Sand and Ceremony

Prologue

Don’t look back, Ganyo whispered. If you do, everything will turn bad.

The voice of my Ewe drum teacher echoed in my mind as we made the midnight trek up the path. I was scared by what he said, yet strangely tempted to look back at the lake where we had conducted the Ewe juju ceremony. Ganyo told me that the incantations he had made earlier were going to protect me. But from what?

Dried sticks cracked under my bare feet. In my hand, I held my sandals and a flashlight that he told me to turn off until we reached the Ho road. A full moon marked the silhouettes of trees; rustling leaves sounded like the whispers of ancestral spirits. Large bats circled overhead, confusing my sense of direction; a pack of goats bleated around me. I felt detached from myself. Passing headlights on the Ho road were my only relief.

Distracted by a strange sense of foreboding, I barely heard Ganyo’s three words of warning: "Don’t look back!"

Something jarred me awake. Looking out the airplane window, I saw the Sahara—an ocean of sand and blowing dunes with large craters and ripples of petrified waves that reminded me of the incidents back in Ghana.

BOOK 1

Land of the Ewe People

Chapter 1

African Waltz

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Accra, the capital of Ghana. Airline passengers unbuckled and scrambled for carry-on bags. I remained seated and gazed out the window, seeing a sign that read Kotoko International Airport. Once the other passengers squeezed past, I strapped on my backpack.

I exited the plane and it hit me—the thick, lifeless humidity of Ghana. By the time I reached the ground, my clothes were already damp from sweat. Following the other passengers toward a long building with a mural of four African men working the land, I walked past more murals that decorated the walls leading to customs. Along the bottom were the phrases Meet Me There and Sea Never Dry. An airport attendant swept his mop back and forth, ammonia stinging my nose.

Next, the customs agent said in English. I handed him my paperwork—visa, vaccination certificates, and a completed immigration form. The agent examined my forms and threw them under the partition. Your name is Dale Jackson? I nodded. This is not an address! Where are you staying?

At the Odami Music Institute in Denu. I mailed my letters to a P.O. box.

Then you will have to board the next plane for home. There is nothing here for you!

In my guidebook, I had read about a tactic of intimidation called dash. Dashing was a simple financial solution to any confrontation—a bribe. My heart pounded as I slipped a few dollars under the partition. He took the dash and did nothing further to assist me.

Could I please speak with your supervisor? I said.

The agent turned to his left and started a conversation with an associate as if I weren’t there. He tapped a pencil loudly on his desk, and pointed over my shoulder. Behind that door!

I approached it and knocked. Excuse me, I said, interrupting a conversation between three men. My name is Dale Jackson, from Boston. The customs agent says my address is incomplete. This is where I’m going. I pointed to the address on the form.

A tall man dressed in green army fatigues spoke loudly and quickly. And what do you want from me? I handed him a letter of recommendation written by Russ, one of my Boston professors, but he let it drop to his desk. Then your address is K-Embassy. As he turned to speak with his associate, I noticed two rifles leaning against the wall. Puzzled, I asked him to explain. He snapped: I said your address is K-Embassy! Is that not clear?

Perfectly clear. I quickly wrote in the new address, returned to the first agent, and handed him my revised form. "This is my address."

The customs agent looked shocked. What business do you have at the Embassy?

Improvising, I said, I’ll be meeting my professor there. We’ll be leaving for Denu tomorrow. I slipped the letter under the partition, watching as he read it slowly.

In my mind, I imagined not an epic journey with finely tailored details, but a path guided by circumstance, like floating down an uncharted river. I felt comforted with the thought of passively surrendering to the natural course of events, seizing the moment in the instant the moment arrived. Eventually, the agent returned my letter and, with exaggerated slowness, stamped my passport. I crossed the baggage area to the far end of the luggage carrier, where three men were arguing over my bags.

Hey, what’s going on here? I said, running toward them.

The tallest man turned to me; his maintenance outfit and plastic nametag were covered in grease. I thanked him, handed over my claim receipts, grabbed my bags, and began walking. The other two men reached for them.

You are tired from your trip. Let me help you, one said.

They yanked them out of my grasp and headed toward the exit. I turned to the airport attendant, who laughed, saying that they only wanted to help. Eventually, I caught up to them and would reward them properly if they found me a cab. When I left the airport, thick humidity assaulted my body. Hundreds of people, lined up behind a flimsy aluminum gate, were waving and yelling as I struggled to keep up with my baggage. My carriers weaved down concrete stairs leading to a parking area. People all around grabbed at my arms; I barely saw my legs amid a forest of sandals.

