The African Drums

by Norviewu Dzimega (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Greece

It was the first time someone had matched the colour of my skin to a language. He rushed up to me. You're black, you must speak French. I was in Athens to attend my friend’s wedding, yet somehow I’d found myself in the middle of an urban town, surrounded by street artists and graffiti. He called me and against my instincts I went and sat with him. Cautious, but reassured by the open space. It was a complete contrast to the Acropolis I had toured only minutes earlier. There I’d been surrounded by tourists of a different kind. Ones who like me had an insatiable desire for knowledge and contact with the ancient world, but unlike me wanted to keep their distance from the lives of real people. Clinging to the acropolis’ stones. This was enough Greece for them. It was all the Greece that they wanted to see. I however had ventured on, first stumbling across a religious ceremony. The occasion I did not know, but I was drawn to the men with long beards and white gowns, reciting sacred sounding songs in a language I did not understand. From there I’d landed across market stalls bursting with old ladies calling out and luring me to buy goods that I wanted but did not need. I’d caved and bought a garland, and as I placed it around my head and eyed myself in the mirror, it hit me that I was really in this ancient land. The theme was clearly expect the unexpected. But still, when this street performer emerged from the crowd, spotting me within seconds, excited to see the dark skin, he took me by surprise. He introduced me to his friends and they all shook my hands. I sat with them as we played the African drums. Afternoon turned to evening, evening turned to night. I was unsure of the journey home and yet i remained. Enthralled. Unphased by the slight evening chill. They wanted me to try but I was anxious. My British upbringing making me reserved and worried about making mistakes. It took some time. The fast pace and the beating of my palms against the drums didn’t come naturally. One-one two-one. One-one two- one. I repeated this in slow motion until I could keep up. It took several attempts and many demonstrations, but they were patient. Not an ounce of frustration on their faces. There’s something about music that allows you to lose yourself and let yourself be caught in the rhythm and the beat. It didn’t matter if I got it wrong No one could tell. My skin blended with theirs and so did my sound. Rather than fade with the night, the drums became louder and more men arrived. Trying their best to speak English as I felt embarrassed of my failures with French. Night drew to a close, and I said my goodbyes, but he insisted on accompanying me followed me to the local gyros spot. Assumed I was buying, of course. We leaned against the sculptures as he told me about his family. His mum, dad and sister were all in France. He was the only one in Athens. Passing the time beating the drums until he would be able to join them. The group he played with were his brothers now, brothers by choice. I thought about his story on the way home, and he still pops into my mind from time to time. Who would have thought that travelling for my friend's wedding would guide me here? Who knew he would be the local connection I’d find?