Malian jelimuso (female Manding griot singer) Kandia Kouyaté made an historic U.S. tour in February, 2002. A supremely respected and successful cultural figure at home, Kandia does not have to subject herself to the indignities of international touring. But as she explains in her first interview with Afropop Worldwide, she has reached a point in her life where she feels an urge to reach out to the world and share her extraordinary art. Afropop's Banning Eyre caught up with Kandia in her hotel room in New York early in the tour and they sat down fro a relaxed conversation.

BANNING EYRE.: Is this really the first time you've brought a full group to tour in the United States?

KANDIA KOUYATÉ: That's the first time. I toured before with the kora and the balafon, two instruments only. Now, I'm performing with the kora, the balafon, ngoni, guitar, and the doundoun.

B.E.: That was in 1988 and '89, right?

KANDIA: Yes. It was African Oye, with Mel Howard. Ballake [Sissoko] played the kora, and Ibrahima played the balafon.

B.E.: I remember it well. It was the first time I ever heard a jelimuso sing, and I haven't been the same since.

KANDIA: [LAUGHS] Thank you. But with all the problems of Africa--we had four ethnic groups from Zaire on that tour--the tour was stopped because of the problem of wars in Africa.

B.E.: Let's go back to the beginning. Tell us about your childhood, and how you got your start in music.

KANDIA: I was born in Kita in the first region, Cercle de Kita, Region de Kayes. I was born in a griot family--Kouyaté--to a griot mother, father and grandfather. I started with music at a young age, when I was very small, because my father was a great balafonist. He used to bring his balafon every morning, and all the children came along side him to sing and dance and play. When we started to sing, everyone in the family was amused and laughed. Every morning, when we finished breakfast, my papa took out the balafon and made all the children dance. After ten or fifteen minutes, he put it away. Afterwards, I went to school. I did eight years of secondary school, but I continued with music, and songs. My father didn't really like this. He always claimed that when a child learns something by hand, he will succeed with that. But when my father saw me sing and he heard that my voice was sure, above the others, Ahhh, my father, he began to doubt himself. He said, "Maybe, the child that is marked [for a career in music] is this one. But I don't want her to sing. I want her to go to school."

My father was an ex-combattant. He fought from 1939-45. He said, "I want my daughter to continue with her schooling, to really succeed, to have a great place in society." I followed my destiny. Every time I left to sing, he was furious. He hit me all the time when I came back from shows. He hit me every day. My father, and my adoptive mother. Because with us, when you are born, you are given an adoptive mother who will raise you. Your mother does not concern herself with you. So my adoptive mother, every time I went out to sing, when I returned she would hit me. It was my father who told her, "If she goes out to sing, when she returns, you must beat her. Because she must go to school. She must go to school the next day." So I went back to school. I did eight years. I never repeated. I was always in the top 5. So my father, he saw that and he said, "She must continue her studies."

But the good God allowed me to follow my destiny which was music. And thank God, what he hoped to have through studies, he got through songs.

B.E.: Amazing. So despite being born a griot, you really had to struggle to have a career in music.

KANDIA: Yes. It was combat.

B.E.: But are you glad your parents forced you to get an education?

KANDIA: Absolutely. This is why I myself fight for the education of children. An educated child and an uneducated child are not the same thing. I believe in education. In my family, my father, my mother, my cruel mother, everyone leaned on me so that I would continue my studies. That wasn't bad. They wanted me to do something good. And God decided that that would be music. … So I am happy. Yes, they hit me and I was afraid all the time. When I was young and I started to come up, I didn't even dare to raise my voice because I didn't want my parents to hear my voice. At that time, we didn't have microphones. We sang without them. So I always very low so that they wouldn't hear me. I was afraid of them hearing me because I knew they would hit me. So with the education I received, I thank God.

B.E.: This is a familiar story in African music. Parents think you have to choose between music and education. But you can really have both, can't you?

KANDIA: Absolutely. I had both. I was well educated, and I learned the songs. Thank God.

B.E.: Was there a time later on when your father understood and was kind about your having become a singer?

KANDIA: [LAUGHS] When I started to come up, he came to me and he said, "No, personally, I don't want you to sing." Now he stopped hitting me, but he said, "Really, I don't want you to sing. I'm going to let you keep singing. But I want you to continue your studies. Because I, when I traveled, I went to Marseilles, to France, to Germany, to Holland. I want to you to study and get a diploma and be able to go to Marseille, France, too." He started to become soft with me, in order to explain what he wanted. It was not now with anger. He just called me to talk.

