Dearest Taibun Pehi

I hope I have not misspoken:
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Dearest Taibun Pehi,
You were like a large driftwood,
Floating along with the river's current,
Stopping here and there,
Almost at will,
Here giving a flower it's first bloom,
There hiding in the reeds,
To find you was a challenge at times,
There serenely sleeping,
Amidst the roots of an old Banyan tree,
As if you found your destiny,
And would like to rest a while.
My eyes weep with no tears today,
For the driftwood had lost it's youth,
It had traveled for too long in the river.
Now it was time, to melt with the Sea,
That lies yonder;
And a sweet death will occur in eternal peace.

I jump from your bosom to that of the mother earth,
I bid you good bye.
Good Bye dearest Pehi!
May you sleep well with your brethren!

You were the closest to my Abba,
Perhaps because of being only a few years apart,
You were there when he fell ill.
You would be happy to know that,
you and your late husband, "Peha",
Were the only two people who helped my father,
When he needed help the most.
This comes from the heart of a son and a nephew.

You were not just "Pehi".
You were "Ammi",
You were " Mami",
You were "Maa",
You were "Bhabi",
And You were "Taibun", to some.

I still remember when Abba,
Wept on your shoulders when Dadi maa died.
I was kind of surprised, to see that, honestly.
A man who was so devoid of emotions or expressions of such,
Was hugging you dearly and weeping to his heart's content.
It was like some neurons connected in his Alzheimer's attacked brain,
A sad yet memorable moment indeed.

Isn't it strange that your only two daughters,
One from your own womb,
And one from your sister's,
Were the only ones with you when you left this earth.
It is as if Allah, The One and Only Great One, Who decides,
When we come, and when we go,
Calls the ones you love the most,
The dearest to your heart,
To your bedside,
Just like my brother,
Was at the side of your brother,
When he breathed his last,
I had only come back from home, two days earlier.
Does seem like a coincidence, doesn't it.

It does not matter.
What matters is where you are going,
To the hillside next to your beloved husband,
Who served you all his healthy life,
And next to your brothers and sisters,
You are indeed in good company!
May you be at peace where ever the All Knowing has decided to keep you,
Till we meet on the day of Kayamat! The Day of Judgment!
We will probably not recognize each other, but that is another story!

They say that a lifetime is  - Only a
drop in the ocean, compared to the time of the "After-life" or "Akhirat". If that were true maybe our souls will collide in the infinite time of "swirling around" in the after-life. May be we shall cross-paths as we have in this lifetime on this mother earth.
So long, "Pehi", I will surely miss you.

Yours lovingly,
Mithu "mona" aka "Baatisholai"

By the river near Piyali Phukan Nagar, Guwahati, Assam

It was springtime late afternoon in Guwahati. Spring is probably the best season in that region. The rains have not started yet, the summer heat is not that bad, and the winter cold is gone. No wonder it is the time of the biggest festival in Assam, Rongali Bihu. There was some argument going on the in the house and I was not in agreement with my mom. I decided to step out of the house to cool myself down. Usually we would turn right and go downhill from the bottom of the steps of the property, towards the city. But I took a left turn instead and went uphill. There were not that many houses back then in the neighborhood, uphill on our “kaccha” street that we called Nilgiri path. Others called it by different names at different times. Anyway, we knew who lived where at least till the peak of the hill. There was Sharma uncle’s house at the top of the hill. Theirs was the only other “Pakka” house on the hill at one time, other than ours. We used to go to their house to watch cricket test matches during our vacations. Aunty used to bring us “goodies” to eat and let us sit and watch the game till lunchtime. We would go home to have lunch and then come back for the afternoon sessions, five days in a row. Good way to spend summers, it was.

It was a short climb to Sharma uncle’s house and the path descended down into another little valley, where a perennial creek ran. They had a road running along the creek and along the hillsides from Holy Child School in Krishna Nagar, all the way up to the refinery on the other side of town. The Indian Oil refinery was created at the eastern end of the city, and it was adjacent to the river one side (which was quite important from a water supply standpoint) and was parallel to the N.F. Railway line that ran from Guwahati to upstate, on the other side. Perhaps only in Assam you could have an oil refinery that was this close to a city and its vast population.

I crossed the creek and went up the steep path over the next hill. There were also people’s houses along this path, but these were built in a traditional way, “Kaccha style”.

