Ndar sits at the mouth of the Senegal River, west of the Sahara and north of the Lompoul, with salt marshes circling the island’s edge and baobabs, acacias, abundant and upright just like that, unbothered by the Harmattan winds. In its earliest settlement in the fifteenth century Muslims convened at Ndar to embark on Hajj. Again and again Portuguese, English, and Dutch traders sailed and convened there, too, capturing the Wolof as slaves and often experiencing expulsion by floods. The French Colonial Empire seized Ndar in 1638 and baptized it Saint-Louis for King Louis XIV. The Royal Concession of Senegal was established in 1664, after which the Senegalese were forced to mine the gold of Ngalum and tap gum arabic from acacias in the Sahel. By 1895 Saint-Louis was crowned the capital of French West Africa, and Gorée, Saint-Louis’ slave warehouse, a feeder of the Atlantic Slave Trade, captured more than twenty million Africans in its four-century tenure. Enslavement continued under the guise of “abolition,” as four hundred thousand Senegalese tirailleurs were conscripted into France’s lower regiments to fight in World War I and II as well as the Indochina War. The kora preceded such colonial violences.
One myth says that in the thirteenth century the griot Mady Wuleng Cissoko sacrificed his sister to a djinn in Sanementin lake in exchange for the first kora. Another that a general of Sundiata Keita, Tiramakhan Traore, stole a kora from a woman passing by. Another that Soumaoro Kanté, the blacksmith king who usurped Sundiata’s Mali Empire, built it. When Ibn Battuta voyaged from Sijilmasa to Targhaza, then a salt mining region in Northern Mali, in 1352, he wrote of a sibling to the kora, with the same calabash gourd but without the long-stretching neck and twenty-one strings: “A seat is set up for Dūghā (griot) and he sits on it and plays the instrument which is made of reed with little gourds under it, and sings poetry in which he praises the sultan and commemorates his expeditions and exploits and the women and slave girls sing with him and perform with bows.”
These myths belong to a shared history of Guinea, Guinea-Bissau, Mali, Senegal, and Gambia, though mythology is not the sole reason for the instrument’s endurance; the kora requires great rigor and training—it relies on patriarchal transmission. Son of Saint-Louis, descendant of Mady Wuleng Cissoko, Ablaye Cissoko practiced the kora ten hours a day for fifteen years. After that he stopped playing until he turned forty, the age he assumed the griot’s responsibilities. Though Ablaye’s father and uncles formed him, the young kora player is never to be seen as clay, without consciousness, sculpted by a patriarch in servitude. An intimacy must exist with the instrument; it’s not ossified but breathing, changing in function and form. Under colonialism many griots were enslaved and played kora to soothe their fellow workers, record and decry cruel labor conditions, honor the dead at funerals, indict the Signares and the French. In its seven hundred year span, the strings have been made of cow or antelope skin, gut, nylon, and scrap fishing line.
For the last decade, Ablaye has forged bonds across instruments and geographies, mainly through the ensemble Constantinople. It’s composed of the Iranian Kurdish karamancheh and set player Kayhan Kalhor, Tunisian singer Ghalia Benali, Sephardic Jewish singer Françoise Atlan, Czech harpist Hana Blažíková, Indian bamboo flute player Shashank Subramanyam, and Italian singer Marco Beasley. This desire to bond was brought out by Saint-Louis’s international jazz festival which he admired throughout his upbringing. Elise Guerrand and I met Ablaye in the middle of his rehearsal with French accordionist Cyrille Brotto. The rehearsal was angelic, as though with strings Ablaye was spinning a cocoon for us to reside in. Useless to ask language to capture it. Look him up, listen.
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You are from a family of griots, great Mandinka kora players, Sundioulou Cissoko, Lalo Keba Dramé. This must be an enormous, demanding inheritance. How did you face it as a child? Was playing a practical duty, as many children assume their parents’ trade, or did it feel like more of a divine responsibility?
