The baba, deep teacher, master poet with his black shoes and tam read all of Rights of Passage, in a voice that seduced sleep and a trance in us, in the darkness of the Purcell Room, and his eminent beard, and he neva make a mistake yet, not a sideways step, he stay firm on the rhythm and it beat like the same drumskin he rap out on the pulpit till we were lost in the travelling of souls and movement across waters and landscapes from the Guniea Coast to the rugged shores of Haiti, Trinidad, Barbados and onwards and backwards and how the hurricane rips through the body like a kites jagged tail and Kamau so humble and Kamau so loose limbed and agile with his spirit that when we embraced i felt the sofness of the flesh above his belt.
No comments:
Post a Comment