#Koffi:thebriefestshowieverhad

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The name is Koffi. Koffi Olomidde to be exact. My parents named me Antoine Christophe Agbepa Mumba at birth but I like to use Koffi Olomide. I am 60 now, and in all my life, I have never been so embarrassed and ill-treated as I was in Kenya a month ago.

Well, the long and short of this tale is that I fell from grace. There. It is has been hard to accept, but yes, I did. I fell so hard that I don’t know what hit me. One minute I was doing my thing in front of the paparazzi’s cameras, the next- I was standing in front of a judge in a dusty courtroom in a totally different country. All in the space of about 30 hours. The blurring has cleared from my mind now and I can tell my story.

My swift descent began in Kenya on 22nd July where I was booked to do a show for my Ekotike hit the next evening. By the way, the song is called Ekotite, not Ekotide or Ekotike, as I have heard some murderers say. The venue was Bomas of Kenya.

As usual, I flew business class. The waitresses swooned over me, asking if I was okay, if I needed a hot towel for my hands, if I would care for a cup of coffee, if they could push my seat back, if I needed a blanket and extra pillow. Hell! All I needed was good food, a strong drink and to perhaps pinch the bottom of the prettiest one.

My crew were holed up in Economy, most of them sleeping off the exhaustion from our show at home in DRC the night before.

We landed at Jomo Kenyatta airport at 12:10pm. I was looking sharp, having freshened up and changed into a tight black long-sleeved t-shirt and my signature pants. The kind of statement trousers with a low fly that hangs around my calves. I was excited. I wanted to see Nairobi - ville verte au soleil- the city in the sun.

Two strong drinks in the VIP lounge later, my manager Sofoki approached me to discuss our itinerary. I told him it could wait as I would first speak to the pack of paps whose cameras were already going into wild action even before I emerged from the lounge. 

This was it. The high-life. The center of attraction. Me. The usual blah blah questions.
 “Koffi, karibu Kenya. Are you excited to be here?”
“Koffi, what something special have you carried with you this time?”
“Koffi, anything different for … ”

Suddenly I distracted by some commotion behind me. Raised female voices. Yelling in a mix of Lingala and French. I swung my head around. There they were, my dancers. Shouting. Catfight? I did not hear the rest of the pesky paps’ questions. I needed to find out what the matter was. This undignified market-woman kinda yelling. As I approached, Cindy- my sweet favorite, dashed away, tears streaming down her face. “Quel est le chéri de la matière ??”

I didn’t wait for an answer and I did not ask any more questions. I had spotted the source of the disturbance. The stranger who did not belong in my group. A dark-skinned woman with a cheap fake weave. I lunged at her and she made as if to flee. I strode towards her and kicked.  Hard. My foot connected with her side as she raised her hands to defend herself.
At least that’s what I remember. (I later heard that I had actually karate-kicked one of my dancers and the rest had scattered away in shock and fear).

Policemen standing nearby moved in to stop me, I shoved them off with my raging Spanish bull face and they kept their distance. Cindy was sniffing alone in a corner, her red handbag sitting on her red suitcase. I went up to her, my manager running behind me, pleading with me to return to the interview. I returned in the direction of the paps, flashing my best smile. “Okay, where were we?” but they were already packing up, some walking away.

But just then, Sofoki told me the limo taking us to the hotel was ready.

“Make sure the crew gets to town safe!” I barked at him as I entered the limo, Cindy following closely behind.

As promised by the events organizer, a country-mate, the limo was sleek, black, air-conditioned and drinks were on hand. I quietened the sniffy Cindy with a glass of orange juice. She told me there had been an altercation between her and another dancer and that was the reason for the commotion.
“Shhhh… baby… it will be alright.” I rubbed her back and pecked her on the forehead. “Wipe your face now and put on some make-up, you know the journalists and their cameras will be at the hotel. Okay?”

Then I got back to the free bar and whipped out my phone to take the selfies that I would post on my Facebook page. 