Before being a divine responsibility, it is a great pride. We come into the world in families and find an inheritance; this is a fact of birth. There are those who don’t like this inheritance, there are those who don’t like the history of their lineage, there are those who desire or should have had the choice——either to be or not to be in their family. I am a born griot and one does not become a griot; we have a destiny. Our responsibility is to develop the courage to both represent our elders and to live in our own era. We do not inherit the same world as our elders; it is a continuing history. Both earthly and divine.
Along with this pride, there is what we call transmission and teaching. This is done under the eye of the patriarch. So the patriarch takes the torch, the history and transmits it; for me, that happened among all my brothers. It was a great blessing; culture is what stabilizes, what builds. Us griots are what we call a needle with an endless thread. Its mission is to bring together, to gather generations, sow them together, far beyond our families.
Ah! It’s sowing, social stitching, done by a threaded needle. Transmission can be rigid, though, a form of intergenerational replication. How do you root yourself in the kora’s ancient practice, in preservation, while also opening yourself to experimentation? Is this relation between history and the present another needle and thread?
Yes. You cannot separate the present from the places of the past. If I come into the world, it is because someone brought me into the world. The past remains, I inhabit the present and the present-past; they’re inseparable and exchanging. Now, one must remember that every man has a mission on earth. Whether we know it or not, we always have a mission. The objective of where I come from is that. There are fishermen, there are blacksmiths, there are farmers; these are the communities that form our society, and in this society we are all linked, we are complementary. We are also the link between the past and the future. You see: there is always an intermediary. And so the children now will be the intermediary between us and the future. It is like when an old man, very old, builds a building of 10 floors, 15 floors, 20 floors. He builds it for whom? Not for himself, but for the future generation.
The griot is what we call the base. He is of course noble, but he is also a regulator. He brings solutions between peoples. The griot sometimes is the voice of the king, the voice of the great families, and he is always the voice of the people. To help the king the griot must know what the needs of the population are, what the problems are. The griot is the one who says what no one dares say to the king. The griot tells him that. The griot has no border or deference to the king.
When the king went out, the last people he consulted were his griots. When the king speaks, it is the griot who speaks in the name of the king. It is the griot who educates young princes and young princesses, who speaks to them of our histories, of their origins, of what their mission is. I love what I am. I think that I am part of my people, loyal to them always——there are some who don’t like what they are or what they belong to. There are some who do jobs just to survive. There are others who do jobs because they have no choice. There are those who do jobs without love. But when you have the chance to do a job that’s loved, it is the greatest blessing.
These words you use——intermediary, continuity——they’re words of migration, and recall your albums with Constantinople, Traversées and Jardins migrateurs. You travel to play the kora within and across continents, bringing it into new geographies and contexts, including France, Russia, Canada. But also, the kora’s migrating into the future, across time, and you’re a carrier. How does it feel to be one of its many legs?
Yes. The griot belongs to a nomadic tradition, an epic history. There are some who cannot come to the griot, so the griot goes to them. When he leaves, he leaves his tradition. As he leaves, he also discovers other traditions. And when he comes back, he brings them back, too. We always say this: it is worth it when you travel thousands of kilometers to meet a single person, and when you manage to bring happiness or soothe a single person, that is the purpose of making the journey, of continuing to make journeys. When you manage to heal someone by traveling kilometers, the journey becomes obligatory, because we are going to put good into that person’s hands. And we too, upon the return, gain many things. We gain in knowledge, in understanding; it spiritually opens us up. It also plays on us. Everything that we perceive on this journey is very dear. Because it is a lot of discoveries, a lot of encounters, a lot of learning. That forges you. It tells you that this is beneficial. You become an educator, nomad, doctor, historian.
Would you share more about the more formal political function of the griot and its relation to the government? What does patronage mean in a pragmatic wage or subsistence way? What protections exist?
There are many voices. There are many people who are looking for their voice and seeking the road. Which one do you take, though? If you don’t know which road to take, you know where you came from, because it brought you here. What we wish is for people not to have to seek the road in solitude. Let the griot help you. He has always been beside politics, but he is not political. By always being beside politicians, he learned diplomacy, defense, secrets. He is in the system. He is even able to say whether that prince who is in power or the king belongs, because he was there. When there are ceremonies of all kinds, when there are weddings, he is the one who speaks. When there are baptisms, he speaks. When there are births, he speaks. When there are funerals, he speaks. He is there for all ceremonies of every evolution. If you want to communicate, it is him. He comes into the great court, he gathers everyone, he transmits the message. He is cared for outside of the wage sense because he cares. That is his work.
