Love would make everyone a tourist in the city they should not have returned. Kidjo twirls in that way you expect of a kite unattached to any string. Eman tché foya lénin Ifé foun gbogbo ayé I hear in the wind. I was taught to expect rain when the wind is still. I stared through the glass wall and cheered when skaters learned to balance on their boards. I smiled at lovers taking turns to pose for a photo, but I still fear I may witness a pedestrian not crossing the road fast enough or someone who didn’t hear the siren.
By the border wall of an ice-cream shop, a
man thumbs ukulele to his dog. His hat is empty, but he continues to smile.
It’s the season of bread and bad decisions, it’s not going to be for long.
Elsewhere, a bone is made into an instrument.
[Gudugudu] speaks to preserve the lineage –
for now, I will make shield from salmon.
There is a drum in every ear, there’s a song for every stage. Somewhere in Glastonbury, Fela holds an elephant’s tusk, instead of a microphone. I am in the congregation; mouthing amen to all his prayers. There is a song for the miners trapped in a castle that will never be found. There is a drum for the underground spiritual game, there is a song for every trembling skin.
There is a drum
for the whisperers when they pulled out of every city
and left jars full of ashes in every backyard.
There is a song for men in green jackets,
serving burnt bread for salvation.
There is a drum for the man who stood half deep in the Niger river, where hundreds of his wedding guests – drowned. There is a song for the congregation whose hands tremble when the wind rustles the roof.
Elsewhere, there’s fish skin
soaked in a bath full of alcohol.
It will be nailed to a wall before it is made into
drums for the mountain men.
Return to your homeland, we thank you for your courage. I imagine I am holding a guitar on the stage with Youssou N’Dour. His voice rings through the amphitheater, as he dances to the electric incantation of the drums. The city is silent because it is healing, I see proof everywhere I go. The walkway is littered with banana peels, and cartons of masks.
I know the city has healed when the siren echoes rippled the summer air. I sometimes think it was I who healed the city of its wounds. I sweat under its sky, every time I walk towards an intersection that leads beyond the Presbyterian Church, where a man in a blue headscarf, tucked a chewing-stick behind his left ear, bored by the preacher’s sermon. Today, there are crows on the highway.
Elsewhere, there’s a prisoner
who will become king.