We gather around the gold-colored fire, our faces silhouetted against, the backdrop, of a starry night. We tell the same story, over and over again, enjoying it until it is cemented in our minds, never-fading like ball point ink. The oral off our tongue, flows, painting picture of story’s past, nothing added, events engrained deep in real-time. Our lives drama, carbon copied from mind to mind, generation to generation, molded by the heat of the fire into a stone scroll of truth.
The night weaves its invisible body out deep into the sky, bringing sparkle star disco to the heavens, and the women get up to dance, singing and calling for a story-teller, to take us back to the words of ancient ancestor. They stomp their feet upon the earth and shake the ground, sending vibrations deep into, we men our hearts. Palpitating, we take our hands and translate the sound to goat skin covered drums. Far and wide our sound travels, calling on neighbors, friends and foes. This our message, the story-teller time has come.
Our mother earth shaken and awaken by our call back to the past, brings a single cloud above and smiles a small drizzle of rain on us. The cooling beads of rain, touch one, and the story-teller is named. His voice brings silence to the night, and gently and gradually fills our minds, and the peace, of the word, of our ancestors, delivers us to our dreams.