His role is to be able to federate, because it is by federating that we manage to communicate. The griot is conscious of that. He knows that this is part of his mission. Now, outside of trades or roles or professions or wage, there are what we call men. Politics can be very mean because there are as many interests as there are men. With my music, though, if I want to speak to you, and you have power, I will still speak to you; when I speak to you, you will listen to me. Do you know why? Power will not prevent you from falling. Fame will not prevent you from falling. Everything that one can have on earth will not prevent you from falling, as everything that stands will fall one day. If I know that you are violent, I will not provoke you. I will speak respectfully. I will find the way——if I must be patient, I will be very patient. Above all I want you to hear certain things. When you go to your room quietly, even if you do not accept it here, today, over there in the corner, you will know that what I said is true.
As a griot do you experience a dissolution of self due to these many voices that you voice? Do you identify with everyone, every interest, rather unconditionally, or do you hold judgement?
Yes. When I speak, I am beside the point. My person is no longer important. I do not speak to myself, I speak to others. What I am going to say to others, all the words I use, my people know them. I didn’t create them. The words already exist, precede my birth. My role is to tell you, “Miss, you must not sleep. Things are happening here, here.” And you say, “What he says is true,” because you hear it. It is not complicated. Everything comes in its time. With some problems, you can speak right away to resolve the problems. There are other problems you let calm down a bit and then you speak to resolve them. There are other problems where you are not the one who will resolve them. It is time that will resolve them. I carry the voice of the people. Of course, what I am going to say is dictated by my environment. Yes, what is happening around——what is not going well, what plagues people.
We are all judges. Today you are at home, today you have your spouse, you have your children, you have everyone, but there will come a moment when you must arbitrate. Everyone becomes a judge at home. We know what is good, we know what is not good. There are some who will tell you, “I don’t care about people, I am enough for myself. I am capable of doing everything. I need no one.” And did you come into the world alone? No. But when you leave——when you leave this world——they will take you as well. Even if you sell water, someone has to buy it for you to exist. Everyone needs the other. If we play today——you buy your ticket, you dress very beautifully, you drive, you listen to me. I am here thanks to you. If I must speak, I must above all respect you. That is important, because you support me——so I must even comb my hair. We must complement each other. Each must bring their part.
It is not easy, because there are people in society who are very difficult. But if I cannot speak to you, maybe she can speak to you, and I will let her. I cannot speak to you because I want to speak wrongly——it will not work. If I feel that she can speak, I tell her, “Speak to him.” She will speak to you. And then you say no, no, yes, no, and then that is how problems are resolved. If we cannot agree, you can agree with someone else.
Yes. Yes. What you’re saying, “Miss, you must not sleep,” that is very evocative. The critical thing about belonging to society is trying to be awake to everything and everyone and also yourself in relation, your responsibilities and dependents. It doesn’t matter if you’re not in agreement. How does what you want to say translate more physically, to your way of playing? Do you feel the kora itself, its strings and konso, to be a second tongue?
Everything is planned, but it is not me who plans. I am just the chosen executor. I am in mysticism. There is a moment when I know that I must take this path——whether it is long or not. I am not in a hurry. On the path, there are moments when I want to stop, to listen, to see what is happening around us, to communicate. But listen carefully to my playing tonight, there is a moment when I leave. I know that I have left and I do not know where I am. I know that I am not in danger when I leave. Where I go, I am still doing something, learning something, looking for things. Then I come back down on foot afterward. The notes come and take me. There are notes after notes. There are notes that arrive like that. At first you say, “But what are they doing here?” They are there. You cannot correct them——they are there. Me, I am what we call a living being. What I do is living.