One baggage man pointed to a rusty taxi, telling me that the driver was his friend. I handed over four dollars and thanked the men. They looked at the money and smiled, helping to place my bags in the trunk.

I know a nice hotel, the driver said. I am a friend of the Queen Mother.

Queen Mother? I said, wondering what he meant. Okay. Sounds good!

As we drove, he asked me about the purpose for my visit. When I told him, he turned to me with a wide grin and perfect white teeth.

"Do you know Agbekor?" he asked. This prompted me to start clapping the bell pattern for the ancient Ewe warrior rhythm. On the dashboard, he drummed an accompanying off-beat part played on a small barrel-shaped kagan drum. You already know this? he asked.

I studied in Boston. I came here to learn more from Kwakou Afolabi’s family. He turned to me in shock; apparently, he knew of the great master drummer.

But how do you know of Kwakou in America?

I told him of the first time I saw Kwakou in concert in Boston, five years ago.

* * *

While pounding the long, barrel-shaped atsimevu master drum, Kwakou’s sticks spoke to all ancestors before him. His powerful strokes shook the auditorium at Boston Arts College, causing the dust to drift down from the rafters. Warrior dancers, waving wooden swords and a horse’s tail symbolizing magic herbs, loyally followed the great drummer’s commands.

Kwakou’s hands were moving quickly and gracefully from low tones to high-pitched slaps to shell tones produced by striking the side of the drum with his stick. I didn’t understand his complex drum language, how dancers and musicians responded with their variations and dance movements, how performers maintained their collective cool within the call and response of the master drum. How could something so intense look so easy? As I watched, my mind filled with rhythmic variations.

I knew at that moment that I was hooked on African rhythm and nearly got up and started dancing to the powerful groove. It occurred to me that I didn’t like to dance, embarrassed that my body would not move with as much style or skill as my hands. On this night, deep drum sounds penetrating the air were like sonic magnets, commanding us all to obey the call of Kwakou’s drum.

 Kwakou looked intensely serious as he led his warrior dancers into battle, energizing his army of loyal soldiers. The dance drama, I would later learn, told the epic story of how Ewe warriors won their land in battle against a much larger army, defeating the enemy with magic herbs and loyal spirit forces.

Dancers moved like a synchronized flock of geese, reacting to Kwakou’s drumming commands with dynamic turns of the body, ribs and shoulders flapping forward and back, and arms slicing into the air as if chopping away thick brush. Loud chants seemed to be asking spirit ancestors for guidance and power. Other drum commands compelled dancers to dive to the ground onto their bellies, as if ducking from enemy fire, and rising for a moment to throw spears.

Periodically, Kwakou turned to the support drummers and stared at them as they played, causing them to bolt upright and pay close attention, or to adjust their rhythms to correspond with his orders. Kwakou’s authority on the stage was undeniable, with drummers and dancers showing their love and respect for the man who confidently led them into victory.

* * *

The cabbie laughed in delight when I finished my story. Ewe music is hard to learn. Even for Africans. But you have a good start. How long will you be here?

Two months. I’ll spend one month in Denu studying with the Ewe people, then go to Tamale for Dagomba drumming.

God bless you.

Moments later, he placed my bags on the ground in front of the hotel and extended his hand, which I shook. I am John. Next time you come to Ghana, I will have drums with me.

I look forward to it.

After John left, I introduced myself to my hostess, who sat in a chair next to several men and boys. A large, smiling woman introduced herself as the Queen Mother, but I didn’t understand what that meant. She wore a slightly frayed polyester negligee—yet still seemed regal, somehow. As she spoke to several other boys who stood nearby, I noticed a maternal look on her face, as if she were talking with her own children. Her employees looked at her with equal respect and caring. When the Queen Mother told me her given name, I had to laugh.

Why is that funny? she asked.

Because Cecilia is also my mother’s name. I saw the synchronicity of having arrived at her hotel.

Nooooo, she said, stretching the word. You see? You were meant to come here. After you settle in, come to my house for some papaya that comes from my own tree. When she asked, I explained more of my purpose for visiting Ghana. I am Ashanti, but I know of Ewe culture, she said. And you play all those drums from the Ewe tradition? She turned my palms around, studying the lines and flesh under an outdoor light. You are left-handed, no?

