspirations for liberated life in his creative music video about national history-making, thereby continuing singers’ traditions of paying homage to heroes and heroines who sacrifice their lives for noble causes. The Hachalu Hundessa Foundation was founded in 2021 to honor his legacy and create a platform where “artists from diverse backgrounds can showcase their talent, share their stories, and engage in meaningful dialog that bridges gaps and promotes mutual respect and appreciation” [59]. The foundation also aims “to promote the rich cultural heritage of Ethiopia, amplify voices that champion justice and equality, and foster a vibrant music community that encourages artistic growth and social impact” [ibid].

3.2 Bobi Wine (Uganda)

“We are met with brutal force every time we try to raise our voices, every time we try to seek for the change that we know we constitutionally deserve” [60].

The Republic of Uganda, having emerged on the territory of the kingdoms of Buganda, Bunyoro, Ankole, Toro, Busoga, and others [61], today is an authoritarian regime under current president Yoweri Kaguta Museveni. He has ruled the country uninterruptedly since 1986⁶, and even though the most recent elections in 2021 were labeled as ‘democratic’ by the government, the facts tell a different story. Leading up to the elections, opposition forces were criminalized, and “(i)nstances of opposition gatherings being broken up with heavy-handed police and army tactics (…) became increasingly common” [62]. Critical voices in the country are heavily sanctioned by imprisonment, torture, and even killings, brutal tactics that were also applied to the artist-turned-politician this section introduces: Robert Kyagulanyi Ssentamu, better known by his stage name Bobi Wine.

Born in 1982 in the Mpigi district, he grew up with nine siblings in Kamwokya, which is described as “one of the worst slums in Kampala” [63]. After some first steps in music during school, Kyagulanyi worked hard to save enough money to record some songs he had written (e.g. “Abakyala” in 2000). It was not until he released “Akagoma”, which was played on the radio and in nightclubs, that people started to take notice, and by the time he finished Makerere University with a degree in music, dance, and drama, he had established himself as promising talent. Increasingly, he addressed social issues in his songs, speaking about the daily struggles he and his fellow Ugandans went through. Early on, Bobi Wine realized that his output is more than pure entertainment: “Ours is not just music, ours is a revolution, you understand. We are not just artists, we are activists, only that we do it through music. If we could do it through something else we would, but music seems like the best medium of communication” [64]. Ten years later, asked about the nature of his creative works, he replied: “My music has evolved from only entertainment to edutainment (…). As I grew up, I realized that I had a responsibility to represent my people’s views through music, and that’s what I do!” [65].

As he considers himself to be a voice of the people, Bobi Wine called himself “Ghetto President”, a name that quickly took hold and spread through the members of his Firebase Crew [40]. His elder brother, Eddy Yawe, owned a recording studio called Dream Studios in Kamwokya and ran for parliament for the opposing Democratic Party in 2011 [ibid] – an early exposure to political activism for Bobi Wine. In a time when many other artists gladly accepted commissioned work for ruling president Museveni’s 2011 election campaigns, performing praise songs at rallies, Bobi remained loyal to what he later called the People Power Movement [41].

Subsequently, Bobi continued to release critical songs (his catalog amounts to a total of over 70), such as “Tugambire ku Jennifer”⁷ in 2012 or “Dembe”⁸ in 2016, until he himself felt inspired to become involved with the political agenda of his country and joined parliament as an independent delegate for the Kyadondo East seat in 2017 [62]. Well known for the open critical standpoint he takes in his lyrics, the government did not take this step lightly. “More than 120 of his concerts in 2017 were canceled by security forces, who use teargas and water cannons to break up his rallies” [68].

Following several threats, he was imprisoned in 2018, as different independent media report: “On August 13th, the authorities in Uganda arrested Mr. Wine, along with other MPs and activists. Ten days later he was charged with treason. He limped into court, unable to walk unaided; his lawyers say he was beaten by soldiers. Opposition politicians are often arrested on bogus charges. But Mr. Wine’s detention has ignited public outrage and exposed the generational chasm in Ugandan politics” [69]. After being released from jail two weeks later, partly due to the mounting international pressure of a #FreeBobiWine campaign that went viral on social media [68], the artist went to the US to seek medical treatment for his injuries, speaking about what had happened to him in a BBC interview: “They did unspeakable things to me. They brutally arrested me, beat me, tortured me, abused me, and left me for dead” [70].

