the thief has made me
a gift of his night’s booty
—Wamda Coleman
before the grand festival// i imported second-hand native drums// foreign wound for a local blood that would swallow caskets for years// the description read; 3D monochrome high definition healing drums// if not for shame who would hide to wear the chief drummer’s gown in a falcon’s nest// 3D monochrome high definition healing drums// i rehearse my adowa// i rehearse slick reggae// i rehearse my kpanlogo// i rehearse my praises for my God// the God of gods of mortar & long dark trees// o, praise//o, praise//praise you when i drum a-l-i-c-k-i d-o-n// & only if you can// can// can hear// make// make// make me a prophet of a huge dark stick// not to drum but to make drummers that will seam our incurable wounds//3D monochrome high definition healing drums…
i played the drum under the festival of nouns// ancestors & their catholic conference of clouds// the long late linkers// or dead faces i meet at daylight// morning meaty magpies// blue beat beakers// song makers of the Mississippi// no one clapped nor danced// nobody leaped nor turned to throw themselves around like other women i’d still want despite my lover’s electric fence// probably no one heard my drums?// yet this wound is like a sizzling rivulet on every black boy’s shin// at night we kiss noisily to signal each other we are still in love// my drum sticks shrinking like candies my ancestors did not lick// to read a drum’s manual is to acknowledge the ignorance of redemption// for the only skill a drum knows is to play itself// i weigh knowledge// how it brings hunger…
This poem emerged as the 2nd place winner of the 2024 Wanjohi Prize for African Poetry
Please click here to view the full list of the winners and to read their stories