And I said, "But Papa, I love the songs." Then the moment when real success came to me coincided with the moment of his death. He was dead when people really began to know me. He died in 1974. So he never really saw me, but my adoptive mother did see me. I even joked with her. When I became a great singer, she said, "Kandia, come. I want to talk with you." I said, "Mmmm. I don't like it when you say you want to talk with me because every time you take me into your room, it's to hit me." She said, "No, no, no. The hitting is over now. You have followed your destiny. I have stopped now."

B.E.: So how did you start working as a singer?

KANDIA: In the beginning, they took me on motor bike to do publicity for the city of Kita. After the local seminary of Kita, the regional seminary--I don't know if you saw that in Mali. People go there to travel to Kayes, to go to the biennale. My first concert happened in Bamako. We went to Kayes to prepare at the biennale, and we returned to Bamako to present the show there. From there, things started to come my way. Suddenly, I was married. That was in 1977, after my father was dead. I went to Kayes to be married. I continued to sing there at baptisms and weddings, and then there were concerts. I made my first big concert in Bamako in 1982. That was before over 1000 people. I sang with the greats of that time.

B.E.: Who were they?

KANDIA: Tata Bambo Kouyaté, Amy Koita, Hawa Drame. These three were the biggest. There was also the older generation, Fanta Damba Gini and Moratafe Sacko. These were the mothers. Tata Bambo and Amy Koita were my sisters. But I was the youngest. I was the third generation after Fanta Damba. So we put on a big concert. I played that day with Tata Bambo, and it was a success.

B.E.: I read in Lucy Duran's excellent Folk Roots article about you that there was a time when you sang in your uncle's electric pop group, Apollo.

KANDIA: That was earlier. Because during the vacations, we left Kita to come to Bamako. I had an older brother who played in Apollo. So I went and sang with his group in Bamako. I was still in school. This was during the three months of vacation in Bamako. I sang in his group, Apollo. At that time, there weren't very many bands. Apollo was there in the place of bands. There were modern instruments. Solo guitar, bass guitar, accompaniment guitar, drum kit. All that.

B.E.: Like the Super Rail Band and Les Ambassadeurs, eh?

KANDIA: Voila. You know.

B.E.: I also read there that you have a reputation for spending time with older people, especially the old griots, and that this is reflected in the depth of your words. Talk about that.

KANDIA: Among us, in Kita, you can't be a great singer or historian without listening to the old people ( les grands persons). There are great old people everywhere. I go to them to learn. I ask them things. I bring them kola nuts, as is the custom among us. I'm always with them, asking questions. The thing that the young singers don't do now is this. I am always at the side of old persons asking, "What does this mean? What is this word? What does this signify? If you do this, why does that happen?" I have received great knowledge from old persons. Right up to the present, I continue this research with them, to increase my knowledge. That is very important.

B.E.: I remember when I was living with the Tounkara family in Bamako, how they commented on the words you sang to the song "Sunjata." They tried to make me understand, but always regretted that I couldn't appreciate the language. I know that you have had great success with big patrons in that society. But you haven't recorded or toured very much because you've been so busy working in this other world. Is that right?

KANDIA: Me, I've followed griotism more than art. I am a griotte, and I will remain a griotte. But now I feel obliged to go out to really communicate what I have in my heart to the entire world. A griot is always at the side of his or her patron. I've followed this. I am always at the side of my patron, who does everything for me. Even if I need to take a plane and fly somewhere, he takes care of that. I have everything I want in my home in Bamako, in Mali. With all that, one has to get out a bit to communicate also with the world.

I spent seven years with Sylla asking me to make a record, and I refused. I said, "No, no, no, no, no. My songs are for my patron. I am a griotte. I want to sing for my patron." In seven years, he did not tire. He kept asking. One day, Fode Kouyaté--bless his soul--said to me, "Kandia, you must now accept Sylla and let him produce you. This will make you known also. What you have in your heart, you must let it out, to really communicate with the entire world." I remember the day he said that. So when Sylla came, Fode said to him, "Kandia is now ready to reply to you." So when Sylla came, we agreed, and we made the cassette Kita Kan.

B.E.: So we have Fode Kouyaté to thank.

KANDIA: He is dead now, but he was my brother and friend. He really hoped that I would be one day like this, here.

B.E.: I knew him. He was wonderful. He even invited me to play a concert with him in Bamako. It was quite an experience.

