Often, after work, we danced. Tired as we were, we could not resist the call of the drums. Our movements mimicked everyday life. Some gestures imitated the casting of nets in the waters. Some, the pounding of yam. Some, the planting of seeds. Some, the meshing of bodies in the creation of life. And some, the quiet stealth of hunters in the forest. Our bodies swayed like the branches of trees, and pulsated, back and forth, like moving waters. We were in constant motion. At times, our dance was slow and mystical like the night; other times, wild and frenzied like fierce, rushing wind. We mimicked animals, too. Our hands and hips twisted with the grace of the gazelle. We shuffled our feet like mighty cheetahs. Our arms, like a monkey’s, rotated in opposite directions, then hung loose and limber at our sides. We slung our heads back and pranced in circles like the guinea fowl. And every now and then we stomped with the weight and power of elephants until the earth vibrated beneath us. For everything, we danced: funerals, births, deaths, weddings, harvest, planting, initiation, war. We named our dances kuku, manjani, soli, soko, tiriba, adowa, abgekor, and gota. We named them kete, mouwa, doudumba, kakilambe, bawa, and sorsornnet. Everywhere we lived, we danced. We told our stories through dance. We were never stagnant. Even in sleep, our spirits met and mingled in movement. Those who couldn’t dance danced anyway. Our pride was in the majesty of our moving forms.

And after dancing, we sat at the feet of our elders and absorbed wisdom like tilled earth absorbs rain. We were taught the values of honesty and integrity, hard work and discipline. We heard stories of lazy farmers who planted crops but failed to weed them and consequently harvested very little. We heard stories of children who lied so often that, soon, no one believed anything they said. We heard stories of pretty women who became self-absorbed and ended up alone. We heard stories of ants that, in their diligence, never let others deflect them from their mission. We were told to beware people who boasted about themselves. We were told never, ever, to eat without first giving thanks. We were told to respect life and all life forms. Day and night, our heads were filled with insight enough to last a lifetime. Every child heard it. We had no choice. In this way, they gave us the tools of wisdom.

Yet, at times, we didn’t use it. Our imperfections, over seasons, became weaknesses that contributed to our demise. We were arrogant, often, about our achievements. Women were sometimes silenced during public gatherings. Some of our men drank too much. We didn’t always share our harvest the way we should have. Elders were increasingly neglected. We spoke more proverbs than we lived. We favored some citizens over others. We punished harshly those we did not prefer. We skipped rituals for no good reason. We made excuses, at times, for things we’d simply failed to do. We gossiped about our neighbors. We even disobeyed our sacred laws. Some hunters slaughtered game in excess, knowing full well that such was against the pleasure of the gods. Still, they were often heralded as great men of valor. Their plenty became the measure of manhood, eroding our moral consciousness and making us gluttonous lovers of superfluous things. We knew better. We’d been taught the way of harmony and balance. Yet, often, we measured our worth not by what we had but by what our neighbors had, so the disease of greed spread among us. At first it was not discernible, but slowly it seeped into our hearts, assuring that, one day, we’d trade cultural traditions and personal integrity for the luster of material gain.