In Conversation

This week we spoke to Kalaf Epalanga about his lyrical journey to writing, and the techno-infused Angolan music that inspired his debut novel, Whites Can Dance Too.

Interviewed by Nancy Adimora.

NA: Thank you for joining us. Before we started, I mentioned that I’m Nigerian and I’m keen to feature more stories from across the continent so I’m delighted to be shining a light Angola this week. I’d love to start by taking it back to the very beginning - can you walk us through your journey to writing?

KE: Just as a side note, I’ll start by saying that we Angolans consider ourselves the Nigerians of the south. We have the swag, have the energy…

NA: Hahaaa! I love that. I’ll definitely bear that in mind.

KE: But to answer your question, I arrived in Portugal when I was about to turn 18. When I got there, the main purpose was, of course, to study, but I had a subplot dictating my life, which was that my country, Angola, was in a civil war. I was getting close to that difficult age of joining the army, and my parents, like any parents fearing for their kids, basically decided that it was better for me to continue my studies in Portugal because of Angola’s relationship with Portugal, and the fact that my father was already in Portugal, studying for his Master’s. The decision was a no-brainer, but when I got here, I hated it. I hated it so much. I didn't unpack for the first two years and I was counting the days until we had a ceasefire so I could go back to my life. Then, slowly but surely, I started meeting the Portuguese Afro-diaspora at large from Angola, Guinea Bissau, Cape Verde, and Congo but it was mostly Angolans. Meeting other Portuguese-speaking Africans living in the diaspora somehow sparked this need to tell my stories, especially because our generation was also engaging with rap.

I wanted to be a rapper, but I'm terrible with music. So I thought to myself okay, I can’t rap, but I can write lyrics. The idea intrigued me and I fell in love with the artform. I loved poetry and I knew that I had access to stories that could be helpful because I realised that people in Portugal had an almost romanticized idea of Africa. They rarely saw us in a contemporary light, and they were still stuck on this idea of a group of village elders telling wise stories under a tree or around the fire. Also, because of my upbringing, I was immersed in these pan-Africanist ideas and concepts. My grandfather was a small town political leader and the books that I had read were by Soyinka, Senghor and Afro-Brazilians like Abdias do Nascimento, all these big thinkers on Pan-Africanism and Afro-identity within the continent and also in the diaspora. I felt the rap songs lacked that depth, and I felt like I could contribute to that, because that's the stuff that I grew up on. But I soon realised that I needed to find a pathway, so I basically decided to make an advert in a musical newspaper, because I wanted to produce but I knew nothing about music, so I decided that if I wanted to be part of music, I needed to create my own band. I put out the ad asking for drummers, guitarists, vocalists, so I could just write the lyrics.

NA: So your journey to publishing started with lyrics, but when you approach your writing now, how much of it is still influenced by your career as a musician?

KE: I just see it as an extension of the same thing. For example, when you consider the likes of Sonia Sanchez and Amiri Baraka, they are incredible writers, but they are also musicians. So for me, one art fits the other. I believe that with music, the whole purpose is to create images. That's also the gift of the word. The beauty of music is that we don't necessarily need words to paint those images, sometimes the melodies and the energy is enough. There’s also the performance aspect of it because when you have a body standing on stage, even without emitting any sound, just that presence, that posture, all of that is telling a story. For me, that's exactly what I pursue with literature, and as well with music. So it's all about expression, and being able to connect to something higher or deeper than our condition here, in this time and space.

NA: And moving on to your debut novel, Whites Can Dance Too, what inspired you to tell this story?

KE: The idea was a gift. One of my mentors is the Angolan writer, José Eduardo Agualusa, and he was curating a festival in Brazil and we were on a panel where he was asking me about Kuduro - the music my band was playing, and the music that’s also the backbone of this novel. As I was responding to his question, I noticed that the audience had no idea what Kuduro was. Of course, it's different now, but at the time, they had no idea. So I was explaining that it’s similar to Baile Funk in that it also communicates with techno and has all these cross cultural mixes and influences. After the panel, Agualusa suggested that I write a book about Kuduro because everyone was so engaged when I was talking about it. Of course, I didn't have time to spend two years chasing Kuduro artists and asking about the history, so I knew that if I was to tell this story, I’d tell it through my perspective of what I went through when I was trying to basically become a Kuduro superstar. That’s when I realised that I was sitting on a story that I’d never told any journalist - the story that opens the book actually happened - I was arrested in Norway, on my way to a concert, on suspicion of being an illegal immigrant. I felt like that could be a good beginning of a novel, so the story continued from there.