KANDIA: Oh! He was the one. He said, "No, Kandia, you must accept Sylla. You must work with him. Why don't you accept him?" I said, "No, that's how it is. I am a griotte. I follow the road of my ancestors." He said, "Of course, that is true. But Kandia, the knowledge that you have, that must not just stay here. You must accept Sylla. You will be known all over the world." I said, "But I did Africa Oye. I did 47 states in the United States, two times in Australia, England, everywhere. That's enough." He said, "No, that's not the same thing. You must release a CD. You must let the Europeans participate in your music." He spoke well. He was right. And thank God.

B.E.: Tell me about making that recording, Kita Kan.

KANDIA: The ones who were really surprised were the French orchestra from Paris. Because when I came, we had just a few days, three days of rehearsal, and that was enough. I knew "do-re-mi-fa-sol." That was not a problem for me. I am traditional, but I started in Apollo, which was a modern band. That astonished them to find a griotte who could sing in time, and with three days of rehearsal, learn everything. The symphony was really surprised. So the work was easy for me. We did "Wulale." We sang modern songs with 46 violinists. That's enormous, eh? In any case, it worked.

B.E.: You recorded a couple of Bambara songs on that album, didn't you?

KANDIA: Yes.

B.E.: And that's unusual for a griotte, isn't it?

KANDIA: Well, if you see that I sing Bambara songs, that's because my mother came from Biriko. Biriko is in the middle of Wassoulou, and Wassoulou is Bambara. The language of Biriko is a little different from the language in Wassoulou, and the language of Segou. A little different. So my mother came from there. When I was very little, I spent time with my grandmother there. All my uncles played ngoni, Bambara ngoni, like Basekou [Kouyaté] plays. My grandfather also played this instrument. So this instrument was in our family, and my mother sang that. It's even deeper because I sing Bambara with the cry of Biriko. In Biriko, you will see calabashes full of water. This is something different, that is not like the others. So I sang in this way, with just the voice and the calabash, no strings.

B.E.: So when people in Bamako heard Kita Kan, they discovered another Kandia, eh?

KANDIA: Yes, they heard another Kandia. I did lots of interviews. There were some who were very happy. There were some who said, "No, Kandia. We want you to stay traditional." And I said, "No. I will stay traditional, but I must communicate through the tradition with my children who don't listen to music just in the house, but also in the nightclubs." So when I sing, when I express myself through modernism, people will hear me in nightclubs, dancing. And they will understand. They will know where they descended from. This is why a did a couple of modern songs there, to reach the young people, to help them. You must also go to the people, to make them participate, and their children.

B.E.: You sing about some things other than lineage here, the situation of women in society and that sort of thing. What are the rules about what a griot can and can't sing?

KANDIA: There are things you can't sing. There are forbidden words. You have to be of the right age to sing certain things, even in the Mande epic. There are things in Manding that one must not say. When we say all, we see all. And when we see all, that's not good. This is why there are words that are forbidden. Then there are things that we, the griots and only us, can say. For example, if there is something between you and your family, and that all of your family is afraid to say to you, I am free to tell you. I am not afraid to. I am a griot. I must not have fear. A true griot must never have fear, even if you've done something you must not to. I come to you and I say it clearly, in a song, or I call you to the side and say it. I say that the family has something to tell you but they are afraid to. "Why do you make your family afraid that way?" Or I come to you, and I begin to sing you. I sing you. I sing you. And the moment that you are really deep into the music, I tell you all the things that the family thinks of you. That is permitted among us, the griots. We must do that. When there is something that is not going right in the country--this is what I say to political men today--I say that I, Kandia, was not made for you. I must never lie. I will never say something I must not say, or I must say something I cannot say, I don't go near that person.

B.E.: I understand that griots mostly avoid singing about politics, because if you praise a leader, that leader might not stay around.

KANDIA: And then you have problems. Voila. That is why, even if you want someone to die, you must say what you think, that he has done badly, you must say so. If he has done well, you must say. If you always say good things, good things, then you will have problems. But if you say the truth, they might be angry, but at least they will know that you don't lie. That's why, among us, there are many types of griots. There are ngaras, and there are simple singers. I am not in that club. I am a ngara. A ngara must not lie. A ngara must always tell the truth to the noble. When I am your griot, everything you do that is not good, I will tell you. And if you don't want to listen to me, I will leave you. I will not follow someone who is not honest.