The properties ended at the top of that path. There was one last house at the top of that hill and the owner put a nice little bamboo fence to mark his boundary. There was just wilderness beyond that fence and the land I think was owned by the IOC or some other govt. entity. I sat down beside the fence to catch my breath.

You could get a panoramic view of the river from here, as far as the eye could see. You could see as far as the northern bank of the Brahmaputra and the little huts there, next to the sand. To the right, you could see the river till bend up north, much beyond the outer limits of the city. And to the left, the banks of the central part of Guwahati and the big bridge at the southern end of the city, named after a great battle between the Ahoms and the Mughals in the middle ages.

I saw a little sail boat, sailing down the waters. It sails had a white cotton cloth sail, torn in a couple of places, but still doing the job. There was some water traffic business going on in Assam, back then, down and up the river. Tezpur was the nearest city up river, and there was good trade between Guwahati and that town. Nowadays everything is governed by the price of gasoline, and running those gas-guzzling boats were not a viable option I guess back then, and sailboats were too slow for modern commerce. Anyway, sailboats on the river were a common sight in those days.

The Brahmaputra was a strange river, unlike any other in the country. It had a mystic and a might to it that would dwarf some of the more known rivers of the world. Many a poem and song have been created in praise and fear of this giant of a river. Strange indeed is that fact that it is named after a male, Lord Brahma’s son, and not a female, as is more common in India. Perhaps because sustenance of life is not the only role it plays. Strange also is that the lesser known of the Hindu Trinity of Gods is chosen for its name. Lord Brahma, who is the creator of the physical world, had somehow fallen from the ranks of the supreme authorities of the three worlds. There were many a mythological story of why it was so, and if you travel through the landscape of the country, you would find very few temples dedicated to this God. Perhaps the mysticism of the Brahmaputra is added to by the landscapes that it travels through. Beginning near the Kailash Mountain in the higher Himalayas, the most revered of all the mountains in the Himalayas, traversing through the high Tibetan valley, dropping down into the lower Himalayas, in the form of the hills of Arunachal Pradesh, and passing into the bosom of Axomee Aai.

I started going downhill towards the riverbank. It was an uneventful climb thru thick shrubs, down a little wiggly goat path. I noticed a house or two, here and there, but nothing that had a large family dwelling. There was only just one house at the bottom of that hill, next to the river, surrounded by huge rocks. The river sand was just beyond those rocks.

It was spring, so there wasn’t much sand left, but there were still places where the water touched the sand, and I sat down on one such spot. I could hear the water licking the sand, from where I was sitting. You could see and hear the sandy beach disintegrating, in the fashion of icebergs melting in Antarctica, and making a loud “thump” as they go down. I was safe. I was quite a few dozen feet away from that action.

The sun was starting to set in the west over the bridge.

The water’s sound started to have a calming affect on me. And I started to think the troubles back home and reflect on it. What will be best for my dad, given his struggles against an unknown disease. He worked his ass off, till he was nearing retirement age. But then he fell sick and totally lost his ability to be affective at work and sometimes at home. Perhaps his only error in life was that he got married late, thanks to family circumstances and economic conditions. I wish they had an Alzheimer’s association in Guwahati, back then. It is tough to grow up with an Alzheimer’s patient, and knowing others going through similar experiences does help.

I am now a member of the Illinois chapter of the American Alzheimer’s Association, albeit a very inactive member. I joined it more out of principle, than an actual fear of having the disease in the later half of my life.

Suddenly I saw a kingfisher, in an almost standstill position, 10 feet above the water. And in a flash, it dove into the water and flew right out, its mouth holding its prey, a small fish. I was thrilled to watch the act and forgot all about my worries. I started to hum a song by Deep Purple, “A wasted sunset”: “One too many, wasted sunsets”.

The water’s sound was ever more calming by now. I started to think about the problems home again. I felt a little sad, and depressed, again. I have felt sad singing an old lullaby that my dad used to sing. “Are o Allah, Kader daani”, even later when I could play the tune on my guitar. It was a religious Sufi song, but somehow I always used to feel sad singing it. I guess it overwhelmingly reminded me of him. I was not thinking of that song, though, at that moment in time, but was feeling sad nonetheless.

It was starting to get dark. I thought to myself “I need to head back home. I have two hills to climb.”

The return was quite uneventful again. I felt a sudden fear for foxes and want to get out as soon as possible. I didn’t have a flashlight with me. I stepped up my pace up the hill. I relaxed once I reached the other side of the first hill, and the houses start to appear on the hillside. I recognized the fear just passed, and laughed at my cowardice.

