When the Drums Fell Silent

When the Drums Fell Silent

By Baba Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

The drums…

The drums that once called our people to dance, to harvest, to war, to worship they had fallen silent.

The ashes from the last raid still floated in the morning light like ghost feathers. Chickens clucked in confusion. The goats normally nosy and annoying stood still as if they too were listening for something that no longer sang. And the people… oh, the people were broken.

We gathered in the village square what was left of it. Some homes were now blackened skeletons. The storyteller's hut had been burned. Even the big calabash tree where we tied marriage ribbons and children’s names had been scorched.

Then the voices came.

“Where were the ancestors when the flames came?” shouted Sorie, a hunter whose name meant “first son.”

“Why should we stay and starve when other villages have more?” yelled Isata, her name meaning “leader of women,” though her spirit burned with rage.

“I say the elders have lost their power. Their prayers bounce off the sky like pebbles on a drum,” sneered Momoh, a man always loud but never early to danger.

“Our warriors were sleeping like fat cats when the raiders came!” growled Alusine, a young blacksmith whose fire burned brighter in his words than in his forge.

“Let me tell you something,” grumbled Tamba, the village joker, “if I had a real spear not this broomstick I’d have handled all of them myself… after breakfast.”

Voices clashed louder than war drums.

Some cried.

Some cursed.

Some wanted revenge.

Some just wanted to leave.

Others… just stared at the ground as if the earth held the answers.

Even the hyenas dared to laugh nearby.

I, Baba Kateb grey of beard, bent in back but sharp in spirit stood among the elders, leaning on my carved staff. I had worn the skin of many seasons. I had danced under full moons, prayed through dry seasons, held babies born in thunder, and buried friends beneath baobab trees. And in all my days, I had never seen our people like this.

So I stepped forward, smacked my staff against the ground, and raised one wrinkled hand to the sky.

“Enough!”

The square grew still.

Even the nosy goat shut up.

I cleared my throat and let the fire inside me speak not from anger, but from the love of a father.

“I am writing this no, speaking this not to shame you,” I said, looking each one in the eyes, “but to warn you, as my dear children.”

Yainkain, whose name means “humble one,” raised her hand with a sharp tongue.

“Warn us? What next, Baba? You gonna say it’s our fault the sky opened and fire fell?”

I smiled. “No, daughter. I am not blaming you for the fire. But I am blaming us for forgetting how to call the rain.”

“Call the rain?” mocked Kadiatu, voice filled with scorn. “What we need is a rain of arrows, Baba!”

“We need justice not jungle wisdom!” barked Foday, the impatient.

I raised my staff again.

“My sons, my daughters… listen well. I have danced through the seasons was once swift like the antelope, and now I walk like the tortoise. But through all my days, I have never—never—seen the ones who walk upright with the Creator abandoned. And I have never seen their children crawling hungry, begging crumbs beneath the tables of the wicked.”

Gasps rippled through the square.

“Even now, the wind smells like new soil. But we can’t plant if we’re still too busy plotting revenge and insulting each other.”

Amadu, a strong young man known for his sword arm but not his spirit, grumbled,

“Baba always talks in riddles. Why can’t you just say what you mean?”

I chuckled.

“Because if I give you everything like porridge, you’ll burn your mouth. But if I make you chew, maybe you’ll learn to taste truth.”

The crowd groaned and laughed. Even Alusine the blacksmith smirked.

Then I turned serious.

“Long ago, before your fathers were born, our ancestors faced a calamity much worse than this. No food. No fire. No hope. The rivers dried. The wind carried the cries of the dying. And they too began to turn on each other, blaming elders, the sky, even the ants.”

I paused and tapped my heart.

“But an elder named Mkhulu Duma the Thunder Grandfather stood and told them this tale…”

I looked up at the cloud-heavy heavens and spoke in a voice like drums behind a storm:

“A man once found himself at the edge of the Red Sea. Behind him, the armies of his pain depression, anxiety, debt, fear, betrayal were charging. Chariots of despair were thundering. He could not swim. He could not fight. His people wailed. But the man… he simply lifted his rod to the sky. And the sea? It split open like a fruit, and they walked through on dry land. Their enemies? Drowned. Washed away like dirt in a flood.”

More murmurs. Some tears.

“And so I tell you today,” I roared, “Stop worrying. Worry cancels your prayers. Be still. Know who your Creator is. If your land your soul is dry, He shall rain on it. But only if you turn from evil your actions, your manners, your deeds, your lips.”

The villagers listened now. Really listened.

“We shout for war when we haven’t even whispered a prayer. We scream for leadership when we can’t even lead our own mouths to speak truth. Children! Your tongues are too sharp and your knees too stiff! Bend them! Bend them in prayer! Not for a better village but for better hearts.”

An old woman, Haja Mariama, cried out, “Baba… I don’t remember how to pray.”

I stepped down from the stone I stood on and walked to her.

“Then let your tears be your prayer. The Creator hears even what your tongue has forgotten.”

More wept.

I reached down and scooped a handful of dirt from the ground.

“You see this dust? We came from it. But what the Creator breathes into dust becomes destiny. You are not finished. We are not done. The fire was not our end it was our refining.”

I looked around at the scarred faces. Some carried burns. Some carried worse—wounds on the inside that no herb could cure.

“You say you want to run. Run where? You are standing in promised land not because it’s perfect, but because you are called to perfect it with your faith.”

A child named Fatmata tugged at her mother’s sleeve.

“Mama… is Baba Kateb a prophet?”

Her mother, Zainabu, smiled through tears.

“No, child. He is just a father who still listens to the wind.”

And then, something beautiful happened.

The villagers stood. Not in defiance, but in unity. They embraced. Apologized. Laughed through tears. Tamba the joker gave Foday his last gourd of water. Isata braided Yainkain’s hair again. Someone hung new ribbons on the calabash tree.

A drumbeat returned not from wood and skin, but from hearts in rhythm again.

As for me, Baba Kateb, I stood to the side, watching my people breathe again.

The rain had not yet come but I knew it would.

Because this time…

we remembered how to kneel.