How did you know?

"I am the Queen Mother. My boy will help you with your bags."

A young boy wearing brown shorts and a beige T-shirt led me up some concrete stairs to the second level. I noticed that his feet were callused from walking barefoot. He adjusted his grip and clutched the banister as he ascended. At the top, he turned right and stood in front of a large wooden door. I inserted a key and fumbled with it.

He eased my backpack to the floor, turning the key several times until the door opened. Standing aside, he allowed me to enter ahead of him. To my relief, I saw an air conditioner perched over the bed. To the right churned an old refrigerator that contained bottled water. I also saw a private bathroom with a flushing toilet and running water. I gave him a dollar for his help. Clutching the bill, he backed out and closed the door. After unpacking, I went outside and headed toward the Queen Mother’s house on the far side of the courtyard.

This way, Mister Dale, she said. After some tea, you can use my computer to send e-mails back to America. Your family would want to know that you arrived safely.

Yes, thanks very much, I said and followed her through her house.

The Queen Mother led me to an old wooden chair with brown velvet cushions in her living room. As she prepared our snack in the kitchen, I admired her family pictures and paintings. The room, although in disarray, felt warm and nurturing. Along the floor and on cabinets were ceramic puppies, rabbits, and Ghanaian chiefs. In the corners were plastic palm trees, with leaves that reflected fluorescent lights overhead. On a dresser were several brass clocks in the shape of nautical steering wheels. Off to the side was an old computer.

Do you like milk with your tea? she asked from the kitchen.

Please. My voice echoed inside the concrete room.

As we chatted about my upcoming music studies, she told me about Ewe history: how Anlo-Ewes migrated to southern Ghana from Togo in the late1600s and that, as warriors, they engaged in many battles against European powers and neighboring villages to win their land. Apparently, Ewes often speak to their ancestors for advice. I reflected on my own ancestors, whom I knew so little about.

Changing subjects, she said, A man of thirty must be married by now. And what is the name of your woman?

Her question caught me off guard. My girlfriend is Lisa.

She glanced at a portrait of her husband. My husband is deceased. The Queen Mother has many memories.

Her tone sounded sad, but proud. She had a quirky way about her, striking me as a slightly faded flower as she talked about her past and her husband. She spoke lovingly of her brother, who lived in America and had children born as U.S. Citizens. She told me she had plans to visit them one day. Are you a religious man, Dale?

Well, I was raised Catholic, but I wouldn’t say that I’m very religious.

Nodding her head, she said, Your spirit is young.

Youthful? Immature? I was always a bit of a late bloomer. Otherwise, I would have come to Africa years ago.

For a moment, I thought of my parents back home, who were concerned that I was traveling alone. I’ll pray for your safety every night, especially while in church, Mom had said on the phone before my departure. I made the mistake of asking her why church prayers had more impact than others. She sighed, adding, Going to church shows respect.

While growing up, I’d often told her that I didn’t understand all of the rules and procedures associated with Catholicism. During my more rebellious teenage years, I fought with my parents about having to dress up in uncomfortable suits, listening to some priest telling me to stand and kneel in a torturous repetition—especially in the hot summer months with no air conditioning to make the ceremonies bearable. Days after our phone conversation, I received a bon voyage present—a Swiss Army utility knife and a Timex watch. Good call, Mom and Dad.

After tea, and with the Queen Mother’s help, I sent e-mails to my parents, Lisa, and some musician colleagues back home. I told them about my safe arrival and social time with my hostess, knowing that they would have as many questions as I about what being a Queen Mother actually meant. Her kindness and generosity set a nice stage for my sojourn into Ghanaian culture.

Returning to my room, I walked out onto the concrete porch overlooking Accra. It surprised me to see such a modern city with everything that I might expect from a city back home: solid infrastructure with well-constructed roads and overpasses, streetlights and stoplights strategically placed, and vehicles of every size obeying the rules and courtesies of the road. The buildings across the street were made from thick concrete, each well painted and cared for. Some had tile roofs, while others had large windows within ornate wooden frames. For a half hour, I observed Accra coming to life at dawn, pleased that my more naïve preconception of a struggling Third World country was not even remotely accurate.

