Ideas, Stories, and Profiles

As he moved and sang, questioning where his father was, Stromae suddenly raised his arms in the air and froze, then a blackout and dead silence knifed through Kigali skies leaving a white spot on him. As sharp screams filled the air, he tactfully drew the crowd into a minute of silence for his late Papa.

“Papa is there,” he said as he pointed above.

His hypnotic voice suddenly triggered a heavy tempo of techno beats, lifting souls in rhythm supplemented by intense lighting and visual effects. Then ferocity like an inferno from heaven consumed the crowd.

Merci, Stromae. You came and delivered.

You also awakened the muscle of my lame French; I maneuvered and sang along in silence…”papawute… wute… papawute” and “oh ooooo fisamidabure!”

Hmmnn! To Platinum, Gold, Silver and whatnot, you did a good job in mixing levels, you brought down the walls of class and turned the whole situation into a general happiness everything.

Oh, children! You became stars and beat Stromae in burning calories. You screamed, fell, ran, jumped and danced. And because of euphoria, you were extremely off-beat in every bit of every second; forcing your parents to discard their beers and cigarettes in the air as they chased after you like headless chickens, lest you get lifetime injuries in the name of Stromae .

You did what you had to do: Drench the evening with innocence.

Merci turemondi!

Hope-z weekly ponders.

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