In 2019, when much of his music was banned in Uganda⁹ and his concerts got canceled, he was invited to perform at Jamaica’s biggest festival Rebel Salute, which, by being aired and streamed worldwide, gave Ugandans the possibility to follow his concert¹⁰. Back home, he was again arrested in November 2020, when preparing a rally for his presidential campaign in Luuka, an Eastern district of Uganda. This new violation of the popular activist’s rights “(…) triggered mass protests across the country, leaving at least 54 people killed after security services used live rounds against the unarmed protesters” [62]. On the evening before the elections took place, the internet was cut off nationwide, and “Bobi Wine was placed under house arrest with the military and police forming a ring around his home and barring any entry or departure” [62]. Museveni declared himself the winner with 58.6% of the votes vs. 34.8% for Kyagulanyi Ssentamu [71], a result that was heavily doubted and petitioned against by the latter and the NUP in a vain attempt to annul the election [ibid].

While these results might be interpreted as a defeat of Ssentamu’s candidature, they clearly illustrate the impact that he has on the Ugandan public, especially the younger generation. Building on the following he had accumulated during his career as a popular singer, he “(…) skilfully used his music to spread his message” [62] and, once he had entered the political arena, “won overwhelmingly with a campaign based largely on social media, WhatsApp groups, Twitter, and Facebook. He very quickly became the most visible and outspoken opposition politician in Parliament and beyond, mobilizing a large number of followers and international media on Twitter and Facebook” [40].

Another sign of the impact he has, not only in Uganda but internationally, is his inclusion on Time Magazine’s 2019 list of the “100 next influential people in the world” [72]. No doubt inspired by his unusual story and his global media presence, filmmakers Christopher Sharp & Moses Bwayo have teamed up to produce the documentary “Bobi Wine: Ghetto President”, which premiered at the 2022 Venice International Film Festival [73] and will play across movie theaters in 2023.

Bobi Wine, with his undeniable talent, his success as a singer and political activist, and his unapologetic stance against injustice and corruption, is an inspiration for freedom fighters around the world. His constant defiance of the threats, the physical assaults, and the strict censorship of his music by the Ugandan government have solidified his authenticity and credibility, making him extremely popular with the young generation of Uganda. As shown, the achievement of this status entailed high individual costs, including severe injuries and the death of his driver who was shot on the day Bobi Wine was arrested in August 2018 (cf. [74]), but also enabled him to start changing things in his country – to have an impact on society. Asked about the role music plays in his activism, he made a convincing statement that summarizes his ambitions:

“My hope and prayer is that the music continues to give the confidence, the same confidence that the music gave to me from the elders that I get inspiration from. It’s the same way I hope my music and the music of my contemporaries impact on the younger generation to see that we continue to pass on the message of liberation, confidence, freedom, and justice, and we keep passing it in a non-violent way! You see, as a challenge back home the regime has tried to paint us as violent, as terrorists, because we speak the truth, and we continue to encourage people back home to speak the truth” [75].

3.3 Miriam Makeba (South Africa)

“My life, my career, every song I sing, and every appearance I make, are bound up with the plight of my people. I have been denied my home. We have been denied our land” [76].

The history of South Africa is long and complex and cannot be presented here in full (cf. [77]). In contrast to Ethiopia (which was never colonized by European powers) and Uganda (which was colonized by the British who, apart from a few missionaries and administrative staff, did not settle there), Dutch settlers arrived in South Africa as early as 1652, followed by a massive influx of British settlers in 1820, whose desire for land, gold, and diamonds caused bloody wars between 1815 and 1915 [78]. After the Union of South Africa was created in 1910, the National Party, winning the 1948’s elections, established the system of racial segregation that became known as Apartheid and would last until 1994 [79]. Any opposition to or protest and resistance against the system was met with brutal repression from the government, and newspapers, literature, and music were heavily censored [80, 81]. Founded as a protest movement against the discrimination of Black South Africans, the African National Congress (ANC) established itself as an important voice in the fight against Apartheid. Due to its growing influence both in South Africa and abroad, the ANC was banned in 1960 by the Unlawful Organizations Act [82], making any action within the country illegal and forcing its members into exile – a fate that many artists faced, too.

