FEEL THAT DRUMBEAT by Nzinga Nzinga
February 6, 1945 – A Time to be born
May 11, 1981 -- A Time to die
The shadows of death are falling. The young man in the bed can see his guitar, his weapon, faithful companion, but it has no meaning for him now. He lies there exhausted and disappearing... disappearing from the earthly scheme of things. There is a vague memory of people, good friends he had had, good friends he had lost along the way; of family, wife and idren, of Haile Selassie, Jah Rastafari, of places, of Jamaica, of Trench Town, Kingston Twelve, of Peter and Bunny and the IThrees--– of Nine Miles, St. Ann, of Twelve Tribes of Israel, of Hope Road, of Africa, of Zimbabwe, of Ethiopia, of Zion; of so many things he had made into songs, the struggle, love, natural mystic, kaya, the slave ship, ambush in the night, the shot sheriff, concerts, revolution, music, et cetera that had been a part of his life. That had been his life.
People around him, out of kindness and ignorance of dying, are forcing him to remember. He is bone tired. There is pain. Always pain. He doesn’t want to eat, to drink, to talk, to listen, to remember. He doesn’t want to keep his eyes open. Tiredness is taking toll. Taking control. He’s floating. He can hear three little birds but he can’t see them. Their song is a faint echo of one he vaguely recalls singing. The solicitude of those around him is making him even more tired. He reaches out to convey some message to them but there really is no movement. He can no longer communicate with them. They think that because music is his life that he is hearing music. But he is not hearing any music.
He is music. He is Mr. Music. He is himself music personified. His organic self disintegrates. His spirit is preparing to fly away in a song.
“Bob, Bob!” No answer. He has flown away home. And if those around him knew where to look, they would have seen three little birds flying away from his doorstep towards the East, chirping ‘in melodies pure and true’:
♪♪This is my message to you-u-u.
Don’t worry about a thing
‘Cause every little thing gonna be alright. ♪♪
The Gong’s mouth is still, but not his message-song which remains with us here on earth, integral, universal and eternally timeless though the singer is translated to be with his ancestors including King David, the great musician and a man after Jah’s own heart.
Jamaica waits. The rest of the Caribbean waits. The three continents, Africa, Asia, and Europe, wait. The United States of America waits. Britain waits. Canada waits. Australia and New Zealand wait. The Middle East and the Far East wait. The Islands wait. The whole wide world waits. Something monumental, universally, internationally is about to happen. So we wait.
May 11, 1981. I am in bed squashed between my mate and my youngest child. The news reader announces the sadly awaited news on the radio. I hear it. My man and my daughter hear it. I start crying. My child, two years, four months and one day exactly, hugs me tightly and says, “Don’t cry, Mommy, he’s not dead. He’s only sleeping.” I burst out sobbing the more and then I hear King David say:
“Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this day in Israel?”
THE END
All the images were taken from the Internet and I claim no copyright.
No comments:
Post a Comment