I went downhill and saw the elementary school, perched on the hillside, against the little creek. One of the kids living in our house now, goes to that school. It is a lot bigger structure now, and they have a concrete building I believe. Back then, it was a “temporary” construction, made of bamboo and mud walls with a thatched roof. The kid’s name is Thomas and he is around 10 / 11 years old now. He is in class six I believe. He came to me excitedly one day, when I was at home, recently. “Dada, moi maths’ot Axo marks paisoon” (He got a 100 out of 100 in his recent mathematics exam). I was quite thrilled to hear that! I gave him a hundred rupee note, during the New Year celebrations. I asked him, “Thomas! What are you going to do with the money?” He said “Dada! I will buy books.” I said “Good! That’s the way to go, boy!” He didn’t actually buy books with all the money, as I later found out.

We had a lot of little kids in our house, growing up, and we had a lot of cricket. You see, when our father decided to build a house in the outskirts of the town, and move us away from the heart of the city, I think the thing we missed most was our cricket. And my brother even more than me, because he played a lot with the older guys in Gandhi Basti, where we used to stay earlier.  

So our solution was get whoever we could in the house to play cricket with us, and the only playmates we had were the kids who used to work at our house, as a live-in domestic help. They were all treated very well, except for the occasional scolding from my mother and the rare fight with us. But most of the time, we watched cricket, and whenever we could, we played cricket. And boy was there a lot of cricket going on back then. We were always on India’s side, whenever there was a match between India and Pakistan. But there was this kid; his name was Phulchand, who always used to change sides, depending on who was winning. We used to curse him for that! Back then, Doordarshan, which was the only provider of Television in Assam, did not have Hindi commentators. So the commentary was always in English. And our Phulchand would memorize the commentary and try to give a running commentary as he played. It went something like this: “Ande Waseem Akram bowleeng”, as he ran up to the crease to throw the bowl. His commentary made us crack-up. We even used to join with “Abdul Qadir bowling”, and “Kapil Dev, bowling”.

He was a great kid, that Phulchand. He stayed with us for almost 8 -9 years, till he reached his adolescence, and then he quit. He probably had bigger plans in his life than to just work as a domestic help in Piyali Phukan Nagar.

We had another guy after Phulchand. His name was Johirul and he was barely 4 feet tall. He must have been 7 or 8 years old, when he came to our house. He was small but he was gutsy too. And he threw a swell fastball, by our cricketing standards. Johirul was another phenomenon. He ate like a pig and his tummy was disproportionately outside the frame of his body. And he worked like crazy. This little kid used to lift 40 gallons of water on both hands, and climb up the stairs, from our well to the house. His feet were so small, the bottom on the buckets used to hit the stairs, as he walked up. Johirul didn’t stay with us long. His father wanted him out, in order to employee him in a Chai shop in his hometown. His father thought he would make more money for him there. The two boys, Johirul and Phulchand, although from the same background and region, were very different in nature and temperament. 

Our cricket playground was the front yard, like in most homes. Our mother had given up hope for her precious flowers, thanks to our cover drives and pulls over long on. We broke some many windowpanes in our front windows, that our parents stopped repairing them. It was much later, when I was in high school and my brother was in college that they were replaced for good. The window breaking was such a problem, that we had to invent our own cricket ball, soft enough so that it does not break the glass and hard and heavy enough to spin and play a decent game with. Tennis balls and other kinds did not meet our requirements. Our cricketing game had it own set of rules. You could not hit a shot on the offside, because the ball would roll downhill and someone had to go collect it. So the rule on an offside shot was that, you were out if you hit one and you go get the ball. So we hit shots on the leg side. There was a big rock on the hillside where our house was. We had imaginary score lines on the rock and the land above, for runs. You got a one run if you hit the bottom part of the rock. You got two runs if you hit the top part and four runs if you hit the land above the rock. That would be good pull shot on any ground, provided you did not get caught. Leg before was always a controversial decision and we did not have an umpire. So we marked a small square with chalk before the wicket. If your foot was in that that square and you got hit with the ball, you were out leg before. The pitch was around three-fourths the size of a regular pitch, because the hillside curved at its end and it was not possible to make it any longer. There was a big bush too in the middle of the pitch, towards the side, which meant that you always had to be on target.

I later started batting with my left hand, especially when playing with the kids. That way I could hit cover drives and shots on the offside. I even bowled Ravi Shashtry style spin with my left hand, just for fun.