B.E.: A ngara. Tell us what that means.

KANDIA: A ngara must not have fear. A ngara must not lie. A ngara must not be a person of bad character. She must scrutinize everything she says. She must be loyal. That is a ngara. Even among the nobles, there are ngara, loyal ones who do not lie. There are ngara, but this word ngara must not be applied to a noble, because when you say ngara, you are saying that person is very, very strong, too strong.

B.E.: Can a guitarist be a ngara?

KANDIA: Certainly. Because he is powerful. Everything he says, he wants to have what he says. Because a player is a singer, eh? The kora sings. The instruments sing. It's not just the singer who puts out the song. No, those that play also sing the song. You have seen Djelimady [Tounkara]. Djelimady is a great singer, I can say. He plays very well. They day you see me and Djelimady in concert, that is too, too strong. Babani Sissoko--I think you have heard talk of him, because you were in the Tounkara family and that is Babani's family. [Babani Sissoko is a wealthy patron of griots.] Babani, for him to be happy, Djelimady and Kandia must be there. We understand each other too well, me and Djelimady. We have not had the time to really collaborate so much because he is in his band, and I am traditional. So we haven't had the time, but we like each other naturally.

B.E.: That must happen!

KANDIA: In sh'allah. I wanted to do it this time, but the work coincided with his decoration [for a BBC World Music Award in London], and I was very, very happy for him, because when you have done a good work and it is really recognized, that is the real fruit of your labor. I am very, very happy for him.

B.E.: Tell me about the song "Wualale." It's a commentary on the plight of women, is it not?

KANDIA: Yes. In other times, women were not consulted about marriage. They were forced into marriages. The day of your marriage was the day you first saw your husband. And if you are young, you have spent all your time with a young man. He is not your husband, but he is your friend. You spent your youth with him, and one day, someone takes your hand and give you to a stranger you have never known. So on the day when your girlfriends come together, the day of separation from your boyfriend and you go to the stranger, this is the day we sing "Wulale." I say that distance does not exclude love. Today we are separated. "Wula"--that means distance. "Ja nyara"--that means too long. The distance has become too long. But it is your parents who wanted this, so you must follow your parents. "Wulale" talks about this, forced marriage and then the separation from your boyfriend you've spent your life with, and then one fine day someone comes to give you to a stranger. When we sing this song, all the young girls, the bride, her friends, her boyfriend even, everyone starts to wail and cry. It's too sentimental, "Wulale."

B.E.: You also sang a song against the practice of excision, didn't you?

KANDIA: Ohhhhh. Okay, I sung that. I had a lot of problems because of this song. I myself am a victim of this practice, and it's a problem--how can I say this?--it's a problem of customs in Mali. We were born with this. So if we want to struggle against that, it becomes a problem. I had lots of problems. I had lots of people who called me and said, "Kandia, with all the respect that the great personages, the religious leaders have for you, how could you meddle in this problem?"

I said, "No, you must understand me. I am a singer. I too am a victim. I was circumcised. But everything has its time." We don't know why we are circumcised. Because this has been erased from our head. The day you are born, you are circumcised. The next day. I don't know what it would be like not to be circumcised. Really, I don't know.

B.E.: It doesn't come from the Koran.

KANDIA: No, it's not in the Koran. But it's something that is in the heads of our parents and grandparents. They did it, so everyone should do it. So today it's become an issue. There are some who understand and there are some who do not understand at all. Even when I explained, I said, "If you can leave a girl alone and it makes no difference, why do this? There is no need to wound people."

They said, "No, Kandia. We don't want you to put your mouth into this problem."

I said, "Why not? I must do it. It's about health. It this is against people's health, we must say so." I sang the other day, and someone spoke to me about this. I have a meeting in Boston. [Susan MacLucas] says we must make the video of this song. I told her I'm really under pressure about this problem. Lots of pressure. I was called to a meeting where they said, "All the singers can sing about this and no one will say anything, but Kandia, if you put your mouth into it, and people are going to take this seriously. And when people take this seriously, really, it's not good. So you must leave it." Ahh. I said, "And why is this not in the Koran? You have called me to tell me this, but it is not in the Koran." But as these were elders who had called me, I could not say, "No I'm going to do it." I said, "Okay. We will see."

B.E.: So for the moment, you've left the video project aside.

KANDIA: For the moment. But I must make the video. That day, there was a misunderstanding. I was prepared to go and make the clip, but I believe it was the cameraman who did not show up. Something like that.

