that does not quite take him out

but bowls him over enough

for Kwasi to get underneath

and backflip Yaw

over his shoulder

into the earth.

KUM-BOOM!

And then the music stops.

COLLAPSE

We all watch

in slow motion

as Yaw

lies there silent,

eyes bulging,

body limp

like he is disappearing

from himself.

His uncle, the King, looks stunned.

His maame wails,

blanketing the soundless clearing

like her heart is breaking,

and Kwasi, silent

like the rest of us,

stands over him,

uncertain of what to do

next.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE STORY OF THE DRUM

Just as the body has the heart to pump life throughout it… our village… our nation… has always had the drum to feed our soul… It is the heartbeat of our people… The dundun drum… The dondo drum… The konn-konn sound comes by striking the drumhead… with a hand or a stick… Since even the beginning of time… we have used these instruments… to make music and entertain… to honor the Creator… and our ancestors… to celebrate marriages and victories… to mark births… and deaths… and rebirths—like the initiation you will soon face… In times of war… we have used the drum to call to arms… to power our soldiers’ emotions… to ready them for battle… Our drums talk… and it is also true that they sometimes send important news… messages… Learn these… as you would the songs your maame teaches you… They are played to inform you… to protect us…

THE DAY FOLLOWING

the competition

it is typical

for the men to roast a pig

in the ground.

There would be

barrels of groundnuts,

mountains

of sugar bread,

slathers of meat,

and unlimited mango.

The two Kings

their chiefs

and their councils would

drink themselves blind,

then laugh and haggle

over small things

in daylong gatherings,

while most of the kids

play water games

and the mothers

knit and prepare food

for the Grand Feast.

But this day boasts

no pig roasting

or mango

or swimming

or playing

or haggling,

because the heir

to the throne,

the Lower King’s nephew,

has been killed

in the annual Kings Festival

wrestling contest

at the hands

of an Upper,

and so, the joint Council

of Elders

will convene

at the town center

to determine

my brother’s fate.

REMORSE

Kwasi sits

in a corner,

muddled,

still visibly shaken

not saying a word

not eating a thing

not knowing

what will happen

to him.

Kwasi, are you okay?

…

THERE IS NO COMFORT

for my maame,

whose moans and cries

are loud and long,

nor for my sisters,

who sit at her feet

and spoon her tea.

Even though Papa

keeps telling her,

I promise it will be okay. The elders will know it was an accident,

Maame is convinced that Kwasi

will be put in the stockade,

or made a servant

to the King of Lower

to pay off the debt

of human life.

Our compound is being guarded

by a handful of armed men