Our cricket ground is all gone now. There is a big building in its place, with steps to go upstairs over the big rock. The “1979” that my brother had carved on the rock when we moved in is still there. I will probably never forget that year, one year after our youngest uncle died in Gandhi Basti.

I remember Phulchand and me making makeshift weapons together during the 1984 riots in Assam. Riots in Assam were very rare, as compared to the rest of the country. But when it happened, boy was it scary.

It was like living through a bad dream. And our elder Pehi, the eldest of my father’s sisters, fell ill around that time. They were staying with us, as she had to be in town for her treatment. Her eldest son, our cousin, was a psychiatry physician, a profession he chose after watching his mother’s condition and knowing the family history. He also spent a lot of time with us. I remember the chess matches under moonlight, when there was a blackout, between my father and my cousin and my brother. They were having a series and keeping count. And they played every night, for weeks on end. Don’t remember who finally won the series.

The shouts during the dark nights were scary. Our neighbors ran with lantern in one hand and holding their lungis and weapons with the other. We were safe in those hills. Nobody bothered climbing all those hills just to come kill us. Most of the chaos was going on in the city. But we still prepared. I remember my mom used to make simple sandwiches with butter and cucumber. And she used to pack them in a carry-on box, like a picnic basket and made us wear sneakers, so that we could run. One of our uncles, my mom’s younger brother, who was in the Assam police force, came to visit us, around that time. He was talking to my mom about his friend, who was sitting next to him, in a police jeep, being pulled out and instantly killed, in Nowgoan, during the ’84 Nellie riots. It was quite chilling to hear those stories.

The element of fear is the biggest tool for a man’s survival. It makes one behave in ways unimaginable. I guess that is why the Bhagavad-Gita is written in a climate of war. War makes the warrior super-sensitive and be present in the “here and now”. War makes a man reactive and at the same time reflective. Lord Krishna throws his gems of wisdom at the soldier who is on the verge of killing and being killed by his fellow kin and seeking justification for all the bloodshed. It is indeed a Handbook for the times that we live in, much like the Koran, for Moslems.

Coming back to the story:

That was an evening spent on the riverside, near Piyali Phukan Nagar. I went home, washed-up and hit the books till dinnertime. I studied some more after dinner. I was happy. The walk to the river helped. It wasn’t such a wasted sunset, after all. 

An evening of cricket

It was 4PM. I had just come back from school, had my dinner and ran off to the nearby hill. It was cricket practice time at the “Jyotinagar Cricket club”. I made sure to wear the right kind of pants and sneakers. I did not want to get teased again about playing “Pajama cricket”.

The hill was one of the highest in the neighborhood and had a flat top. So the neighborhood club from across the hill decided to make it their cricket practice ground. The club was actually a shanty concrete structure with a tin roof. I don’t think anyone actually used that place, maybe to store some cricket or other gear once in a while. You could not even store a carom board there. The club members however were “serious” aspiring cricketers. I came to know them through one of my school mates. His name was Govinda, but everyone called him “Mekuri Sokua” (Cat eyes), because he had grayish blue pupils, kind of a rarity in those parts. Govinda used to play in our class team at Don Bosco School. That itself meant you were a decent player in Guwahati cricket circles.

I cross the small creek which is half local drain and half brook, and start my climb up the hill. There is a Public girl’s school about half way up on that hill. The local people probably bought it because the land was cheap up there. On weekdays during the day you could see the local girls dressed in their neat, starched white mekhelas with sky blue borders, climb to their school, gather round their small front yard during lunch time and come down promptly at 3:00PM when the bell rings.

The real steep climb started after the school, after the fork in the path. If you take a left you go down the hill to the neighborhood community, Jyotinagar. Our cricket field was on the right. One of my dad’s old colleague who used to live in Jyotinagar, named it “Ullah Giri Path” after my dad’s last name.

I was almost at the top and about to reach the cricket field. There was a dyke where the path ended and that put the icing on the climb. Needless to say I was a little out of breath.

I climbed the earthen wall of the dyke and descended the other side to the ground. There were a couple of guys from the local club practicing Karate. I had seen one of them play cricket with us, once in a while. I looked at him, but he did not seem to recognize me. He was busy “sparring” with his buddy. These Karate guys were kind of shy and secretive. I had a good Tae-Kwon-Do expert friend of mine. I used to enjoy watching him and the others practice after school hours. The coach one day came over and asked me why I didn’t join them. I said I am too weak, I think, or something of that sort. Tae-Kwon-Do was too physical for me.