NA: I'm very ashamed to say that I had never heard about Kuduro before coming across your book, and it’s interesting because whilst I proudly refer to myself as an African, I’m also aware that there’s so much that I don't know about different countries and cultures across the continent - which is where stories come in. Literature plays such an important role in documenting our experiences, and you mentioned that you didn't want to go for a traditional musical biography format, instead you opted for a novel told through three different voices - can you tell us more about how you settled on this approach?

KE: Again, it's also an aspect of African identity. We are a combination of so many things. We can’t go back in history, we can’t undo colonialism or the slave trade, even the ideas around our countries were completely made up, so to tell a story following the regular patterns isn't something I’m interested in. My music reflects who I am and all my experiences, some beautiful and some painful things, but all that combines to make the art. So for me when I'm writing or even when I approach any art form, it’s always a combination of genres and of languages. Even the language that I wrote that novel in is not mine. It's something that was imposed on me. I'm very aware of all that, so I allow myself to be a little bit disruptive by nature.

But on your point about the importance of documenting our cultures, I knew I wanted to write about Kuduro because many of us living in the diaspora, myself included, had all sorts of odd jobs to make a living, and during the day, most of us didn't have a name. You were either the cleaner or the bricklayer or the bus driver. But on Fridays, you clean yourself up, you wear your best outfit, you put on your best shoes, you go out, and suddenly, your name is reclaimed. That's the power of music for us. Without music, most of us wouldn’t have survived. That's a fact. We just wouldn’t have made it. Music gave us so much, and it still gives us so much. I had to pay homage to that. This book is basically paying homage to our survival, because music is the ultimate survival kit for all Africans across the globe.

NA: That’s so powerful, the idea of music being the cord that connects us back home, that’s such an interesting way to look at it. And now, moving on to the process, I would love to know what your writing process looks like in a practical sense?

KE: I spent almost two years on this project, between 2015 up to 2017. Back then, I had this idea that you should write at least two pages a day. I basically treated it like 9 to 5, and I was writing throughout the day, but I didn't have three kids back then. Now, I’m just happy if I can write a good sentence! To be honest, there are no rules. I have no rules. These days, the writing process happens whenever I find time. There are certain chunks of the book that I wrote at night and there are certain chunks that I wrote during the day. I'm just happy that I managed to finish.

NA: I’m also happy that you managed to finish, and I’d love to read more stories from Angola and other Lusophone countries across the continent. Your book was translated from Portuguese, and translation is usually the barrier, but could you recommend some other books by Angolan writers that I should add to my reading list?

KE: You make an interesting point because when most people talk about Africa, they're only referring to English-speaking countries. If you're lucky, they might include Francophone countries but there are so many other aspects of the African experience that need to be explored. We should embrace more of our stories, because there's so many more layers and points of views that could enrich us.

I would recommend Djaimilia Pereira de Almeida - she has a book called That Hair. It is kind of like a biography of her hair, and it’s very poetic. She has more translations coming up, I think next year or later this year. She's amazing. There’s also another good friend of mine, Yara Nakahanda Monteiro. Her book, Loose Ties, is translated into English via an imprint from Zukiswa Wanner. And then I’d recommend books by José Eduardo Agualusa, of course.

NA: Amazing, thank you! And finally, what advice would you give to an aspiring author?

KE: Let me give you my cliche answer before I give my actual answer. The cliche advice is to read as much as you can, I think every writer tells you that, and they’re absolutely right. When you’re in search of your own voice, it helps to have as many examples as possible and see all the possibilities and all the different avenues that you can move towards.

For me, I like to share the advice that I heard from a filmmaker, who’s also a good friend and a mentor. He basically says, film what you own. I’ll rephrase that and say, tell the story you own. Observe your surroundings. The story doesn’t have to be big and grandiose - it could be as simple as a story about your neighbour who walks with his cat every morning - but the stories are there. They're just waiting to be told.

Kalaf Epalanga is an Angolan musician and writer. Best known internationally for fronting the Lisbon-based dance collective Buraka Som Sistema, he is a celebrated columnist in Angola and Portugal. Whites Can Dance Too is his acclaimed debut novel; it was first published in Portugal by Editorial Caminho (2017). Epalanga is currently based in Berlin.

You can read an excerpt of Whites Can Dance Too here.