Zenzile Miriam Makeba was born in 1932 as the daughter of a Xhosa man, Caswell Makeba, and a Swazi woman, Christina Nomkomnfdelo. When she was 5 years old, her father died and she was sent to live with her grandmother in Pretoria. She had to leave school at age sixteen to work as a domestic servant and got pregnant 1 year later, giving birth to her only daughter Bongi in 1950. Her first steps in music were taken in church and school choirs, but she later joined the band Cuban Brothers and her talent as a versatile singer became obvious [18]. Discovered by Nathan Mdlhedlhe at one of the band’s shows, she then joined the Manhattan Brothers and started touring the country, being exposed to arbitrary controls and detentions by white police [83].

In 1956, Makeba was approached by filmmaker Lionel Rogosin, who was casting young talents for a docufiction called “Come Back, Africa” about life in Apartheid-stricken townships that was released to great critical acclaim in 1959. He hired Miriam Makeba, who played herself in one scene of the movie, and asked her to come to the premiere screening in Venice. Once she reached Europe, residing in London for a couple of months, he also helped her obtain employment as singer in the then-famous “Steve Allen Show” in Los Angeles. Due to the critical images in the movie, which was secretly filmed in original South African locations, it was banned by the country’s government, a ban that also extended to the actors. Thus, when Makeba’s mother died in 1960 and she wanted to attend her funeral, she was denied access: “Her attempts to return to South Africa in order to be at the funeral aborted when her South African passport was revoked. This marked the beginning of her life as a political exile” [18].

In combination with the traumatic Sharpeville massacre in March 1960 [84] during which two of her uncles and one of her aunts were killed [83], as well as the mounting injustices the Apartheid system implemented (cf. [85]), this also marked the beginning of her political activism. Until then, apart from a few songs in her repertoire that thematised the suffering of her people in indigenous languages like Xhosa or Sotho, Makeba had not been particularly outspoken against Apartheid, but a joint US-tour with Harry Belafonte, which included many press conferences and intellectual discussions about the subject and brought her in contact with the Black Civil Rights Movement in the US, made her “decide to do something” [83].

Subsequently, she spoke at the UN conference in 1963 as part of the “Special Committee of the United Nations against apartheid”, urging the members to stop sending weapons to South Africa, as they were turned against the Black population of the country. In response to her speech, the South African government officially declared her a criminal and banned all of her records [83]. In the same year, she performed at the inauguration of the Organization of African Unity (OAU) in Addis Ababa, establishing important contacts with several African leaders [ibid]. Especially the friendship with Guinea’s president Ahmed Sékou Touré proved helpful, as he, on several occasions, invited Miriam Makeba to live in his country should she ever wish to do so. She took up the offer in 1968 when, after marrying the Black Power/Black Panther activist Stokely Carmichael (cf. [86]), her popularity in the US declined, contracts and concerts were canceled, and she was put under F.B.I. surveillance [83].

Although she was able to live a comfortable life there, continuing to record and perform music¹¹, she was not entirely happy in Guinea: “My home is South Africa. And so I have to ask myself a terrible question: Will I ever find peace in my lifetime? Will I ever go home?” [76]. The effects of this continuous “homelessness” were also strongly felt by her daughter Bongi, who joined her mother to live in Guinea for several months at a time, but increasingly struggled with mental problems until her untimely death in 1985 [83]. Apart from this very personal impact of her continuous exile, she was also worried about her family members back home whom she had not spoken to in years, as “it could have unpleasant consequences for them if they directly call me or write to me” [83]. Additionally, Makeba had to face problems during her travels. Due to her closeness to president Touré, she was declared persona ingrata by Senegal’s government and denied access to perform there, and on several occasions, she had difficulties entering the USA [86].

The agony of living far from her home and loved ones only ended when Nelson Mandela, after he was released from prison in 1990, invited Makeba to return to South Africa. She gladly did so, and made Johannesburg her permanent residence [87], continuing to lend her voice to the underprivileged. Thus, she founded the “Makeba Centre For Girls” in Midrand in 1999 [88] and supported other creatives during charity concerts. Her last public appearance was in support of Roberto Saviano, an author threatened by the Camorra, in Italy on November 9th 2008 – shortly after her performance, she suffered a heart attack and died in hospital [89].