* * *

Later that same night I headed for a club called The Bass Line that the Queen Mother had told me about, listening to the sounds of evening traffic and the songs of crickets as I walked. It didn’t surprise me that American jazz was popular in Ghana—so much westernization had taken place there. Soon, I saw a blue neon sign with the words Bass Line—the letter B was replaced with a flat accidental. Walking up a gravel parking lot, I noticed an outside patio with tables, chairs, and a bar in the corner. I greeted an attractive woman sitting at a table by the entrance.

Who’s playing tonight? I asked.

The Charles Quartet, she said, accepting my fee.

The inside of the Bass Line could have been any club in Boston or New York. The dark lighting and small tables in the intimate space created a comfortable atmosphere. On the walls were paintings of great jazz musicians like Miles Davis and Oscar Peterson. Along the far wall of the bandstand, I noticed a red-sparkled Ludwig drum set with mounted tom-toms and three cymbals perched on thin metal stands, one leaning far to the left. To my right stood an old electronic Fender Rhodes keyboard with cigarette burns melted into the black plastic casing. Under the keyboard was a foot pedal wrapped in layers of gray duct tape—every musician’s fix-all. Toward the back wall, I saw a vintage Gibson hollow-body electric guitar, painted yellow, with the words Jazz Lives written with a blue marker on the yellow background. In the middle stood a mike stand held together with more duct tape. 

I ordered a Club beer and selected a table in front. A young, well-built man sat in a chair next to me. He wore a dark silk shirt and neatly pressed slacks that made him look important.

Are you from America? he asked in surprisingly good English.

Boston, I said, extending my hand. I’m Dale.

Charles.

Of the Charles Quartet?

Yes. Are you here to play jazz?

I’m here to study Ewe and Dagomba drumming. I’ll be leaving for Denu tomorrow.

Do you know how to play Ewe drums? he said, his eyes moving toward my beer.

I studied for a while in Boston. Can I buy you a drink?

Charles motioned to the bartender. Do you also play jazz? he asked.

Yeah. But I’ve been into African music for some time now.

He laughed. We want to learn your music and you come here to learn ours. That is too much.

A waitress brought his beer. Cheers, I said, raising my bottle to his.

We talked about American and Ghanaian jazz. Who is your favorite jazz musician? he asked me.

Of the old school, I would have to say John Coltrane.

Who? Charles asked.

John Coltrane. He plays tenor sax. You have never heard of him?

I guess not.

I wondered what kind of jazz Charles played without knowledge of one of its greatest pioneers. When do you go on?

Soon. Waiting for the drummer. So, he continued, why do Americans want to learn African drumming? Does it pay well?

Well, some people like it because it makes them want to dance. Others learn to help their composing skills, or to improve their rhythm. After a swig, I added, But mostly, people enjoy it because it’s a lot of fun.

* * *

"This is the grandfather of all our music," Kwakou had said to me and several other students on the day after his concert.

While holding a large iron double bell in one hand and a stick in the other, he spoke to us about his tradition, smiling like a young boy. Despite his playful demeanor, I knew Kwakou meant business when it came to teaching his music, and I listened closely to his every word. And without the grandfather, he went on to say, there can be no family.

Motioning to a group of smaller drums and shakers, he said: These are the sons and daughters of the atsimevu. He pointed to the master drum that I had seen him perform on the night before. I stared in awe at the five-foot-tall drum, wondering if I would ever be invited to play it. You, he said to me, do you know how to make the grandfather speak? I nervously hit the low bell once, and struck the high bell several times. That is Agbekor, he said with authority. You have awakened the whole family. We will join you. While I played, Kwakou distributed drums and shakers, showing each player how to be a part of an Ewe musical family. As I kept my bell rhythm steady, Kwakou grinned.

Five years after my first lesson, Kwakou unexpectedly died of pancreatic cancer. All of his Boston students had contributed money for the funeral in Ghana. We conducted our own ceremony, telling anecdotes about Kwakou and pouring libations of smooth gin on the ground for him. The memorial culminated in an all-night jam session to give him a proper musical send-off from Boston.

A year later, Kwakou visited me in a dream, telling me how sad he was that I had not come to visit him in his land.

