Revolutionary poets

There’s something rather self-indulgent in poetry evenings, especially when poets read their own work. They wring the maximum emotion from each word while the audience cringes in embarrassment. That was then.

Now, poetry has taken on a totally new meaning. I only realised that when I went a poetry evening in Johannesburg. It was more of a duty call, but we were amazed to find the hall almost full. There was a bit of Wordsworth stuff, but the majority of the items performed were very different: the audience was young black people and the poetry was protest in rhyme.

That was when the penny dropped: rap music (how I dislike it, and the silly outfits that rappers wear) has planted a seed: rap without music is poetry, and can be a powerful vehicle for social protest. The short lines and the urgent rhyming make it an ideal medium for short sharp messages. In South Africa, with its long tradition of protest, the interest was more in the idea that young people were finding a voice, and that poetry was as much a weapon as an art form, than in the protest itself.

In the Congo, where the stakes are so high, and protest is crushed with bullets, any form of public dissent is dangerous. So it was with amazement that when we went to a show that was (we had been told) a dance performance at the French Cultural centre, we found that we had strayed into an evening of revolutionary verse.

The stage was a simple outdoor platform with a single microphone, and a couple of spotlights trained on the speaker. The poets were young, but had no lack of self confidence. They stood on the stage and proclaimed their message with passion and (in most cases) aplomb. In many cases the audience knew the words and would burst into yelps of support or clapping as the good bits were reached.

Once the piece was finished, the poet would leave the stage and someone else would take his or her place. This was not a set programme: people who had something to share, just got onto the stage and did their piece. Sometimes there would be a big show of reluctance, and the person would have to be pushed into the spotlight.

But while the enthusiasm of the poets was infectious, it was their message which was so exciting. It was revolutionary stuff, about the exploitation of the riches of the land by the elite, the corruption, the indifference of politicians to the lot of the poor, of the need to take action. Like the performers, the audience was mostly young but you can be sure that the secret police were there too, taking notes.

But an act of God saved the Government from further embarrassment. Suddenly, the heavens opened and within a matter of seconds audience and performers alike had fled for cover. A couple of the organisers darted out to rescue the microphone and lights from the rain and then it was all over.

The secret police heaved a sigh of relief and went home, wondering just how dangerous the messages were.