Ikaki Akwa: The Drum That Opened The Skies .
…as told by the ancient griot of the creeks to the young griot in his dream.
Listen- Not all drums beat for dance. Some call back the soul of the land.
Before Oil explorers lit their towers, before flares kissed our stars, there was a time when the gods walked in the winds and the waters still whispered secrets. It was in this time that the people of Isoma-bou-a town cupped gently by mangroves-faced a silence they had never known
The Silence of the Sky.
For seven moons, the rain refused to fall.
The yam mounds cracked.
The fish vanished into deep holes.
Children coughed dry tears.
Even the moon looked thirsty.
The town folks tried all they could, burnt sweet smelling grass, sang ancestral songs, even offered the biggest ram to the god of the storm.
But the sky remained sealed like a gourd with no mouth.
On the outskirts of Isoma- bou , on the fringes of a sacred wilderness lived Oru-yai. He was the oldest man alive in the town. No one could tell his story with certainty anymore as he was older than second oldest person- a woman named Minjita by a whole generation.
From the little accounts passed down, he was once a warrior drummer, whose rhythm stirred crocodiles from the riverbed and made maidens dance until dawn. But Oru-yai no longer drummed. His hands, once thunderous, now trembled with grief.
Why?
Because a long time ago, his only son,Abadibo, was taken by the Bumo-Seki , a crocodile known as the terror of the Ogulagha lake . The boy had gone fishing during the Harmattan.
Oru -yai never drummed again after his son died . He buried not just his son but also the sound and rhythm of his soul.
But one night, after the seventh moon of drought, Oru- yai woke from a dream.
In the dream,he saw his long dead son , smiling, standing in the rain.
“Dau! Adabe! the boy said, “Call the rain back. The land is dying.”
He awoke with tears on his cheeks and salt on his tongue. He could not refuse his son’s plea.
He stood up, barefoot, and made his way to the shrine at the back of his compound. It was overgrown with long grasses,sorrow and silence. There, behind old raffia curtains and the dust of forgotten supplications , he pulled out Ikaki, the drum of his ancestral lineage. Its turtle skin still glistened faintly, as though it had not forgotten its voice.
While it was still dark and the town slept,he climbed the sacred stone of his ancestors where they once held court with the guardian spirits of the lineage.
Oru- yai carressed the drum like a long lost lover. He drummed. But not like before.
This time, he didn’t just play rhythms. He wept through the ancient drum. He beat sorrow into the stars.
He struck memories into the dry earth.
He wailed without words.
The townsfolk stirred from their slumber,they began to move one after the other towards the house from where the rythm echoed . They gathered, eyes wide, hearts pleading and trembling. They watched in silence. They hopped.
Suddenly!
A huge cloud wizzed past. Then another.
The wind shifted. The trees shivered,swayed and bowed.
And from the deep belly of the sky came a rumble…
The Rain Returned. Everyone except Oru- yai ran into their homes for shelter.
The rain fell with rage and mercy at the same time.
It soaked the ancestors’ graves. It kissed the lips of the thirsty. It filled the empty gourds and created rivulets.
It danced on rooftops and burst open the dry seed pods.
When the rain subsided, the villagers began to make their way back to Oru-yai’s house to thank him. He was gone.
Only Ikaki-Akwa remained, sitting on the sacred stone. No footprints. No farewell.
The wise one of the town said he followed the rivulets into the lake to join his son in the realm where water nurtures and holds all.
He spoke to the worried crowd and asked them to go home and make sacrifices in their individual ancestral lineage altars to Ogina , the god of the sky. Before they dispersed , he taught everyone a three part proverb.
From that day, it became mandatory to teach every child born to Isoma-bou parents the proverb:
“He who drums with truth in his grief can speak to the sky.”
“And the gods will stir up , if one’s grief and plea is honest.”
“Some drums sound louder than thunder because they echoe from the soul.
Reflection:
Your town or village is your Isoma-bou.
There are many Oru-yai among us-people who carry wisdom wrapped in wounds.
Do not wait for drought to seek their voice. And never mock the silence of a grieving kin. He or she may hold the rain your harvest needs.
Remember, some drums sound louder than thunder because they echo from the soul.
