The Drums Are Awake
/“The drums are now awake
I’m forced to pause eating and listen
Inspiration has hit the rhythm
Fire will talk to our ears
while little children shake their waists
turning to see the little buds
that’s yet to fully develop…”
I pause, thinking back at the scenario that inspired the poem.
Didn’t know how to capture that part where the old man’s daughters couldn’t bear to see the body of their father carried away in the hearse.
Everything he’s been to them, every love he’s shared, every difficulty they’ve endured, the places, words, music and memories that come to mind whenever they think of their father, the sickness he’s fought, the humiliating moments, the words said in anger, and the jokes…were all now squeezed into a casket, locked, headed to a pit to dumbed off.
Every funeral I’ve attended, those closest to the deceased are those who cry loudest, and the rest don’t seem to understand. To them, it’s just another loss to be borne.
I think about the food, the canopies, the venue and other costs incurred by the bereaving family.
“Those who are mourning are the same people who must rent canopies, cook food, and serve drinks to all of us. Look at our number! How much do we contribute? At the end of the day, we’ve come to create more debts for a family that has already lost someone. Can’t we all come with our food, and the ceremony be made to last for just an hour so every goes back home?“ I lament to my colleague.
“Hmmm….it’s the tradition. Many of the guests come from afar, so they too can’t watch them go back like that, so they have to give them something to eat.” She explains to me.
I guess she had a point.
I look at my poem. The scene that inspired it was where local drummers were entertaining guests at a residence set aside for refreshing them before they left for their various homes. The drummers were so good. But they were so many, and I wondered how much they were going to be paid, and how much each member will be given.
Behind us were one of the highest highlands in the country encircling a little village made up of Ghanaians and Togolese. The village was a 15-minute walk into neighboring Togo. Sometimes I wonder why we had borders dividing us, because the same ethnic group lived on both sides of the border. East and West Germany with black inhabitants.
I take one last look at my poem, thinking back at the serenity, greenery and beauty of the environment in which we had come to mourn with our friend, and add the concluding part of my poem:
“in the midst of the busyness, or mourning
whatever we’re engrossed it,
music will always be playing while life passes us by
We may choose to ignore it
or we may occasionally rise to drown our sorrows in the rhythm”
By Benjamin Nambu
From: Ghana
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