The notes come because they must. I am not someone who plays the same every day. Today I play, I know that tomorrow I play, I know that here in 10 years I play, in 20 years I play. Every day there will be an evolution, there will be something in this piece that is different from yesterday. That is what we call the living. When you are here live, you live it with me now. When you listen to something recorded, you listen and you wait——this part, I like it here. Alas, you are not in reality, because it is always square, same. In 10 years it will be the same thing. In 20 years, 30 years, that will be dangerous. Which means that in 20 years you listen to a song and you say, “Ah, I listen to this——it reminds me of that.” But what you live here is always exceptional because it is private. I never get tired. I am living. That is the blessing.
Yes. We live with you live. It’s private and untranslatable.
I am happy just like that. You are in my home when you are here listening.
That’s why listening live is so intense——it’s an invitation into the musician’s home. Could you speak about your other home, your kora school in Saint Louis, Senegal, your students, and how you teach and finance this transmission?
It’s true, I have a kora school. It’s been a few years. We have fourteen students. The school is destined for three categories: those who have never touched the instrument, those who have already touched it, those who play, and those who we call true professionals. Our objective is for the kora to be as accessible as possible so it can persevere. We receive many people who come for what we call leveling. Some come and stay one month, some stay two months. They learn intense courses every day. Before there were these big compounds where everyone learned to play. Now, with all these apartments that have come, there are no more compounds. We made an establishment where we can dispense these courses. It works very well. We do not make the students leave school. Our objective is not to make them musicians and to give them their own kora. What we want is that they can choose what they want to do, that they carry the kora where they go. We push them to stay in school, we monitor grades. It is a small organization that accompanies them through their lives. After school, they will decide to do as they wish. We teach them to carry the kora in a traditional way. We also try to give them the possibility to discover their history, to travel across Senegal. This is costly. We also teach them to take the saber because this instrument, it is theirs—it is their heritage.
We really must not let the kora be inaccessible. The traditional framework of transmission has broken. We must do everything so that our instruments can be accessible to the population, to the youngest. That is how we will give another life to this instrument. If we say it is just for griots, it will die. It will die. So we must not do that. We must open. We must give young people the possibility to discover the instrument, to know the heritage, and then to transmit it themselves. Today, how many people play the guitar? It is incredible. But how many know the history of the guitar? Very few know. How many people play the piano, the drums? Our traditional instruments too must be abundant, they are our continuous history. That is what gives us our place too, our grounding. It is a mission of principal retransmission. The objective is not to fill the school. It is not to have 30, 40, 50 students. I prefer quality; we must be able to accompany them. We must see to it that transmission is thorough and organized, and that the needle is stitching; so history is continued, so moments of meeting happen. Otherwise, it will disappear. It will discontinue.
Is this desire for moments of meeting also why you created the festival, “Le Tour des Cordes”?
Yes, that was the dream. “Le Tour des Cordes” is a festival that brings together string instruments from the Middle East, Asia, Africa, Latin America. It binds our history. The idea is to show that our instruments are not isolated, that they are in dialogue with others. The kora speaks with the harp, with the guitar, with the cello. I do not play “European kora” or “African kora.” I play kora. The festival shows that there is a universe in strings and a universality. It serves to give visibility to traditional musicians. Our instruments are 3,000, 4,000, 5,000 years old. It is also a place of encounter, of exchange, of workshops, of transmission and celebration. We do not want something sad or static or academic. It must be alive. Music must be alive. When you choose to transmit, when you choose to value a heritage, when you choose to open it to everyone, that is political. It is declaring, We do not want to forget who we are, where we come from! It is critical to know where we come from, in order to know where we are going.
It’s a dialogue, like your trumpet-kora duet, this duet with Cyrille Brotto. The instruments are meeting too. It is something so deeply admirable, that you devote yourself to an ancient practice. Could you tell us your first memory of hearing the kora?
I began to hear the kora when I was in the womb of my mother. My father played. When I came into the world, when I consciously came into the house, I found the kora. It was a strange recognition. What was this? I knew it from the memories of the womb of my mother. There are many debates today around the question of heritage, of disappearance. I was an heir since the womb. The kora never left my ears.
This interview was conducted in French with the assistance of Elise Guerrand and translated into English. It was edited for clarity and shortened to unite and omit some of our side ramblings and expressions of awe.
2026