* * *

Soon, the other musicians arrived, and Charles led them to the bandstand. Charles sat behind the piano, smiling at his audience. His opening chord was ornamented with rich, chiming colors and tension as he set an intimate mood for a slow ballad, improvising an introduction with genuine feeling and soul. The rhythm section started playing, but not with the same level of musicianship as their leader. The drummer swung awkwardly ahead of the beat, accenting with an edgy feel. The bassist played with proficiency, but the strings buzzed annoyingly—low notes were muddy and indecipherable. The woman behind the mike sang Moonlight in Vermont in a seductive voice. The irony of the song was not lost on me—singing about something close to my own climate, while totally sticky, equatorial and un-Vermont-like here in Ghana. Charles’s piano solo mirrored much of the melody as his head swayed. His second chorus revealed more skill as an improviser as he invented complex phrases and counterpoint. After the song ended, I whistled and hooted in praise.

Thank you, Charles said. We have a friend in the audience who would like to drum with us. Please welcome Dale from Boston. Everyone started clapping as he opened his hands, inviting me onstage.

Surprised by the invitation, I stood and acknowledged the crowd, walking onto the stage near the keyboard. What do you want to play? I asked.

Do you know ‘Footprints’? he asked.

If it’s by Wayne Shorter, I know it well.

As I shook the drummer’s hand, he gave me his whittled-down drumsticks. For a few moments, I adjusted the drums and cymbals to accommodate my left-handedness.

Charles started a 3/4 vamp. Under normal circumstances I would have played a jazz waltz, but here in Africa, I wanted something else. Placing my stick above the bell of the cymbal, I allowed another chorus to pass and began playing the Ewe Agbekor bell pattern; people started to applaud. On the snare, I played a rhythm usually heard on a barrel-shaped kagan drum—the same my cabbie had played when I first arrived in Accra. After several choruses of my African waltz groove, Charles motioned for me to take a solo. I introduced counter-rhythms and melodies on tom-toms while maintaining the bell. Following two choruses, I set up a more standard jazz waltz groove. The tune culminated in a frenzy as we jammed on the last chord.

Charles raised his hand high, kept it there for drama, and then lowered it, bringing the band to a synchronized halt. People stood, cheering for us to keep playing. Charles came over and shook my hand.

Chapter 2

Welcome to OMI

The next morning, I flagged down a cabbie in a new-looking cab and said my goodbyes to the Queen Mother.

You be safe now, Dale, she said, holding my hand.

I will. Thank you for all of your hospitality. And for the use of your computer.

Yes, of course.

As we left Accra, the scenery along the roadway changed from a modern city to rural villages. Dozens of round mud and thatched huts sat in bunches; thick branches embedded into the earth marked off the ground. I felt as though I were moving backward in time, with the trappings of the modern world slowly dissolving. The scenery around me became wilder and more mysterious. Fresh smells cut through the humid air.

How can you stand the humidity? I asked, drinking guzzling from my water bottle.

You get used to it. He laughed.

We drove along the narrow dirt road, inches from oncoming traffic. A truck raced toward us, and my driver honked and flashed his lights, warning of a potential crash. The truck flashed its lights back before moving a foot to the right. As we drove, I noticed towering mounds of red sand on the sides of the road.

What are those? I asked, removing my camera.

Termite homes. Up ahead are big ones. Save your film.

We passed trees that looked like large cacti with scraggly branches and vines draping to the ground. Under one tree, I saw a pack of birds pecking away at an animal’s carcass. Hawks and vultures circled overhead, patiently awaiting their share of the free meal. Among the wild animals in Africa, it seemed only the birds remained active during the hot days. Sweat soaked my clothing, making me stick to the passenger seat. We arrived at the outskirts of Denu at ten a.m.

Do you not know where to go? my driver asked with surprise.

I’ve never been here before. Let’s ask someone. We went into town to inquire.

A young boy said: Take the Ho road. Near the Malta sign. By the border checkpoint.

How far up? I asked.

Not far. You will see a big drum.

After turning right onto the Ho road, I saw men on bikes hauling large burlap bags filled with charcoal, while others stood by the road selling fuel. Still others, on bikes, carried long strips of roof thatching spread like wings. We drove another mile and saw a large object along the right side of the road. I recognized the shape of an Ewe master drum. That’s it!

The cabbie stopped in front of a concrete sculpture of a fat boba master drum that was positioned on the ground, with a narrower atsimevu master drum mounted sideways on its top. Around the sculpture were trees and a well-maintained flowerbed. Tall palms cast giant shadows onto the hot, white sand. I heard a loud drumming ensemble playing Gahu—a funky and driving rhythm I’d studied in Boston. My pulse rose in excitement. We pulled onto a narrow dirt road that traveled along the perimeter of a village. Hundreds of round and square houses, made from red clay and sand, looked like something out of a National Geographic spread.