The impact she had on the world – musically, personally, and politically – is immense. Miriam Makeba was an African music icon well known for her ability to speak up against injustice, especially against the racist Apartheid system, through her music and public speeches. She was a freedom fighter and an activist, inspiring people across the world by revealing the socio-political realities in South Africa through her art and in her life. She defiantly brought solidarity and called for the world’s attention, deeply challenging and disturbing South Africa’s Apartheid regime. She supported the United Nations, serving as a Guinean delegate for several years, and won the Hammarskjöld Peace Price in 1986. She played a leading role in sedimenting a pan-African consciousness through her recordings and stage performances in diverse pan-African forums both within the continent and beyond. Sipho Mabuse organized an event called “Tribute to Miriam Makeba” in 2005, and in 2006, the “Miriam Makeba Centre For Performing Arts” was launched in Alice, Eastern Cape [90]. Several books tell her story, e.g. the autobiographies Makeba [76], Makeba & Hall [83], and Makeba & Mwamuka [91], as well as the children’s books by Mathieson [92] and Erskine [93].

Her musical contribution needs to be placed within the context of the broader struggle against Apartheid, by showing how music fuelled resistance against Apartheid’s tyranny by Black people. Finally, her music also helped Makeba in her very personal combat against feelings of loneliness and depression, as she stated in her autobiography: “The stage is the place where I feel most at home. There, I’m not in exile.” ([83], own translation).

4. Conclusion

This chapter has shown how the liberal expression of opinions – be it in song lyrics or during other public occasions – can severely infringe on the freedom as well as the mental and physical health of singers and musicians. These infringements come in the form of forced exile, as in the example of Miriam Makeba from South Africa; imprisonment and physical violence, as was the case with Bobi Wine from Uganda; or even death threats and the subsequent killing of Hachalu Hundessa from Ethiopia. None of these procedures is legally acceptable, both from a constitutional and a humanitarian point of view, and ought to be investigated and penalized. However, this noble wish for justice runs counter to the realities in the countries discussed here: while South Africa has overcome the dark chapter of Apartheid by now, this racist system was in full effect by the time Miriam Makeba pursued her career, and she had only exile to turn to. In Uganda, the ruling president resides over the police, the military, and the jurisdiction, thus making independent investigations virtually impossible, a situation that is similar in Ethiopia. Both states are among the 50 worst-rated countries on the Press Freedom Index, with Ethiopia at 130 and Uganda at 133 of 180 countries in total [94], which is a strong indication of the level of censorship present there. The governments misuse their power to “hush” and persecute their citizens in case they dare to criticize the ruling elite. What characterizes music censorship across the three case studies is that singers who openly criticize authoritarian governments are banned by state media. It “follows that, precisely because state media outlaws” the work of such singers, “their value and power in society increased considerably” [30]. Moreover, the state’s censorship and preclusion from airing in the national broadcasting outlets make artists’ work far more subversive, even if the contents of their music are not openly political. Our analysis further points to the cultural and political brokerage of musicians like Bobi Wine, whose music and celebrity offer them leverage to wield power and become political actors, but also reveals the limitations of this practice, as authoritarian regimes seek to control and co-opt the music industry. The murder of Hachalu Hundessa, the several imprisonments and physical mistreatment of Bobi Wine, and Miriam Makeba’s revoked citizenship exemplify how power and politics conspire and endanger musicians who sing back to systems of domination and oppression. As Asebe R. Debelo [46] further argues, killing, detaining, and forcing musicians into exile are often taken by authoritarian regimes as strategies for the destruction of the institutions of knowledge. However, the eradication aimed at is not so easy, especially since the advent of the internet and popular platforms where songs can easily be uploaded and disseminated; tracks that are banned sometimes even spread faster because people are curious why they were banned. Artists are revered by their supporters in the sphere of political reform and future-making in Africa, and the more they suffer for the sake of their art, the more this reverence seems to spread (a hypothesis that needs to be corroborated by future research). Furthermore, imprisonment, murder, torture, detention, expulsion, or revoking basic human rights all imply how musicians do not just embody politics – they become body politics as well. As Côté states, “popular musicians, through their ability to use popular music and the fame brought about by their art, may constitute significant political actors” [2], and the above case studies demonstrate that popular music not only reveals politics, but rather it is politics too.

