Some fathers sing songs like Old McDonald or soft, sensuous strains of Itsy Bitsy Spider; instead, I bounce my son on my knee and sing Toto songs to him. After all, an education in the classics (classic 80s, that is) is a requirement to live in my house and I have no intention to shirk my duties to the finest of instruction. For the record, he rather liked the strains of Africa even if his father felt like a bass being choked on a chesspiece to sing the chorus. (not something to be performed by the cold-voiced individual)

Sure, there are examples from 80s music literature that should be used more as examples of what not to do, but one has to be picky when spotlighting the decade given that there was a plight of one-hit wonders and pan-flashes. Madonna’s Material Girl hilights some of the worst attitudes of a world wrapped up in things like pumpable basketball shoes, hanging gardens of hairstyles, and cola wars. Karma Chameleon is lovely but strange as hell and Boy George is nothing more than a 1980s version of David Bowie gone homosexual (and there’s some debate about Bowie’s alignment in the ballpark as well). It’s iconic, but it isn’t necessarily noteworthy.

Africa, on the other hand, is one of the real gems of the era, a song that is unique, intriguing, powerful, well-done, and memorable. I never get tired of hearing it, whether it be sung by the original Toto or one of many a capella covers in my music collection. The video is a bit odder than the song itself, but is a shining example nonetheless. It is a golden rule by which other compositions from the 80s and, indeed, today can be measured by.

Ok, ok, stop laughing, dammit. I’m only 3/4 serious.

But really, who doesn’t love that song? It’s so…haunting. I mark this as a “travel song”, one that always makes me think of the escape of flight from this country to foreign climes and the thrill, excitement, and fear of doing so. Along with Dazy Head Mazy’s Push Away, each time I hear this song I get the chills and travel bug longings in my heart while my gut aches with that feeling of displacement from all you’ve ever known.

My trips to Australia have been a combination of joy and terror; that sweet feeling of escaping to some place new and the tug of the homeland pulling at you, less and less with each passing mile, yet increasing in its poignancy. Douglas Adams in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy noted that humans radiate a sadness and longing emotion to others around them, the strength being how far away from their place of birth they are. At times, when away, I feel as though I am at my peak, putting behind me everything in the world and being re-invigorated by the newness of my surroundings; at others, the strangeness of it all washes over me like a cold wave, causing me to inhale sharply and curl emotionally into a ball.

Africa is about travel and it is about relationships. The perspective in the song is from a man waiting for his love to come to him on an inbound flight to Africa during the rainy season, giving them time to spend together and “do the things we never had”.

This could be taken literally, but I think the metaphors point to a greater meaning. Sometimes in relationships, we get a chance to reconnect, to try again. If we can realize those points (“Hurry boy, it’s waiting there for you”), we can take advantage of them and strengthen the bond that exists between us. Conviction is required (“It’s gonna take a lot to drag me away from you”) and you have to fight to do what is best for everyone involved (“I know that I must do what’s right”) but you can find a solution for the problems that exist (“I seek to cure what’s deep inside”).

I must constantly remind myself to bless the rains down in Africa in all of my relationships, but especially with my wife, who is most important to me in the world. I think in some ways, the appearance of Keston into our lives is a bit of a chance for us to adjust our association and spend the rainy season reconnecting. There’s nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do to drag me away from you — or him.

C’mon, boy. We’ve got a whole decade and you’re only a week old. You, mum, and I have a lot of listening to do.