Musa Ngqungwana's rise to the top
It’s difficult for any human to break the cycle of poverty, but Musa Ngqungwana didn’t just break it, he escaped one of the world’s most complex political systems with a brutal history of segregation and deprivation to sing at the great opera houses of the world, attaining immense success along the way. This is his story
IHAD arranged to stay with one of my mother’s cousins, Xisa Ramafoko, in Sunnyside, Pretoria. She and her husband had offered to accommodate me during my three-day visit. My two friends had lodgings arranged by their choir, the Matthews Singers from New Brighton township. There was a choir competition on the same weekend we were to audition for the Black Ties, and their choir director was not pleased that his two star singers would not be travelling with the rest of the entourage. However, the boys assured him that our audition was on Friday morning, which would give them sufficient time to join the choir at the hotel for rehearsals.
We travelled by Intercape Sleepliner, an overnight shuttle bus with comfortable seats that were flexible enough to adjust for sleeping during the 16-hour ride. As we left our city that evening and I saw it beautifully lit up, I could not help thinking that, although it looked enticing, I was leaving a life of obscurity for one of fulfilment and recognition. There were no guarantees about the audition, yet part of me felt I was starting anew and that, regardless of the outcome, I would not be returning home from it permanently.
My grandmother had baked treats so that we did not need to spend any money on the road, except on something to drink. Her send-off prayer had given me a blessed assurance. Our days of differences regarding my dropping out of school were well behind us, and the focus was now on meeting new objectives.
As we travelled, we reflected on our lives, looking with keen eyes towards our dream. When you have fallen many times, you eventually learn how to balance to find your way. Like a child learning to walk, falling again and again but never giving up, we struggled towards our goals.
We had all had our fair share of strife, I thought as we drove into the night, and had been there for one another along the way, forming a strong bond. There would always be challenges, but we had tools for tackling each of them in a way that was conducive to growth for each of us. Out of all the metaphorical games I had played, I believed, at last, that I had the winning ticket in my hand.
We enjoyed the ride as best we could until we dozed off. I was the last one to do so, being the insomniac I am. We had talked little on the bus ride, but the last thing we said to each other was, “Sleep well, boys. Tomorrow is a new day. Whatever happens, something will change.” It was as if we had a prophetic gift and were creating new realities for ourselves.
Arriving at Pretoria Station early on Friday morning, we found restrooms where we could freshen up and change into our suits. Our audition didn’t start until 10.30am, but we were there and ready by 8.45am.
The security guard in the reception area must have thought we were crazy, as his counsel that we were too early and should come back later fell on deaf ears. Fortunately, at about 9am the secretary of the Black Ties arrived. He was kind enough to offer us coffee and biscuits, and practice rooms to warm up in.
While warming up, we saw others who had come to audition, which astonished us – we’d somehow thought we would be the only ones.
“Whoa, gentlemen, are there other people here as well?” exclaimed Nonkie.
“Buddy, what did you expect? That they would give us the royal treatment?” jeered Siya.
I couldn’t laugh, as I had thought the same thing as Nonkie. The pressure, now, was mounting; we understood that any singer could win the chance to get into the programme.
Nonkie and I looked at each other. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ he asked.
“Yes,” I responded. “Shell Road to Fame at the Feather Market Centre.”
This took Nonkie and me back to how embarrassed we were when the judges cut us off during our act, and how seeing so many other groups had shaken us. But we knew this time was different. Our lives were hanging in the balance – there was nothing to go back to in Port Elizabeth, except hustling and living for scraps. My heart thudded, thinking about how high the stakes were.
They called Siya in first, and then Nonkie. I was the next to last person to sing. On the panel were Mimi Coertse, Neels Hansen, Loveline Madumo (a soprano I had seen on television several times), and two other people I didn’t know. It felt like a special tribunal or a senate hearing of some sort when I sat down in front of them. It was daunting. I sang one of the few arias I knew: Tu
sul labbro dei veggenti from Verdi’s Nabucco. I had no comprehension of the plot of the opera or the meaning of the words; I had learnt the aria by listening to a CD from Monica (Oosthuizen). I imitated what was on the recording. I don’t recall how I felt about my singing, but I know that I couldn’t look at the adjudicators directly, so focused was I on not messing up my presentation.
When I finished, Mimi called me to sit on a chair facing the panel of judges. It was over, and I felt relieved, but now the jittery anticipation had started. Though I acted like all was well, inside me, doubt and distress were equally at play. Perhaps the panel could sense that I was green and had copied from a CD. My heart continued to pound in my chest.
Noticing how nervous I was, Mimi calmed me by asking, ‘Why are you nervous when you’ve sung so incredibly?” Incredibly? Me? Neels Hansen, the artistic director, asked me some questions.
“So, tell us, young man, about yourself. Where are you from? And how do you know Monica Oosthuizen?”
“I’m Musa Ngqungwana from Zwide township in Port Elizabeth,” I said. “I’ve been singing in choirs since middle school, before I joined the Viola Men’s Chorus, a local male choir in my township. It is where I learnt a little about classical music and solo singing. But I have not had formal music training. My friends and I saw Monica’s information in a free newspaper back at home. We contacted her and asked if we could sing for her. To make a long story short, she recommended us to sing for you, sir.”
Though I had been singing in choirs for a considerable number of years by now, I still lacked formal training. Makhaya had offered me some elementary vocal training, but I still did not understand the proper vocal techniques a professional would need. Although Mr Hansen noticed a talent, he felt it would be unfair for the Black Ties to exploit it, as I still needed experience and basic musical training.
Since I did not have college qualifications or training, they wanted to place me in their incubator phase – a programme for people like me, who needed basic training in music. They also put me in the chorus to support principals like Loveline in their productions.
Unlike the principals, the incubators did not immediately have access to individual sponsors who would pay for their accommodation and living expenses. Instead, I would be a “squatter” at someone’s place until I found a sponsor or became a principal in two to three years. Since I knew none of the singers in Pretoria and did not have money to live on, that seemed out of my reach. I was also unwilling to exploit Xisa’s hospitality – hosting me for a weekend was one thing, but having me stay with her for a minimum of two years would be unfair.
As Mr Hansen explained all this, my heart sank and I saw my world crumble before me. Once again, my dreams, which had been almost tangible, seemed to be slipping beyond my reach. But I had misunderstood; they were actually looking out for my best interests and would, eventually, hand me one of the most precious gifts in life – an education.
“However,” continued Mr Hansen, “recognising your talent, we think there’s a place and a teacher who would be perfect for you, and we will supply you with a bursary.” The place he was referring to was the South African College of Music at the University of Cape Town, and the woman was none other than Professor Virginia Davids, the head of vocal studies at the school. She was a well-known spinto soprano and one of the leading voice teachers in the country.
● This is an extract from Odyssey of an African Opera Singer by Musa Ngqungwana, published by Penguin at a recommended retail price of R250