B.E.: Kandia, for you to sing a song like that, is that part of being a ngara?

KANDIA: This problem has only been talked about for five years, six years, something like that. In any case, I don't know why we do it. One day, I even asked my husband, "What does that do to a woman? Have you already known an uncircumcised woman? What is that like." He said, "I don't know about that. Don't ask me about that." But I don't know why.

B.E.: But you chose to enter this debate. That took courage.

KANDIA: Yes. When I spoke, people listened. Now, the practice is diminishing. It's diminishing a lot in Africa now.

B.E.: Well, it really helps when someone like you speaks out.

KANDIA: Yes, it really landed a blow. But that's why the Muslim society called me to say, "Kandia, we don't want this. You've been three times to Mecca. We have a lot of respect. All of Mali has a lot of respect for you because we know you have a great responsibility in life here in Mali. We don't want you meddling in this." I said, "But why not? I struggled against non-education of girls. Nobody said anything to me. So if I struggle against that too, it's because we have to stop it. If that makes people sick, I don't know what that does, but I am told it makes people sick, and I fight for people's health. Right now I am fighting against maternal death in childbirth, and infant mortality."

I've fought a lot for that. I even made a cassette about that. If you have a tape recorder, I will let you hear a little of it. It's not all finished, but there is a song about that.

B.E.: Do you ever sing "Anka Fo Ante," the circumcision song, in concerts?

KANDIA: Yes. After the cassette, I made a bit of a tour and I sang that song. But with all the pressure I was getting, I've stopped a little, because with the Muslims, you mustn't force things too much. With Africans, you must not force things. You have to go gently. Because there are people who understand nothing at all. It's difficult.

B.E.: I'm sure that's true. But do you think things are getting better for women in Mali, in general?

KANDIA: Yes. It's starting to go. When I sing the education of women, I sang this song, there was a village where I sang that and they now sing it like a national anthem. Before sitting down, they sing this in class. [SINGS] We say, "When girls don't go to school, really, this is not good. We must educate girls." I did not do a lot of studies in school, but thank God, I defend myself a little. And when a girl doesn't go to school--it's the women who take care of the family; it's the woman who take care of the sick, and she has to find someone who is educated in order to fill a prescription. When you have a little bit of education, you will understand how to administer medicine to your child at home. All that is the fruit of school. I have struggled a lot for that, and thank God, today, the level of education of girls is rising.

B.E.: You've just been working on a new album. Tell us about that.

KANDIA: It has gone very well. We've been recording in Abidjan. It's not finished, because there are a lot of instruments that one can have in Cote D'Ivoire, and that we can bring from Mali to Cote D'Ivoire. It's easier to record in Abidjan than to take everything to Paris. So we've recorded 10 traditional songs, and we will do two modern songs. It's more traditional than Kita Kan. There are songs with just balafon and ngoni. There are songs with just ngoni and acoustic guitar, played by Modibo Diabaté, and Ousmane Kouyaté. He's the arranger again this time. When it comes out, you will hear that we've done good work.

After here, I'll go to Paris to arrange more and add some things, maybe redo certain phrases and mix everything, and do the two modern songs. We've started. We must not stop. We want to get children involved. So we're going to add two modern songs to the ten traditional songs.

B.E.: Who is in your band now?

KANDIA: These are my musicians. I've been with them a long time. The ngoni is Issa Kone. Balafon is Mahamadou Diabate. These are kids, 18-20 years old. God has given me this sense. When I start with a small musician, he becomes big. I started with Toumani. He was my first kora player, and thank God, now the whole world knows Toumani. He remembers that he got his start with me. After Toumani, I took Ballake. And now he too is known. But now that he is married, he's gone. No problem. There is no problem between us. Those who want to leave, I let them leave. Now there is Mamadou, the young brother of Toumani. Guitar is Aboubacar Diabaté. We call him Badian. Doundoun ba and bell is Mbouye Sacko. He played with Yayi. He must know you because he was with the Tounkara family. That's the group.

B.E.: Any final words for your American listeners?

KANDIA: I want to say to Americans to come and see the Malian tradition. I will do everything I can to help them understand a little what I do. I want to make them participate. Everywhere we have gone we have gotten the spectators to participate. We've danced together. We've sung together. I ask them to come also to see something that they won't see every day.

B.E.: Thank you so much, Kandia. This was a great pleasure.

KANDIA: The pleasure was shared.

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