It's late by the time we arrive at kumusha. The combi must seem like a beast from the jungle roaring up the steep and badly rutted road into the remote and tiny village— I can't imagine many cars end up here. There's no electricity in the village and the only light we see, once our headlights are off, is from a large fire set in the center of a grouping of round huts. The family gets out but Sekuru tells Robin and me to wait in the combi while he asks the elders for permission to bring two foreigners to the ceremony.
No moon… we are left alone, along with little Alice asleep on the seat she has shared with Stella. We are enveloped in darkness except for the leaping glow of flames outside that illuminate intermittently, the limbs of trees and the curved, earthen walls of huts in a shadowy, wraithlike dance of light and shadow. From the window of the combi we can also see the bent silhouette of a woman with a big stick stirring something in a large pot placed over the fire. The beat of drums is constant and loud. We aren't talking, we two marungu, just sitting and waiting in our temporary holding room. I think in this moment we both feel acutely enclosed in our foreignness, though I sense Robin is on the edge of being overwhelmed. As if only just now realizing that he's actually landed himself on this continent so distant to his origins, he utters suddenly: "oh… right. Africa."
Sekuru returns for us— we have been welcomed, but he tells us no shoes can be worn in the village so we venture forth barefoot. The ground is hard and worn and cool under my feet; they've had rain it seems, though much of the country has been in drought. Sekuru leads us away from the fire to a big hut at the end of the others. We enter: a smoky fire in the center is the only light. The room is filled with smoke— like a warm, choking fog; it's not easy to see or breath, but I move around to the right where I can just make out the other women to be sitting, and I settle myself quietly, with relief, next to Stella, whose knowledge of English comforts me. We are seated on a mat on the floor, our legs outstretched with backs against the wall. Ambuya is on Stella's other side, but I don't see Tambuzi, just an old woman who leans forward for a moment, trying I think, to make out my features in the haze. Sekuru and Robin sit near the door, beside two other men on the ledge-like benches built, in traditional style, into the wall. Opposite them, on a higher ledge, a figure is lying face up, draped entirely in a black cloth. The air is saturated with smoke and a peculiar heaviness, as if something with great weight were hanging over us all. After a moment, the figure speaks in a raspy voice, strangely ancient sounding, as though intoning from a place very far away.
"The spirit, he is greeting the visitors," Stella whispers to me.
I clap my hands with the others to show respect. I concentrate on putting out the right vibe, convinced the spirit can see inside of me, and I am thankful I've been in the presence of a spirit before, though this is very different from the raucous ceremonies I witnessed in Seke: the aura here is still and grave and deep. I wonder if Robin is uttering to himself again: "oh… right. Africa," but he has Sekuru beside him so I know he feels anchored at least. I have no idea what else is said, after the initial greeting, but we don't stay long, leaving the tribal spirit in the big, round hut wrapped in black and the density of the smoke-filled space.
Outside again, in the fresh night air, we go to the big, blazing fire. Two chairs have been rummaged up and Sekuru motions for Robin to sit next to him. I settle myself on a mat on the ground beside Ambuya while Stella sits on her other side; it's chilly, even with the fire. We have just one blanket between the three of us and I have only a small edge of it but I don't dare make a motion to acquire more, feeling foolish I didn't bring one myself. I have never been this physically close to Ambuya and I am reluctant to even adjust my position or fidget in anyway. My body is shy beside her with my mind made timid by the belief that I am incapable of expressing even my most simple needs to her— the reliance on language freezes us so, when a simple touch or gesture can express more than a torrent of words. Why so often do I forget this?
With time the drumming grows more intense and baboon spirits possess two men. Restlessly they pace back and forth in front of the fire, hunched and grunting with an inhuman guttural depth. One leaps up and grabs a limb of a tree. A silhouette captured in the fire's glow, he swings in the branches agile as a baboon: GUDO! The potency of primate I seem somehow to instinctively feel fills the night in the secluded space of light and shadow, as the drumming persists and the ceremony goes on for hours. One by one we return to the combi to catch some sleep, slouched down in our seats, except for Sekuru who stays up all night and, when the drumming ends, plays mbira into the dawn.
Home |
Poems |
Art |
Mbira Maker Blues |
Songs |
Workshops
vbarrettpoetry@hotmail.com
| ©2008 Virginia Barrett