Anyway, I moved along on the field towards the edge of the ground. There was a great view of my valley from here. You could get a bird’s eye view of our whole valley and the surrounding hills from up there. I must say our valley was quite green back then. It was evening time, the hills had cast their shadows on the valley and houses were preparing for the night. You could see plumes of smoke coming from the houses with wood stoves called Chulhas. They used a new chimney for these Chulhas, issued by the government out of concern for women’s health in the rural areas and small towns of India. This was the 1980’s in Assam you see. Don’t think it was a huge success, as was common with Government schemes back then.

The other side of the field ended in a steep drop, thanks to the illegal soil extraction that the local truck walas did.

The guys started coming in one and two at a time. We started practicing high catches. One of the guys hit the ball real high, and we had to catch it. My turn came soon to take the catch. This time he hit it extra high. The ball was almost the size of a ping pong ball and it was directly above me. I tried to move my position, so that I could catch the ball comfortably. When the ball was close, I realized that it was too fast for me and that I was going to hurt myself. Matter of fact I did. My left hand was becoming red at the corner of the palm where the ball hit. I am a bad cricketer I told myself.

The stumps were in place now and that meant it was “play ball” time. I got to bowl the initial overs while the good bowlers did some stretching and got settled in. I took about 20 steps towards the steep edge of the ground. I liked to think of myself as a pace bowler back then (pace bowling was in fashion in those days). I wanted to bowl an out-swinger to begin with, so I put my index and second finger across the seam of the leather “deuce” ball. I ran up to the bowling end stumps, took a short jump, and threw the ball. The length was good but it was a little wide outside the off-stump. And more importantly, the ball didn’t swing at all. It may have cut a little bit after bouncing wider away from the batsman. The batsman just let it go. I walk back to my run-up line. This time I take a couple of steps less. I did not want to loose my stamina quickly. We didn’t play match style over bowling during practice, unless we were playing a match against each other. I threw the second ball, it fell around the same place after the first one. The batsman played a cover drive and sent the ball into the thicket on the offside cover position. The field was kind of strange that way. The pitch was hardened dark red earth, and the outfield had cut shrubs with stems hanging out like tough wild grass. It used to do a great job at stopping the balls, but running on it was a different matter.

I went back to my run-up line. This time I thought I was going to bowl an in-cutter/swinger. I put my first two fingers together across the seam in an angular fashion. The ball fell at a good length on the off-stump and cut in. The batsman was beaten and it hit his upper part of the pad. He was quite far out from his crease, so that wouldn’t have been a leg-before. But I was happy with my performance. I went back and bowled the next three deliveries more or less like the first two.

It was time to bowl the second over now. I walked back and started my run-up. I began to feel a little out of breath. I threw the ball wide outside the off-stump. It did not bounce much, and went past the wicket keeper. I got annoyed with myself. I decided to switch to spin. I was going to do a leg spin. I went to the right of the stumps, almost near the end of the pitch, and run diagonally to the stumps. The ball was a little short of length, but it spun to the right of the batsman, and he let it go. He had his front left, padded leg in front, so he knew how to play leg-spin. I came back and threw my second ball. This time it fell outside the leg-stump, but short of length and spun towards the middle stump. The batsman turned to face me, and pulled the ball to the long-on side. Nice shot, but bad ball. The rest of the over went uneventfully, with couple of balls falling outside the off-stump and spinning away from the batsman.

My over ended and one of the other guys, Ajoy, came up to bowl. I went quietly to the cover boundary near the thicket. Cover boundary was an uneventful place to field, since no one in our group would hit a six over there. Partly because they knew they would loose that ball and partly because it was a tough shot.

Ajoy was a special bowler. Technically, he is a right-handed off-spinner, but he also bowled medium pace, and bounced and cut the ball really well. It was amazing to see him bounce that ball on that hard surface. It was the spin on the ball I suppose. And his balls had pace too. He was one of our “star” bowlers.

Next up was Govinda. He used to bowl in our class team, so he was average, better than me of-course, or else I would have been in the class team as a bowler, not as a second last batsman cum cover fielder. Govinda had quite a textbook style to his bowling. His run-up was not as long as my initial over ones, but his stride was smooth and his follow-thru was good too. And he could cut and even swing the ball, occasionally.

