The sound of the heavy droplets beating against the corrugated iron roof mimicking ancestral sounds, drum beats and ancient calls…
Mother of the Drum.
Nyangoma they call her…
She wills me with each beat to stay awake and listen to her…to hear her stories.
To let myself feel.
To let herself heal.
Nyangoma begins her dance.
At first she starts slow building with each moment…but there is no order to her movements. They are scattered and disparate.
Djemebe and Doundoun.
Thunder and Lightning.
And as the rain subsides (only just a little) Insomnia lies in anticipation watching as Nyangoma once again takes the lead. Another dance. Pink flamingo’s, fluttering mariposas, Rhapsody in Blue, Firebird suite. Perfectly arranged concerto’s.
Insomnia is captivated and for a moment she can’t breathe. She is subsumed by the magic.
Then in an instant – Silence.
Nyangoma is gone.
And slowly my eyes begin to shut just as the sun begins to rise.
And in ways even she cannot yet understand Nyangoma has soothed Insomnia’s restless mind.
Her lids feel heavy as Nyangoma whispers
Sleep precious one. Sleep.
Let your body rest.