Drums strum the hum in my heart as I watch the sad glow of the city at night. Ngalula’s hands were a blurr as they beat against the cow’s skin of the drums. The small fire kept the full outline of our bodies a vague knowledge.
My parents were busy; my dog was watching us, and the past hanged heavy above us. Rafiki, Baraka, Ngalula and myself were sitting cross legged, our backs against the memories of our lives. The hut had walls made of brick and straws artistically assembled around logs of wood for a roof. It stood as a memorial for a bygone way of life that our grandfather wanted left behind. The mansion he had built for his large family seemed to be mocking the hut. This hut stood against his past only to be nonexistent in the present and yet this was home, despite all the threats of mother to plant garden of roses instead.From the day mother threw down her threat, we spent most of our time there to protect our way of life.
I always hummed in my heart we gathered around the fire. I hummed to still my life and keep my fire still and burning. I hummed to weave the odd corners of my life into a smooth key. Just something small enough for me to carry around and not worry about consulting the instructor’s manual.
I will admit that I didn’t know what the rest of them thought as we listened to the drums and watched the fire dance that night.