The Mbira Falls Silent: Mourning Sheasby Matiure, A Bridge Between Zimbabwe and the World

Daglous Masveta

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The news, when it came, rippled across oceans. From the University of Zimbabwe in Harare to the university towns of North America, from the marimba workshops of the Pacific Northwest to the scholarly halls of Bloomington, Indiana, a community felt a profound and shared loss. Dr. Sheasby Matiure mbira master, esteemed educator, Fulbright scholar and a formidable vessel of Zimbabwean musical soul had passed away. His death on November 11, 2016, is not merely the closing of a single life, but the silencing of a unique and powerful voice that served as a living bridge between cultures, a teacher who believed music was not to be hoarded, but shared until it touched the soul.

To understand the magnitude of this loss, one must understand the man and his journey. Born in 1956, Matiure’s musical destiny seemed almost pre-ordained, yet frustratingly delayed. His grandfather, a mbira player, wished to pass on the knowledge, but passed away before he could. This unfulfilled inheritance might have been a mere footnote, but instead, it became a driving force. It was at the renowned Kwanongoma College of Music in Bulawayo that the seed was finally planted. There, he was formally introduced to the Mbira Nyunganyunga, the marimba, and classical guitar, beginning a lifelong affair with the strings and keys that would define his career.

But Matiure was no purist confined to tradition. His musical appetite was voracious and eclectic. In high school, he was as captivated by the intricate guitar lines of South Africa’s maskanda and the breezy sounds of Palm Wine music as he was by the fiery, psychedelic rock of Jimi Hendrix. This early diversity shaped his future philosophy: that Zimbabwean music was not a relic, but a living, breathing art form that could converse with the world. It was this perspective that made him such an effective and compelling ambassador.

His academic and artistic path was a testament to this mission. After establishing himself in Zimbabwe, he crossed the Atlantic to Indiana University (IU), a hub for ethnomusicology. His time there was transformative, both for him and for the countless students he taught. He wasn't just an academic, he was an artist-in-residence, a performer, a bandleader. In 1998, with the support of IU’s Folklore and Ethnomusicology Department, he formed the Mutinhimira Marimba Ensemble. This was not just a club; it was a piece of Zimbabwe transplanted onto American soil, a living laboratory where students could feel the physical vibration of the music under their own mallets.

Matiure’s teaching style has been described as “tough love,” and those who learned from him wear the description like a badge of honor. He was a commanding presence, with a deep, powerful singing voice that could both inspire and chastise. He was a stickler for the authentic, particularly for the correct Shona pronunciation in songs, understanding that the language and the music were inextricably linked the meaning was in the sound and to mispronounce was to misunderstand. Yet, this discipline was always leavened with a rich, warming humor. Rehearsals and workshops were said to be full of laughter, a place where the serious work of mastering complex polyrhythms was made joyful by the man leading them.

His return to IU on a Fulbright Scholarship to complete his PhD was a triumph. His dissertation, “Performing Zimbabwean Music In North America,” was more than an academic exercise, it was the codification of his life’s work, an ethnography of the very community he had helped to build. During this period, he continued to pour his energy into teaching, reviving Mutinhimira and forming the Mbira Queens, an ensemble celebrated for its rich, hypnotic vocal harmonies. He didn't just teach the mechanics of the instruments; he taught their spirit.

In recordings like Ngoma (1998) and Sarura Wako (2008) the latter a beautiful dedication to his wife, Jane we have a permanent record of his artistry. But a recording could only capture so much. As he himself said in 2007, “It does touch people’s souls…a lot of times, even when I’m playing on and on because I hear something I don’t usually hear and I just keep playing on and on for a long time, the instrument is talking to me and I’m talking back to it. If that happens in a performance, that moves from you into the audience.”

This was the core of Sheasby Matiure’s gift, his ability to have that profound conversation with the instrument on stage, and in doing so, to translate it for a global audience. He performed for queens and presidents, but his most lasting impact may be in the community halls at festivals like Zimfest, where he was a longtime teacher and friend. He taught a generation of North American musicians not just how to play, but why it mattered.

The bridge that Sheasby Matiure built stands strong. The thousands of students who felt the sting of his correction and the joy of his approval, the colleagues who admired his scholarship, and the family to whom he was so deeply dedicated they are his legacy. The marimba sets he championed will continue to ring out, the mbira nyunganyunga will continue its cyclical conversation, and the vocal harmonies of the songs he taught will continue to rise. But now, they will be played with a poignant awareness of the silence left by the master who is no longer physically here to guide them. The instrument has lost one of its most eloquent conversationalists, but the dialogue he started is far from over.