A story of cycles, movement and language
Responding to Hypnagogia Glossolalia by Sekai Machache
As People of Colour living in Scotland, the land sometimes feels foreign, and we feel foreign to it, no matter what we do to fit in. Our languages do battle in our mouths, fighting to be remembered. But in Hypnagogia Glossolalia, languages from thousands of miles apart come together in a radical act of reincorporation, healing, and defiance. Hypnagogia Glossolalia is a medley of poems written and narrated in English by Sekai Machache, with choreography and dance by Divine Tasinda, Gaelic narration by Cass Ejeki, and Shona narration by Gillian F. Mutanga. The text, set to movement by Tasinda is performed by Machache and accompanied by almost no ambient noise. The works of poetry that make up the aural landscape of this piece could be as easily successful as a written collection; they are thought provoking, emotional, and, at times, devastating. Early in the film, Machache says, “I stole away my mother’s tongue, replacing it with cobblestones and gravel pavements.” In Machache’s writing, she is both the thief and the bereaved. Through movement and speech, Machache evokes a deeply personal picture of what it is like to feel like a guest in her own homeland.
Machache weaves notes on Jungian psychology into other theories and histories in her own words. She writes of Jungian archetypes – in particular, she explores the Persona and the masks we wear to shield and change ourselves. The comparison is striking, especially given Jung’s position as a beneficiary - and sometime perpetrator - of European colonialism in 19th and 20th century Africa. Throughout the piece, Tasinda is costumed in dark feathers – in some lights, black, and in others, iridescent green – and black body paint. Her costume evokes the image of the endangered Bateleur Eagle, the national emblem of Zimbabwe, as well as the second meaning of bateleur, which is French for ‘street performer’. From the start of Machache’s notes on Jung, Tasinda also wears red paint around her eyes and forehead. This mask of red makes a striking addition to the otherwise muted colour palette. With the text, movement becomes both a language of its own and the vehicle through which Machache’s words are understood. Tasinda punctuates and pushes the words through her body. Together, Machache and Tasinda draw out an undercurrent in the text: that language can colonise and be colonised. In Shona, Mutanga quotes: “Thus, the Persona allows the individual to adapt to society’s demands.”
This is not dissimilar to what societies of imperialist countries demand of Black and Indigenous people and People of Colour. Machache goes on to summarise German explorer Karl Mauch’s thoughts on the ruins of Great Zimbabwe - how he framed his discovery as a site of triumphant return for white settlers - how he masked violent imperialism behind the language of Romanticism. Colonialism makes Blackness and Africanness both a commodity and a threat. The silence that follows this narrative, filled only by Tasinda’s movement, invites the audience to think and rethink about the echoes of Mauch’s words. Watching Tasinda in silence, I felt a deep sense of mourning, but an even deeper sense of healing. Through Tasinda’s brilliant, evocative choreography I felt the piece transcend the language of imperialists.
Machache repeats the mantra: “I sleep. I wake up, sometimes, speaking tongues.” The cycle of sleeping, dreaming, waking also cycles through the piece, returning at transitions and junctures in the text. This structure subverts the pervasive style of colonialist narratives, which demand linear, progressive storytelling. Instead, in Shona, Mutanga tells a story through an inhaling, exhaling cycle of thought.
Early in the piece, Tasinda’s movement is languid, convincingly mimicking smoke rising from a mound of embers. As the text progresses, Tasinda’s body comes further into the shot. Coupled with wide, billowing movement, the feathers on Tasinda’s costume both create and propagate motion, constructing more than just Tasinda’s body. The dance resonates with Machache’s cyclical text, breathing with the words.
Whenever Machache introduces her notes on Jung, Tasinda’s mask of red becomes the focal point of her movement. Her slow, large movements gradually accelerate until, in coincidence with the start of Machache’s “Notes on Great Zimbabwe”, they are quick and short. Tasinda covers an increasingly large distance between herself and the camera, coming so close that she is out of focus, and all we see is a mask of red floating in front of the camera. Tasinda’s choreography is reminiscent of traditional Zimbabwean dance, but it is more jagged, even desperate. The movement parallels Machache’s matter-of-fact notes. Together, they dive beneath the surface of Mauch’s writing to express a story of memory and loss.
Ejeki says in Gaelic, “In our enforced domesticity, there is a renegotiation of time.” Time moves through Tasinda’s body and, simultaneously, is moved by it. In some dances, time exerts strict control over the body, dictating the what and the when. But in Hypnagogia Glossolalia, time is created by the body. This breathtaking piece left me with feelings of loss, rage and healing, deep in my chest. Machache keeps hope alive through language and expression, and her care, passion, and creativity are deeply and unforgettably powerful.