…as told by the ancient griot of the creeks to the young griot in his dream.
Listen- Not all drums beat for dance. Some call back the soul of the land.
Before Oil explorers lit their towers, before flares kissed our stars, there was a time when the gods walked in the winds and the waters still whispered secrets. It was in this time that the people of Isoma-bou-a town cupped gently by mangroves-faced a silence they had never known
The Silence of the Sky.
For seven moons, the rain refused to fall.
The yam mounds cracked.
The fish vanished into deep holes.
Children coughed dry tears.
Even the moon looked thirsty.
The town folks tried all they could, burnt sweet smelling grass, sang ancestral songs, even offered the biggest ram to the god of the storm.
But the sky remained sealed like a gourd with no mouth.
On the outskirts of Isoma- bou , on the fringes of a sacred wilderness lived Oru-yai. He was the oldest man alive in the town. No one could tell his story with certainty anymore as he was older than second oldest person- a woman named Minjita by a whole generation.
From the little accounts passed down, he was once a warrior drummer, whose rhythm stirred crocodiles from the riverbed and made maidens dance until dawn. But Oru-yai no longer drummed. His hands, once thunderous, now trembled with grief.
Why?
Because a long time ago, his only son,Abadibo, was taken by the Bumo-Seki , a crocodile known as the terror of the Ogulagha lake . The boy had gone fishing during the Harmattan.
Oru -yai never drummed again after his son died . He buried not just his son but also the sound and rhythm of his soul.
But one night, after the seventh moon of drought, Oru- yai woke from a dream.
In the dream,he saw his long dead son , smiling, standing in the rain.
“Dau! Adabe! the boy said, “Call the rain back. The land is dying.”
He awoke with tears on his cheeks and salt on his tongue. He could not refuse his son’s plea.
He stood up, barefoot, and made his way to the shrine at the back of his compound. It was overgrown with long grasses,sorrow and silence. There, behind old raffia curtains and the dust of forgotten supplications , he pulled out Ikaki, the drum of his ancestral lineage. Its turtle skin still glistened faintly, as though it had not forgotten its voice.
While it was still dark and the town slept,he climbed the sacred stone of his ancestors where they once held court with the guardian spirits of the lineage.
Oru- yai carressed the drum like a long lost lover. He drummed. But not like before.
This time, he didn’t just play rhythms. He wept through the ancient drum. He beat sorrow into the stars.
He struck memories into the dry earth.
He wailed without words.
The townsfolk stirred from their slumber,they began to move one after the other towards the house from where the rythm echoed . They gathered, eyes wide, hearts pleading and trembling. They watched in silence. They hopped.
Suddenly!
A huge cloud wizzed past. Then another.
The wind shifted. The trees shivered,swayed and bowed.
And from the deep belly of the sky came a rumble…
The Rain Returned. Everyone except Oru- yai ran into their homes for shelter.
The rain fell with rage and mercy at the same time.
It soaked the ancestors’ graves. It kissed the lips of the thirsty. It filled the empty gourds and created rivulets.
It danced on rooftops and burst open the dry seed pods.
When the rain subsided, the villagers began to make their way back to Oru-yai’s house to thank him. He was gone.
Only Ikaki-Akwa remained, sitting on the sacred stone. No footprints. No farewell.
The wise one of the town said he followed the rivulets into the lake to join his son in the realm where water nurtures and holds all.
He spoke to the worried crowd and asked them to go home and make sacrifices in their individual ancestral lineage altars to Ogina , the god of the sky. Before they dispersed , he taught everyone a three part proverb.
From that day, it became mandatory to teach every child born to Isoma-bou parents the proverb:
“He who drums with truth in his grief can speak to the sky.”
“And the gods will stir up , if one’s grief and plea is honest.”
“Some drums sound louder than thunder because they echoe from the soul.
Reflection:
Your town or village is your Isoma-bou.
There are many Oru-yai among us-people who carry wisdom wrapped in wounds.
Do not wait for drought to seek their voice. And never mock the silence of a grieving kin. He or she may hold the rain your harvest needs.
Remember, some drums sound louder than thunder because they echo from the soul.