Suddenly there was a commotion in the field. There was a new guy coming down the earthen wall of the dyke. It was Atul, the leader of the team. He used to go to school and run a small store in his front yard in Jyotinagar. His store was real close to where “Ullah Giri Path” met the main road of Jyotinagar. “Let’s have a match”, said Atul. We split into two seven-member teams. Because we were a few short of the standard count of eleven, the batting team used to contribute in some of the roles, like being the umpire and fielding in the outfield positions etc. Of course, if a catch came your way, it was OK to drop that catch. So that worked real well with me, and I ended up often fielding for the opponent team. You could return the ball to the wicket keeper, but only after making sure that your batsmen were safe while running between the wickets.

Anyway, back to the match. Atul was enjoying himself, hitting the ball here and there. Once, he even hit the ball over the cover boundary, which was a strict no-no under club rules. The Sun was starting to set now, and there was no way we could get Atul out. By now he was yelling “Moi rati pua loi khelim” (I will play till morning). The sun was a big red ball to his right. When my turn came to bowl, he hit two nice shots towards long-on boundary, one of them even thru the thicket stubs. It was quite an amazing batting performance, I must say. Finally, Govinda managed to get his wicket, bowled of course. The rest of the guys are getting out more quickly. The sun had set now. My team won, at the end of forty overs (20 each innings).

It was time to go back home now. We started our descent from the field. Couple of guys, Atul one of them, started sharing a cigarette. I take a left at the fork and the guys take a right. “Kali log paam” (see you tomorrow), I said to Govinda. I ran down the last stretch to the creek and the flatbed stream area. I thought to myself “I have to go home and study, else I will be in trouble soon”. I reached home and took a shower. Ah! The cold water felt good on my back and my legs. My arms had started getting some exercise, and doing better than usual. My cousin, Rana bhai was visiting us today. He was a bachelor and used to live in his mom’s house in Khanapara. He came to chat with us, and sang with my dad and had dinner of course. He had a Yamaha 4-stroke engine motorbike, so he could ride back home in the night. He was a good singer and used to sing in his university functions often. My father took out the old harmonium, from under the front-room bed after a long time and started to play. He got into one of his singing moods, and started humming. He invited Rana bhai to join in. My dad is singing an old Hemanta Mukherjee song, “Ai monihar”. My dad had a way of saying things. He would wave his hand to Rana bhai, in a gesture to come along and say “Baba!”, and that was all. Rana bhai understood. He would join in as well. I never even dared join in with them. I used to enjoy listening to them. My dad’s family had a singing tradition. It had to do with something associated with Moslem Sufis. My dad used to sing with everybody in the family. Rana Bhai’s younger sister, his cousin sister, his father, everyone had a good music sense and background. It had also I think something to do with living close to a river in the lower banks of the mighty Brahmaputra, my dad’s family’s origins. My dad’s favorite song was a Sufi one about God, and that he is the creator of everything around us. It went something like this, 

“Are Oh Allah, cadar-dani. Tumi shokolo korite paro, paharoko pani”

(Oh Lord, you are the Kadardaan, the caretaker. You can do anything, change a mountain to water)

He would mostly sing that song without the harmonium, though, as lullaby to put us to sleep. Especially me cause I was the kid in the house.

That was the end of my evening of cricket. I was too tired to hit the books (that was often the case on cricket practice day). “Good night! Now it’s time to go home.” I thought of the Dire Straits song as I fell asleep. I often remember my cousin, Bobby bhai. He played that song pretty well. Anyway, I will tell about him another time.

Artists I listen to these days

This is going to be a simple list of African, African influenced and musicians from the Caribbean Islands.
(with links to all music guide and You tube video and/or audio clips)

Artist	Album
Ali Farka Toure	Savane, Talking Timbuktu
Amadou & Mariam	Dimanche A Bamako, Welcome to Mali
Ladysmith Black Mambazo	Ladysmith Black Mambazo
The Soweto Gospel Choir	Grace
Buena Vista Social Club	Buena Vista Social Club
Baaba Maal	Missing You London Television
Miriam Makeba	Pata Pata
Habib Koite	Ma Ya
Fela Kuti	Fela
Tinariwen	Amassakoul Toumast Tincha

angelique kidjo Here rendition of voodoo child is quite amazing
Check out to learn more
Although not from Africa I feel I have to include : Coke Studios Pakistan
Streaming media/podcast listener: npr "all songs considered", coverville podcast, slacker radio (Ali Farka Toure station), pandora  (search by artist or genre)

See what music I like on twitter: @azullah Chicago