The instructor sits on a wooden stool, a long Djembe drum is clutched between her knees and her trousers are light. None of her clothing suits Ireland, but she makes up for the cold with two Kente scarves. The patterns stand, a spot of color in a greying classroom. Clear light filters through the windows. The clouds part, and the instructor begins to beat. One base note and two higher tones fill noiseless corridors with vibrating sound. Tut-tat-tat. Tut-tat-tat. Tut-tut-tut-tat-tat-tat. Tut-ta-tat-tat-tat. Tut-tat-tat. Tut-tat-tat.
To the South and down into the next continent over, the world is fully awake in Accra, Ghana. The roads are flocked with kids washing cars for crumpled notes, and women carrying bags of water in basins on their heads. The wet heat of a sunless morning wraps around the city like a blanket, drawing sweat from brows and moisture from tongues. Nearby trees are hung with fruit bats, tired from the night’s scavenge. Some are still flying. Everywhere the honking and sharp staccato sounds of people talking, creates a steady rhythm which worms its way into the ears, heart, and soul of working people. Tut-tat-tat. Tut-tat-tat. Tut-tut-tut-tat-tat-tat.
Tut-ta-tat-tat-tat. Tut-tat-tat. The instructor drums, struggling to be heard. TUT-TAT-TAT. Drum the students in response, but they’re loud and mismatched. Their chatter swells, and the instructor calls out for order. It’s a Monday morning. Twenty-five students sit in a circle, clutching their own Djembe drums and making faces. Some whisper their complaints while chewing gum with smacking sounds. Others seem hyper-enthusiastic, pounding out the drum-beats with both fists. In the middle there are three. They press their palms to the drums’ surface, fingers prickling at the rawhide. They run fingers along wooden shapes, and fiddle with taught strings.
“They’re all carved out of a single piece of wood.” Says the instructor. There’s no response. She tries again, “All the drums,” Louder. “Are carved out of a single piece of hardwood. In Ghana, West Africa. That’s where they’re made.”
Some look impressed, but not as many as the instructor had hoped. She continues, tapping the drum, “I was in Ghana for three years, that’s where I learned to play.” Tut-tat-tat. Tut-tat-tat. Tut-tut-tut-tat-tat-tat. Tut ta-tat-tat-tat.
Tut-tat-tat. Tut-tat-tat. The children walk to school. Their uniforms make them stand out immediately. Mustard yellow and brown, they skip along the sidewalks. Thinking about food already. The lucky ones are carrying a few cedis to buy some lunch, but most will have to wait. Eat red red at home. Soft fu fu sticking to their fingers, gathering up the hot beans and palm oil, chewing on fried plantain. For now though, girls and boys alike trek in with their smooth-shaven heads. Bare feet and cheap sandals, they thump along the sidewalks. Treading the line between dirt and spattered concrete, careful not to fall into ditches which mark the sides of the road. Tut-tat-tat. Tut-tat-tat. Tut-tut-tut-tat-tat-tat. Tut-ta-tat-tat-tat. Tut-tat-tat. Tut-tat-tat.
Tat-ta-tat-tat-ta-tut-tat-ta-tat-tat. The drum teacher plays a new rhythm, and the students copy her. Their more involved now, in tune with the change of pace. She points, asking a student to come sit beside her. The boy looks alarmed, but moves all the same. He gives his friends an easy smile. The instructor rummages through a pile of instruments until she finds one – a cowbell. She asks this boy, Sam, to keep time. He takes the instrument cautiously before hitting it twice. Bat-bat.
“That’s good,” Says the instructor, “But try hitting it every time I play a bass note.”
Tut, she plays on the drum. Bat, he hits in response. The rhythm continues. Tut-bat-tat-tat. Tut-bat-tat-tat. Tut-bat-tut, bat-tut, bat-tat-tat. Tut, bat, ta-tat-tat-tat. Tut-bat-tat-tat. Tut-bat, tat-tat. Tut-bat. Tut-bat. TUT-BAT-TUT, BAT-TUT-TUT-BAT-
BAT! The ruler hits the desk. Millimeters away from students’ fingers, the wood rocks with energy. This was not a warning; the teacher missed, and now she’s yelling – words echoing in the silence. Sharp angles, and large hands, she grabs a noisy students. He gets up, and the teacher parades him around the classroom, a ruler to his back, still yelling. There’s a broom in one corner and the boy grasps it, head down. The teacher glares at him. The she scrawls on the mottled chalk board.
‘2 times 2 is 4’
Many will already know the sum. For others this is the first time they’ve seen it. Tat tat tat. Sounds the teacher at the chalk board. Tut tut tut. Sounds the student as he sweeps. Bat bat bat. Sound the students’ flustered heartbeats. The class goes on.
Bring-a-ling-ling-la-ling-ling-ling. Bring-a-ling-ling la-ling. The bell sounds, and the instructor’s session is over. She lets the students go for their lunch. Flaky sausage rolls, juicy sandwich wraps and sticky chocolate bars await them. Exhausted, she watches them leave. Tat-tat-tat. Sound the footsteps of the children. Tut-tut-tut. Sound the teachers in their staffroom. Bring-a-ling-ling-la-ling-ling-ling. Bring-a-ling-ling la-ling.
The teacher lets them go and their day is halfway over. The boy lays his bundle of straws back down in the corner. He is first outside, and grabs the football from its hiding place. He bounces it on one knee before kicking it up in the air and catching it between his shoulder blades. The other children run out, glance towards him, and start setting up the goals. It’s a schoolyard made of dust; four plastic bags marking the spaces between goals. The children form into prepackaged teams, and the game begins. Tat-tat-tat-ta-tat-tat-tat. The ball rolls between shifting feet. Tut-tut-tut-tu-tut-tut-tut. Bouncing off knees, chests, and heads.
Bat-bat-bat-ba-bat-bat-bat. The children run, sneakers hitting the concrete. Sam has gotten a football and now all of them run onto the basketball court (the grass too wet to play in). Sam dribbles up to the basket. Lifting the ball into the air with a back foot, he kicks it. It yields a soft thump from the backboard before balancing precariously on the rim. It stays there, suspended for a moment, before missing the net entirely. A groan goes up between the students who were watching. Sam just shakes his head, and kicks the ball into play.
Tat-tat-tat-ta-tat-tat-tat. The ball rolls between shifting feet. Tut-tut-tut-tu-tut-tut-tut. Bouncing off knees, chests, and heads. Bat-bat-bat-ba-bat-bat-bat. The children run, sneakers and bare feet hitting concrete and dust. Everywhere at once the game is played, the beat is sounded, and away go the drums.
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