Ikaki Akwa: The Drum That Opened The Skies .
…as told by the ancient griot of the creeks to the young griot in his dream.
Listen- Not all drums beat for dance. Some call back the soul of the land.
Before Oil explorers lit their towers, before flares kissed our stars, there was a time when the gods walked in the winds and the waters still whispered secrets. It was in this time that the people of Isoma-bou-a town cupped gently by mangroves-faced a silence they had never known
The Silence of the Sky.
For seven moons, the rain refused to fall.
The yam mounds cracked.
The fish vanished into deep holes.
Children coughed dry tears.
Even the moon looked thirsty.
The town folks tried all they could, burnt sweet smelling grass, sang ancestral songs, even offered the biggest ram to the god of the storm.
But the sky remained sealed like a gourd with no mouth.
On the outskirts of Isoma- bou , on the fringes of a sacred wilderness lived Oru-yai. He was the oldest man alive in the town. No one could tell his story with certainty anymore as he was older than second oldest person- a woman named Minjita by a whole generation.
From the little accounts passed down, he was once a warrior drummer, whose rhythm stirred crocodiles from the riverbed and made maidens dance until dawn. But Oru-yai no longer drummed. His hands, once thunderous, now trembled with grief.
Why?
Because a long time ago, his only son,Abadibo, was taken by the Bumo-Seki , a crocodile known as the terror of the Ogulagha lake . The boy had gone fishing during the Harmattan.
Oru -yai never drummed again after his son died . He buried not just his son but also the sound and rhythm of his soul.
But one night, after the seventh moon of drought, Oru- yai woke from a dream.
In the dream,he saw his long dead son , smiling, standing in the rain.
“Dau! Adabe! the boy said, “Call the rain back. The land is dying.”
He awoke with tears on his cheeks and salt on his tongue. He could not refuse his son’s plea.
He stood up, barefoot, and made his way to the shrine at the back of his compound. It was overgrown with long grasses,sorrow and silence. There, behind old raffia curtains and the dust of forgotten supplications , he pulled out Ikaki, the drum of his ancestral lineage. Its turtle skin still glistened faintly, as though it had not forgotten its voice.
While it was still dark and the town slept,he climbed the sacred stone of his ancestors where they once held court with the guardian spirits of the lineage.
Oru- yai carressed the drum like a long lost lover. He drummed. But not like before.
This time, he didn’t just play rhythms. He wept through the ancient drum. He beat sorrow into the stars.
He struck memories into the dry earth.
He wailed without words.
The townsfolk stirred from their slumber,they began to move one after the other towards the house from where the rythm echoed . They gathered, eyes wide, hearts pleading and trembling. They watched in silence. They hopped.
Suddenly!
A huge cloud wizzed past. Then another.
The wind shifted. The trees shivered,swayed and bowed.
And from the deep belly of the sky came a rumble…
The Rain Returned. Everyone except Oru- yai ran into their homes for shelter.
The rain fell with rage and mercy at the same time.
It soaked the ancestors’ graves. It kissed the lips of the thirsty. It filled the empty gourds and created rivulets.
It danced on rooftops and burst open the dry seed pods.
When the rain subsided, the villagers began to make their way back to Oru-yai’s house to thank him. He was gone.
Only Ikaki-Akwa remained, sitting on the sacred stone. No footprints. No farewell.
The wise one of the town said he followed the rivulets into the lake to join his son in the realm where water nurtures and holds all.
He spoke to the worried crowd and asked them to go home and make sacrifices in their individual ancestral lineage altars to Ogina , the god of the sky. Before they dispersed , he taught everyone a three part proverb.
From that day, it became mandatory to teach every child born to Isoma-bou parents the proverb:
“He who drums with truth in his grief can speak to the sky.”
“And the gods will stir up , if one’s grief and plea is honest.”
“Some drums sound louder than thunder because they echoe from the soul.
Reflection:
Your town or village is your Isoma-bou.
There are many Oru-yai among us-people who carry wisdom wrapped in wounds.
Do not wait for drought to seek their voice. And never mock the silence of a grieving kin. He or she may hold the rain your harvest needs.
Remember, some drums sound louder than thunder because they echo from the soul.
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