What, then, is the personal motivation behind musical artivism, when the opinions they voice in their songs put the originators in such danger? One answer is given by Künzler & Reuster-Jahn: “In many countries, the musicians take a serious risk of persecution, while gaining in popularity and credibility among their audiences” [17]. While this might be one motive, a more important one is the artist’s personal conviction and his or her strong sense of justice. Asked why he chose to go the difficult path of political engagement instead of just being a singer and actor and leading a comfortable life, Bobi Wine answered in an interview with Al Jazeera: “I cannot pretend to be free and comfortable when Uganda is not! When the ghetto boys and girls whom I grew up with continue to die every day, when we lose 18 women in hospitals every day giving birth, we lose more than 300 children under the age of five (…). Now, having been lifted through this life and having been offered this opportunity to speak for them (…) I cannot be selfish to deny them that!” [60]. In an interview with the Deutsche Welle (DW) after receiving the Odaa Award for influential musicians, Hachalu Hundesssa describes his motivation for singing: “(…) with music you analyze the political, social, economic, and the life of society. I personally feel happy when I sing resistance songs. Singing such songs is inside me since I am part of the [oppressed] society” [95].

Similarly, Miriam Makeba said in her speech at the UN in 1963: “I ask you and all the leaders of the world, would you act differently? Would you keep silent and do nothing if you were in our place? Would you not resist if you were allowed no rights in your own country because the color of your skin is different from that of the rulers, and if you were punished for even asking for equality?” [96].

Fortunately, today there are also examples of positive interaction between governments and artists in Africa. Maya Sona Jobarteh counts among the first women who have learned and publicly play the Kora, a traditional Western African instrument typically reserved for male musicians and griots. She has recently released her new album “Badinyaa Kunoo”, which includes a song about the responsibility of artists to be ambassadors for cultural and social positive change in society, and, putting her words to action, founded “The Gambia Academy” in 2015 [97]¹². In neighboring Senegal, Aisha Dème has founded the platform AgenDakar.com “dedicated exclusively to the promotion of art and culture in Senegal” [15], and other actively engaged artists can be found all over the continent. Also, NGOs continuously work with music for the betterment of underprivileged people, thus for instance the Friedrich Naumann Foundation launched the “Change Through Music” initiative with a big concert in 2021, including artists such as Bobi Wine, Bantu, Zolani Mahola, The Miagi Youth Orchestra, and MICM [98]. Another initiative worth mentioning is Artwatch Africa, which “aims to assert, promote and defend artist rights and freedom of creative expression for artists and cultural practitioners in Africa.” (it is a project of the Arterial Network “a dynamic Pan-African, a civil-society network of artists, cultural activists, entrepreneurs, enterprises, NGOs, institutions, and donors active in Africa’s creative and cultural sectors” created in 2007) [99].

These hopeful initiatives offer space for creative artistic expressions to be seen as “a means of helping people to learn about one another’s cultures, customs and languages” [30], about their everyday life experiences including discrimination and oppression [100] – and not as a threat to society. We close this article by calling for research on the connection between popular/political music, diasporic communities, and the (un-)making of politics and political regimes in Africa. There is also a need for research on how popular music decentres politics from its ‘formal’ spaces and contexts of parliament, civil society, and political parties into everyday life settings through analysis of the quotidian practices of worldmaking through music and songs. This includes studies of music activists’ biographies of struggles, the legacies they leave behind, and the inspirations they feed the world through their music. Most importantly, however, the violation of basic human rights associated with censorship measures needs to be documented and brought to the attention of independent jurisdiction.

Acknowledgments

The publication of this article would not have been possible without the generous funding of the Fritz Thyssen Stiftung in the form of a PostDoc Scholarship to Dr. Gardy Stein, and a fieldwork grant to Professor Tatek Abebe by the Norwegian Institute for Comparative Research in Human Culture, as well as the Open Access Fund of the Universität Hamburg, to all of which we are immensely grateful.