Drums, Dust, and the Divine: Holding On to What Grounds Us

Drums, Dust, and the Divine: Holding On to What Grounds Us

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Alright now, let me walk you through a story, not one with castles or dragons, but one wrapped in red clay, firelight, belly-deep laughter, and old rhythms that still echo under your skin. Across Africa, what we call tradition isn’t just a relic. It’s breath. It’s heartbeat. It’s that soft tug you feel when a drum calls your name, or when an elder sits down, leans in, and says, “Lemme share something real with you.”

Now don’t get me wrong I get it. Life today moves like a squirrel on espresso. Blink and you’ve swapped your roots for Wi-Fi, your soul food for microwave bites, your sacred ways for sparkly distractions. But what I’m offering here? It’s a nudge. A reminder. Not to stop modern living, but to carry your history like a tucked-away treasure close to the chest, never forgotten.

Imagine this: a big ol’ baobab tree, wide as your granddaddy’s storytelling, older than time itself. Underneath it, the village griot’s working his magic telling the tale of a jackal so slick he thought he could outwit the moon. He danced, schemed, whispered sweet nothings to the sky… and the moon? It outfoxed him. That jackal’s still howling out of shame. Folks laughed so hard someone nearly coughed up their fufu. But in between the giggles? A truth clever ain’t always wise.

That’s how these traditions work. They don’t shove lessons down your throat they slide them into your soul like warm broth. You laugh, you nod, you walk away better without even realizing you got fed.

Take rites of passage, for example. In a lot of African communities, you don’t just wake up one day and declare, "I’m grown." Nah, you earn that. You go through fire metaphorically or otherwise. Like with the Hamar folks in Ethiopia. Young men there have to leap over a lineup of bulls, butt-naked. You read that right. The entire village watching. No cheat codes, no pity applause. You clear that jump? You’ve crossed into manhood. Miss it? Well, hope you like being the family joke for the next year.

And oh, the healing rituals. Now, Western therapy has its place, don’t get me wrong, but let me tell you about a different kind of soul-cleansing. Trance dances. Picture this feet stomping, hands clapping, rhythms building until something in you cracks open and spills light. I’ve seen folks go into those dances with the weight of grief clinging to their skin and come out lighter than a feather. Some laugh. Some cry. Some just stare at the stars, finally feeling heard by the universe. It’s like the ancestors step into the circle and say, “We got you, baby. Let it out.”

Then there’s ancestral veneration. That’s a fancy way of saying we don’t treat our dead like they’re gone. No, sir. They’re right here guiding, whispering, watching with folded arms. You make an offering, you call their names, you listen with your spirit. Disrespect your ancestors, and don’t be surprised when your soup won’t simmer or your goat won’t milk. As one elder said, “If you ignore your roots, don’t blame the wind when you fall over.”

And the folktales? Whew! These stories hold more knowledge than a stack of dusty books.

They’re full of sly tortoises, wise grandmothers, greedy kings, and chickens with too much pride. Take this one about a lazy farmer who thought prayer could do the work of a plow. Every day, he danced and begged the rain to fall on his barren field, while his neighbors got dirty planting. Harvest time came, and his field was as empty as his excuses. A village elder chuckled and said, “Even God can’t bless a man who won’t lift a hoe.” And y’all know he was right.

Even our humor’s got layers. Remember that joke about the chicken who refused to cross the road because the ancestors didn’t approve? Funny, sure. But it says something, too. In our world, nothing moves without spirit. Even a chicken’s steps are sacred.

There’s also the woman who never served food without pouring libation first. She said, “The food don’t just fill our bellies it fills the mouths of those who came before us.” One day, a kid tried to sneak a bite before the ritual and got his fingers smacked faster than you could say "hot pepper." She looked him dead in the eye and said, “Boy, mess around and the ancestors gon’ season you next.”

But here’s what breaks my heart we’re letting these treasures slip. Trading the soul of things for plastic imitations. Giving up our rhythms for ringtones. Thinking Google knows more than grandma. And look I ain’t here to bash progress. I love a good gadget. But when the battery dies, what’s charging your spirit?

Culture isn’t just headwraps and hashtags. It’s how we greet our elders, how we speak to the land, how we mark the big and little things birth, death, grief, joy. It’s the stories told around fires and the ones whispered in kitchens. It’s the dances done in pain, in praise, in pure, full-bodied joy.

There’s a saying: "Wisdom is like a baobab tree; no one person can wrap their arms around it alone." That’s why we need each other. That’s why community matters. That’s why traditions aren’t optional they’re essential.

And let’s be real some of these modern trends? They’d never survive a day in the village. Show up to an elder’s house talking about "no-carb diets" and see if you don’t get handed a plate of yam so big it has its own shadow. Talkin’ ‘bout you can’t eat after 6? Auntie gon’ say, "Then don’t come in here ‘til after dawn."

So yeah, hold on. Tight. To the drumbeats, the old sayings, the laughter, the hush of dawn prayers, the firelight, the earthy stories that wrap around your bones and stay. Because when life smacks you upside the head and trust me, it will you’ll need more than apps and algorithms. You’ll need something ancient. Something that remembers you when you forget yourself.

Here’s another proverb for your pocket: "A man who uses his teeth to bury a bone shouldn’t be shocked when his breath starts to stink." Translation? You disrespect your history, don’t complain when life leaves a bad taste.

So light that fire. Pass the bowl. Tell the story. Cry if you need to. Laugh harder than the pain. And dance not because you’re perfect, but because healing loves a rhythm.

And when you don’t know what to do? Sit under a baobab. Be still. Let the silence speak.

The earth remembers.

Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar