Dusk envelopes the river banks. A damp, cold breeze rustles the leaves.
The catfish made its final plunge and from the undergrowth emerged Osebu, the Royal Craftsman. Gnarled, knotty wood he dragged, Oburumankoma, he sang. The dewy leaves shedding their load. An owl perched in curiosity, muskrats gnawed nervously. He trod on, guided by fireflies, his heart joyous, pushing through the membrane of darkness
In his homestead he stood beneath the Neem tree catching his breath. Segua the mother of his child walked by with an oil lamp yellowing her smile. He laughed, imagining her old and toothless.
That night he slept fitfully.
Osebu met with his ancestor, Akyerema Kofi, at the crossroads of Akwadum, illuminated by the silver moon.
You must be strong, my son
The night is short but the darkness grows longer
Your soul must birth its heir
Like mine bore yours
Like the crossroads, my son; is life. When you get there this kotokro shall show you the way. But know, that not all drummers drum
Not all evoke a dance
Not all carry a song
Some a dirge
Some a curse
But there shall be none untouched
Akyerema Kofi leaned unto Osebu whispering a thousand secrets, sounding like the waves. Desperate, he strained to listen
He awoke.
To the last cockcrow of dawn, strength fleeing his bones, his mind in a myriad of thoughts
His heir! Who was he to be? Childless yet his marriage be
The earth coaxed him to embrace her shallow comfort. Turning on the yellowed mat, he lay down to sleep
At noon he rose
Strengthened by the prekese broth and roots from the pots of the healers
He worked on end, hacked and whittled the slender log, into a drum, stretched the Adowa skin over it. Within it he forged his soul, within it he saw an heir and placed it among the drums
Overlooked,
Larger drums were favoured
His days waned, His strength ebbed
Segua bore him a son
Nananom joined him celebrate
On the eighth day
He was named after his grandfather Akyerema Kofi
Kofi Denteh it was.
Pride of his father, Joy of his mother
Heir apparent, a beacon of hope
With his dying moons, his father grew weaker
With each new tooth, was his laughter - bright and strong
He loved the music of the fon ton from, The atumpan was his lure. But the drummers would not admit him. Too young they said, too small they joked.
Three
Now four
With a calabash he played, taught by his father, in his moments of strength. When the torch in sky is flung beyond the horizons and Asaase Yaa blankets her offspring, with the comfort of darkness
On the eve of Akwasidae
When fofie had ended, the drummers gathered to play. Maidens responded to the call. Dust rising as children raced each other. Slowly the town moved to the royal compound. Oil lamps, flickering in wind
Uneasy in his mother's bosom, fate weaving its web of sleep around him, he heard them play.
He wriggled free, picking up his kortorkror. Stepping out of the hut, stood under the eaves, whiles mother tied his collar around his neck
There he went, Kofi Denteh
He watched in glee, weaving through the crowd. He meant to drum with the men, join the celebration of his ancestors. He meant to strike the antelope skin, on the royal Atumpan
He was spotted and sent away. Go and sleep. They said. It's late
To the drum hut he decided for look for his own. He found a lamp unattended, walked past his mother's hut towards the drum hut. Within it was nothing but gongs and drum sticks
He strayed to the rear
Rattles
Dry antelope skins
Through the open windows
Came the wailing wind
His soul shivered within his tiny frame
Somewhere where no light could reach, he saw it. Joyfully he wiped the dust with his little hands.
He dragged it out
To the velvet tamarind tree and upon the that old weathering rock
He sat,
Playing softly
Lest he be found
Then as broth boils upon burning coals, was the music within his soul.
The breeze carried the tunes
Infant cries of Ogyaa é Ogya oo, ye ye Ogya oo, Ogya oooo
And like a murmur, the unknown sound wrapped its infant fingers around the crowd
The dancers faltered, the drummers hesitated
Awoken were the dying sounds of yore
Who could it be?
They mused
It was an unknown rhythm
Steady
Gyrating
Weaving itself into their faltering songs
Then he heard it
Knocking upon the doors of his soul
Osebu rose
Stood in the doorway listening
His wife hurried to his side, his heart beat audible
He listened to the birth of his soul; to the sound of the untouched drum
Clear as droplets in a cave
Slowly the tingling spread, from his ears to his face, to his chest, to his feet
Life returned to him
His soul to his frail frame
As the drummers stopped
To listen
As they stopped to listen
Silence escorted the tunes
Of the untouched drum
©Koranteng Joshua Yaw
