I still hear the staccatos
The extension of the sounds of the drums
The drums from the old days
Then the hills ignite (flare)
In the dry night
The dancers’ feet
bathe in the fine dust
of laterite
And their steps wildly chant
A frenzied rhythm
I still hear the quick notes
The muffled voice of the « commander »
Modulating in the warm evening air.
Then the backs bridge
One with the other
And the hips roll like swells
The bellies of the voluptuous dancers
Wave sensually…
And confused voices call out
Impudently.
I still perceive the staccatos
The rumblings of the “big drums”
Beyond the years of my childhood…
I carry them in me
Like stigmas.
Antoine Abel (1934 - 2004) Seychelles
Translated by Dr. Y.
Source: African Heritage
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