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I’m pretty sure the first time I saw Oliver Mtukudzi (or The Black Spirits) was at the Dominion-Chalmers Church in Ottawa on February 8th, 2015. I am hesitant to trust my memories in this case because when I saw him again just six months later in Zambia I had already completely forgotten about this concert and thought that I was then seeing him for the first time.
Which seems pretty silly.
But in my defence, when I saw him at the Lusaka Jazz Festival he was on a single-day bill with a lot of African musicians that (I think) I had never heard of before, and of course all of them had unusual names (to me, at least); the sorts of names that my brain wiring encourages me to completely skip over. Seriously, and it’s a pretty major problem.
In essence, whenever I am reading an article in the paper or online or wherever, I tend to skip by the names of the people being interviewed, especially if the name is at all unusual. So when an article quotes Officer Dan Beliendisher my eyes literally don’t even read the surname, instead they skip past the officer’s name and move directly on to his quote. Unfortunately this happens in real life too, which is probably a big chunk of the reason why I have such a hard time with people’s names. Which I do.
I’m convinced it has little to do with actual memory, because when it comes to numbers my brain is a lock. For a tiny example: I generally don’t use bookmarks. When I’m done reading for the day I just glance down at the page number and without even trying I can pick up the book a week later and casually flip to the correct page.
Anyway, I try and try (and try and try) to correct this problem. When I am reading something and I catch myself skipping a name I make a point of going back and reading the name slowly and deliberately, often out loud*. But still, I keep doing it. Stupid brain…why is it in such a hurry?
Getting to the show at hand, once the name on the ticket stub actually rang the right bell I could easily transport myself back to the Domchalm, where I sat inside the warm, cozy, and beautiful church/venue safe from the bitter winter outside. I can vividly bring to mind Mtukudzi’s Zimbabwean rhythms and melodies that warmed my soul as much as the church’s ductwork heated my body. I love seeing concerts at the Domchalm, I love African music, and I love temporary respites from biting February weather.
In short, I loved being at this concert.
But that didn’t alleviate the fact that if you had asked me the next day who I had seen the previous night I would have replied, “A guy from Zimbabwe named Oliver…something,” while looking to m’lady to fill in the blank for me, which she inevitably does.
She’s way, way better with names than I am. Gosh, she makes it look so easy.
In this case, however, I am especially embarrassed that I wasn’t more mindful of Mr. Mtukudzi – his name and his music – because now he’s gone. I should remind myself that everyone dies, and that their names are very, very important.
*I do this in-person as well. When I am introduced to someone I force myself to say their name over and over in my head, and I actually try to visualize my mouth saying their name out loud. Truthfully, this is my constant (and mostly failing**) strategy. Unfortunately, doing so generally distracts me away from what the person is then saying to me, so while I might end up with a fair shot at getting their name right in the future, I have completely missed out on what they do for a living, how they know the host, or whatever other main, vital piece of information that usually comes in the first couple of sentences when people meet.
So really I’m just trading one problem for another, but it’s good to mix things up a little.
**Hence: my latest t-shirt design.
Todd Man Out 