Along the right, a man wearing a grass hat shoveled wet sand into a row of wooden brick molds. A teenage boy removed dried bricks from their molds and stacked them in a pile. Children were teasing two goats, trapping them against the concrete wall and playing with the frightened animals. Dressed only in underwear, a toddler harmlessly whipped a plastic bag at one goat. The kids turned and watched our cab pull in, allowing the goats to escape. They happily chased the smallest one, but it scampered away. We drove another fifty feet and came to a concrete wall with a beautifully painted image of drummers, dancers, and Kwakou Afolabi playing the atsimevu. More drum vibrations filled the air.

They are playing very loud, the cabbie said.

Yes. Isn’t it great?

We entered the OMI front gate at a snail’s pace; my heart raced as the traditional rhythm filled the air. Underneath a large gazebo with concrete posts painted bright red were Africans and white Americans drumming and dancing with fierce energy. I stood outside the cab, smiling at several African drummers who waved to me as they played. Behind the boba stood a young man with three women dancing Gahu in the center. Dancers swung their arms back and forth as they stepped in pairs in a circle, moving counterclockwise around a red center pole. The blistering afternoon sun shone around, but not inside the enclosed gazebo. A dozen wooden benches were situated around the perimeter, with water bottles, notebooks, and tape recorders placed on or around them.

That’s everything, the cabbie yelled into my ear before he left.

I stood watching an intense performance of Gahu, amazed by the tempo and volume. Dancers, cued by the boba, entered and executed vigorous steps that I could barely follow. Sweat glistened on the American students. The five African drummers, however, looked perfectly comfortable. Their technique and control were amazing—no exertion, but plenty of power to drive the rhythm. I could see every rippling muscle in their arms and shoulders. Soon the group class ended, and a young Ewe man of about twenty-five came forward to greet me.

You must be Dale, the man said.

I shook his hand. Yes. I’m supposed to meet with Anku.

His laughter revealed perfect teeth. "I am Anku."

Anku wore a gold chain and a leather necklace with a cowrie shell at the end for good fortune. His hands were thin, but strong; his fingernails looked finely manicured. Like his father’s, Anku’s smile reminded me of a boy eager to play. I too couldn’t wait to jump into the Afolabi playground.

This is the Odami Music Institute. Anku opened his hands, inviting me to soak everything in.

Colorful and well-maintained flowerbeds surrounded wooden statues of ancestral drummers. Sculptures of small animals were scattered around the grounds, and bright red buildings encircled the walled-in compound. To the right of one flowerbed was a grassy area with plastic ducks and geese feeding into the ground. A bronze lizard was perched against the dormitory building, made to look as if it were trying to climb the wall. I also noticed a network of gutters and buckets attached to the tin roofs—a clever design whereby rainwater would flow into the gutters and buckets before converging into a large storage tank embedded into the ground behind the kitchen. Anku pointed to the dormitory building behind the flowers, explaining that the cafeteria was just inside the door, to the right.

I thought you would like to stay in the village, Anku said, surprising me. I tried not to look confused or disappointed and put complete trust in my new teacher.

After passing through another gate and out of the school compound, we wound our way between village huts and groups of goats and chickens sleeping on a dirt path. He stopped in front of a green door. The room inside contained two small beds with a wooden desk and chair in between them.

Is there a bathroom nearby? I asked.

Behind the dormitory is an outhouse. Do you have a flashlight?

Yes. I still didn’t understand why he had given me accommodations so far from the school, in a strange village. I wondered what the school dorms were actually like, but quickly dismissed my questions. Anku, would this be a good time to discuss business?

Come to my office on this side of the performance hall.

In his office, I paid him for a month of tuition. I also gave him a CD that I had produced back in Boston, pointing to one tune that fused Ewe grooves in an original composition.

Thank you, he said, admiring the colorful graphics of the front cover. Leaning back in his chair, he added: Dale, it is important that today you do not touch any drums. Tomorrow, we need to pour libations as an offering to the ancestors. It is tradition.

It’s going to be hard to resist drumming.

Anku laughed. "You are eager. That is good. Morning group class is from nine to eleven. Afternoon class is