I often see, hear, and feel hints around me,
Of the ancestral homeland I have never met,
But know of
From the people, stories, and the traditions
Passed on;
Much woven into my DNA,
Evident
In the rhythm of my hips
And movement of my feet
With steps I knew
From childhood,
When encircled by elders
–Dark brown clapping hands ushered on
The skilled footwork of the coy child
Dance, dance,
“Eh! Eh!”
The child smiles shyly,
But honors their request,
With steps that mimic
What she has seen the others’ dress shoes do,
Alas savory smell of a hot soup wafts through the air,
Enticed hungry bellies hurry away from the impromptu dancefloor,
For the beloved dishes awaiting in the next room;
Tiny child hands eager for puff- puff and Fufu
Are re-directed to “wash first”
As the music plays on,
It is the now outdated Makossa sounds of the older generation,
But the tiny ones care not,
They find joy in the sounds,
And this is how they too come to learn,
Ancestral wisdom,
Unknowing the aged messages in the footwork
And the drumming;
The drumming,
in songs,
That helped generations of our peoples,
In Africa,
and in new worlds;
Music that links siblings
Oceans apart,
in this great diaspora
From the motherland.