Gabriel and his trusted lieutenant, N\'Dour, sharing a moment.

Day broke ominously on the shores of Lake Tanganyika the morning of 15 May. Dark clouds encircled the sun in sinister, secretive motions, like so many hyena around a wounded gazelle fallen behind the herd—an open-ended dread in anticipation of some terrible finishing blow to come. But come it never did; while the skies remained lead-dark the whole day long, it yielded not a drop of rain. This was both blessing and curse for, while the party remained dry, the oppressive heat—under such baleful, darkened skies—made one feel as if he were shoveling coal in the belly of some accursed steamer set out from Liverpool to the Cape of Good Hope. Whatever the outcome, it was to be a trying day.

The rag-tag group assembled there scarcely resembled the one that had disembarked at Dar es Salaam with such optimism just six weeks prior. It was not a pretty picture: just under sixty of Her Majesty’s regulars remained, with an accompaniment of 250 Nyamwezi tribesmen armed with a few dozen rusting muzzle-loaders and nary a cartridge in sight. Clashes with the Hutsis had been bad enough—they had lost nearly as many from desertion as in combat, and a cholera outbreak a week later claimed many times that number. That was followed by the wire from London informing them there would be no reinforcements forthcoming until the conclusion of Parliamentary elections the last week of June. “Oh well,” Peter Gabriel thought to himself, “never a dull moment, I suppose.” He was now about as far removed from Solsbury Hill as one could possibly find oneself.

The past several weeks had been marked by profound depression, the likes of which he hadn’t experienced since leaving Genesis for good following the birth of his first child in ’75. Whatever misfortune he suffered, no matter how harrowing, was made that much worse by the fear that something even more terrible lay just around the corner. Where in the first few weeks the days passed like Sissyphus’—every triumph neutralized by some setback—these last few weeks the days passed like Prometheus’—chained to a tree, his liver pecked out by vultures until death, only to be reincarnated to do it all over again the next day and the next for all eternity. He had taken to using laudanum but insisted he wasn’t hooked. Nonetheless, the expedition’s supplies of it were dwindling. He justified this to himself thusly: they would all be dead soon enough, and no amount of laudanum was going to change that.

Two days out from Tanganyika the party encountered a native frantically digging in the dirt with his fingernails, presumably for roots or bugs or sustenance of any kind. It didn’t take a native speaker to figure out what was going on; one look at the man’s face was all it took to realize something terrible had just befallen his people. Youssou N’Dour, Gabriel’s most trusted lieutenant, translator, and confidant, approached the man to assess the situation. The man babbled hysterically, his arms flailing wildly, fists pounding the dirt for emphasis. It wasn’t until N’Dour procured some food and water for the man that he was calm enough to explain exactly what had happened. The man spoke to N’Dour at length, in sober, hushed tones. Gabriel simply stood by, powerless, fearing things had once again grown from bad to worse. After what had seemed an eternity, N’Dour walked back over to the party, took Gabriel aside, and explained to him what the man had just told him.

Two days prior, a very powerful, very short white chief had showed up with many armed men and much hongo. This in itself was not so strange, as white men had been coming to the village to trade for many years now. They set up camp and a great feast took place with music and dancing. The chief proudly declared that the stranger was now N’Gogo, or “small white brother from another mother”. The tribe cheered and the feast continued deep into the night. The next morning, the two sides met to discuss trade. The chief proudly displayed the village’s stores of ivory, gold, and cloth. The white chief, though, merely scoffed at all this, and instead walked over to the center of the village and began pointing out several of the musicians, singers, and dancers from the night before. He told them he had come from a magical place far, far away, where ivory, gold and cloth were in such abundance as to be worthless, and that instead of currency, they used music. People there never went hungry, and there was no such thing as drought or crocodiles or the sleeping sickness. He wanted to take them all there to prove he was not lying. He was going to hold a feast for them that would put last night’s to shame. He was certain that, once they had seen this magical kingdom they would never want to leave. They would all be very rich there. He called this place “Graceland”.

Peter Gabriel grew increasingly nauseous as he heard this. “Then he took the people away with him,” N’Dour continued, “and headed for the coast. Now there is no one left to herd the goats. There is no one left to tend the crops. Everyone left in the village is either very old or very young—everyone but him,” he said, pointing to the distraught native. “He does not know how to sing or dance. He knows how to farm, but he is but one man with many mouths to feed. The white chief took half the village with him, leaving behind only these.” N’Dour motioned to some crates stacked against a wall at the edge of the village. He walked over, opened one, and pulled out a long player record. He placed it on the village’s lone gramaphone and played it. A hissing, crackling silence was violently interrupted by a tune Gabriel recognized instantly, the insipid “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard”. He’d heard enough.

The thought that Paul Simon had stolen a march on him, and was nearing the coast with precious human cargo in tow, made Gabriel’s blood boil. Dread was replaced with indignation and a renewed sense of purpose. The sabers had been drawn. He had caught up with Simon once before, in Leopoldville; he would do so again. Or he would die trying…