Twenty minutes later we drove into the gates of the grandiose Villa Rosa Kempinski hotel. My crew were already there. A valet opened the limo door and I jumped out, a refreshed Cindy, looking sheepish by my side.
“You are welcome Mr Koffi!” The valet, beaming with a wide smile, could have tripped over himself as he took her hand.

Sofoki informed me that hotel was finalizing arrangements for my room. I was irritated. I needed to lie down and get this excess mix of drinks off my head. Didn’t they know I was coming? Koffi Olomide? Ekotite? Hello???!!

The hotel manager, a middle-aged man in a grey suit came running towards me, “Mr. Koffi, we have your booking ready, we will be leading you to room in a few minutes. Please sit down Sir.” He herded me to some plush, black leather seats. I sank in. They were comfortable. A waitress carrying a tray with glasses of wine appeared from nowhere and handed me one. I took a sip and handed it back.
“Take it to my girls over there,” I said, pointing to where my dancers were sitting in another side of the foyer.

I flipped open my phone.It was time to post those selfies with the drinks in the background. I had to make sure that people knew I was in town. I had several whatsapp messages. At the moment, Sofoki sat down next to me, on the edge of the seat. He looked worried.

“Eh, boss,” he whispered in French. “Things are not looking up.”

Now, what the hell? Was he talking about the weather forecast? Was it the special water I had ordered for my room that could not be found? Was the presidential suite taken?

“Speak up man!” I shouted and heads turned to look at us. “What is the problem?”

“Um… we are getting some very bad press. It is all over Facebook, Twitter, whatsapp…” His eyes were trained to a spot on the polished wooden floor.

I turned on my phone. Oh! Oh! Oh! S****! Blistering barnacles! The buzz about me on Facebook was crazy. Pictures of me, my leg in the air, lunging at my dancer. All sorts of crazy captions. “Koffi kicks girl”, “Koffi attacks dancer”, “ Monkey-eating soukous crooner sends woman flying with karate kick” and so on and so forth. Oh, so it was one of my crew that I had attacked? How could that be? I remember it was a pickpocket. At least that’s what my memory served me.

I needed to get out of that foyer very fast. Like yesterday. The comfort of the chairs and their smell of fake leather was suddenly making me sick. Very sick. Thank God I was wearing dark glasses.
“Go tell those dratted reception people that I need my room quick!” I shouted at Sofoki. He closed his I-pad and scurried off like a scared rat.

Up in my room, I flopped on the king-size bed. It must have been an 8x8 because it was so big. The room looked like a house of sorts.

I sat up, flipped off my shades and opened my phone. Yes. Sofoki was right when he said things were not good. We needed to do some spinning. Quick, clever spinning, otherwise I was cooked. I lay down on the bed. It felt lumpy. I leapt up and sat in the bedside chair. There was a free bar with cold drinks. They did not look very inviting. My head was racing. I called Sofoki on his phone. I told him to get the dancer Pamela and come up to my room.

About three minutes later, they knocked at my door. “Sofoki” I said breathlessly, “Here!” In hushed tones, we discussed what to do to quell the damage eating at my fast-rotting reputation.

“Pamela, in here!” She walked cautiously across the room. Did she think I was going to attack her again? “Pamela, you are a good girl, you are an expert dancer and very beautiful. You know that now, don’t you? Actually, now that we are here in Nairobi, I want you to be the queen dancer, the one who moves to the front when you are all dancing and then I will give you all the attention. Okay?”
She looked confused and didn’t say a word but nodded her head.  A fast and very silly nod.

“Now Pamela, I want you to understand there is some news going around that I kicked you and people are not very happy. Sofoki here has told me that the news on social media is that people want to boycott the show. That is not good. You know it is not true, isn’t that so, baby? Now, we are going to record a video on my phone, explaining the real story. That I was trying to protect you from a pickpocket who wanted to steal your bag. You know that I love my dancers. Not so now, Pamela? Smile now. Hey baby! ”

Pamela touched up her face. Man, her face was getting patchy. , Then we recorded the video, me holding the phone as Sofoki watched. We did three takes. The second was perfect and it’s the one we posted, Pamela regurgitating what I had convinced her to say. I told the women in Kenya I loved them and I absolutely abhor any form of violence against the beautiful creatures of the opposite sex.
Then I shooed them from my room, ‘silence-moded’ my phone, and dozed off.
Sofoki woke me up two hours later. “Boss, you remember we have the Citizen TV interview?”

I got ready, drowned myself in a mean douse of BB Gout parfum and took the elevator to the bottom. This time we rode in a convoy of smaller cars. We arrived at the studio at about 8:35pm. The girls were looking good, no sign of stress on their heavily powdered faces. Their rouged lips stood out as they took selfie after selfie in the tight white shirts, and even tighter, ripped pale denim pants.

That Lilian Muli woman was not good to me, shooting question after question like I was already a convict. Did I beat my dancer? Did I hate women? With her hand on her chin, like she was Larry King, no smile on her face, even as I sat across from her. The interview was long, and, I felt, very one-sided. The interview started with a strong statement about Royal Media Services “strongly condemning violence of any nature.” Yeah right! Then she also used the word “allegedly” kicking. So why was she condemning violence? Oh, and that they believed every story has two sides and had made an editorial decision to host me and get my side of the story. D’accord!!

Now, come to think of it- her first question was “Why did you do what you did at the airport today?” I squirmed inside. It could not show. Damn! I even forgot what I had to say. I had to buy time. Deny.
“I didn’t beat my dancer. I didn't touch her.” Deny. I recounted the pick-pocket tale. I had only wanted to protect my dancers. Deny. My mantra.

They replayed the kicking clip repeatedly, accusing me of having anger issues, telling me about respecting human rights and refusing to listen to my pleas that I was only here for a show and could we move on. Damn this internet, raining on my parade as I prepared giving Kenyans a good time. Hey, I was not responsible for all the problems women are having. Heck, I was sorry!!! I did not have anger issues.

The girls were invited to the stage so “that they could see the chemistry between them and their boss.” I gave Pamela a peck and asked her to tell her story which I translated because there was no translator. The girls bust some moves to Ekoti

Anyway, this was to be my only performance in Kenya. I was arrested shortly after. Right outside the Royal Media Services offices that houses Citizen TV. Me, Kofi Olomidde, a whole lingala maestro.

“Switch off the engine!” they ordered. “Na hiyo video ali shoot akaweka kwa Facebook ni ya uongo. Kwa nini anadanganya danganya watu ati hakumupiga dame?” They were talking about me like I was not there.

Then they drove me, at breakneck speed to the Jomo Kenyatta Police station. My hackles rose. This didn't look good at all. Why the airport? After several minutes of hassling and hushed whispers, with policemen getting in and out of the office, some occasionally throwing us furtive glances, we were ordered to “make statement”.

That was one of the toughest nights in the life of this rhumba virtuoso, I will call myself that. I am so disgusted that I will not reveal how or where I slept, so you can go and speculate till kingdom comes. What I know, and what you know is that I spent the night in a not-so-clean, grubby police cell with a couple of other “prisoners”.

At about 11am, I was ordered out of the cell. At the front counter were three of my dancers. They looked beat, with tired smudges of lipstick on their faces. The powder had done a disappearing act.

“You will be returning to your country at the expense of the Kenyan government. We do not need women pounders here!”

We were herded out of the station, like a group of unruly donkeys. Straight into a Kenya Airways flight on the apron. “Where’s my passport?” I asked.
“Don’t even ask!”
I had no option but to go board the plane.

I really didn't feel like the invincible Koffi Olomide anymore.

**** The events narrated here are purely from my imagination, some names- like the manager's- are my own creation. ******