(Guitar Music)
It was dawn. The little village which had danced half the night away to the sound of the drums was slowly awakening. The shephards dressed in rags were driving their flocks down to the valley to the sound of their flutes. The young girls, carrying their water pots on their heads, wound their way in single file to the well. In a marabout's compound a group of children were chanting in unison verses from the Koran.
(Guitar Music)
It was dawn. The combat between day and night. Exhausted from the struggle the night slowly breathed its last sigh. A few rays of the sun heralding the victory of daylight hovered timid and pale on the horizon while the last stars slipped under a bank of clouds the color of flame trees in flower.
(Guitar Music)
It was dawn . And there at the edge of the vast, purple-contoured plain was the silhouette of a man bent over as he cleared the ground: the silhouette of Naman, the peasant farmer. Everytime he wielded his hoe, a frieghtened flock of birds flew up and swiftly made their way to the peaceful banks of the Jobila, the great Niger river. His grey cotton trousers, soaked in dew, brushed the grass on either side. Sweating, untiring, constantly bent, he skillfully worked with his hoe for his seeds had to be sown before the next rains.
(Kora Music)
It was dawn. Dawn was still breaking. The millet birds flitted among te foliage announcing the coming day. A child carrying over his shoulder a small bag of arrows was running out of breath along the damp track over the plain in the direction of Naman. "Brother Naman," he called, "the head of the village wants you under the palaver tree".
(Kora Music)
Surprised at such an early summons, Naman laid down his hoe and walked towards the village which now shone in the glow of the rising sun. The elders, looking more solemn than ever, were already seated. Beside them was a man in uniform, a district guard quietly smoking his pipe unperturbed.
(Kora Music)
Naman sat down on a sheepskin. The griot of the village head stood up to convey to the assembly the elders' decision: "The whites have sent a district guard to request that a man from the village be sent to fight in the war in their country. After deliberating, the elders have decided to send the young man who best represents our race so that he can prove to the white man the courage which we Mandingos have always been known for."
(Guitar Music)
Naman, whose imposing build and muscular frame were the subject of nightly songs by the young girls of the village, was chosen unanimously. Gentle Kadia, his young wife, distraught by the news, suddenly stopped her pounding, placed the mortar under the granary, and without saying a word, shut herself up in her hut to weep in muffled sobs over her misfortune. Since death had taken her first husband, she could not believe that the whites would take Naman in whom she had placed all her hopes.
(Guitar Music)
The next morning, inspite of her tears and lamnations, the solemn beat of the war drums accompanied Naman to the little village harbour where he boarded a barge headed for the district capital. That night, instead of dancing in the open as usual, the young girls came to keep watch in Naman's antechamber where they told their tales around a wood fire until morning.
(Guitar Music)
Several months went by without news from Naman. Little Kadia became so worried she went to consult the fetish priest in their neighbouring village. Even the elders met in secret counsel on the subject, but nothing came of it.
(Kora Music)
At last one day a letter arrived addressed to Kadia. Concerned about he husband's situation she left that night and after walking for many long hours arrived in the district capital where a translator read her letter.
Naman was in North Africa in good health and was asking for news of the harvest, the fishing festival, the dances, the palaver tree and the village...
(Balafon)
That night the old women of the village allowed the young Kadia to attend their traditional evening palaver in the compound of the their most senior member. The village head, overjoyed at the news, offered a huge banquet to all the beggars in the neighbourhood.
(Balafon)
Several months went by once more abd everyone became anxious again for there was still no news of Naman. Kadia was planning on going to consult the fetish priest again when she received a second letter. After Corsica and Italy Naman was now in Germany and was proud of having been decorated.
(Balafon)
The next time it was just a card which said that Naman had been taken prisoner by the Germans. This news threw the village into consternation. The elders held counsel and decided that henceforth Naman was authorized to dance the Douga, the sacred dance of the vulture, reserved for those who had performed an exceptional feat, the dance of the Mandingo emperors whose every step represents a period in the history of Mali. Kadia found consolation in seeing her husban raised to the dignity of a national hero.
(Guitar Music)
Time went by.... One year follwed the next... Naman was still in Germany. He no longer wrote.
(Guitar Music)
One day the head of the village received word from Dakar that Naman would soon be home. Immediately the drums began to beat. They danced and sang until dawn. The young girls composed new songs to welcome him for the old ones dedicated to him made no mention of the Douga, that famous dance of the Mandingos.
(Drums)
But one month later Corporal Moussa, a great friend of Naman's sent this tragic letter to Kadia: "It was dawn. We were at Tiaroye-sur-Mer. In the course of a major dispute between us and our white chiefs in Dakar, a bullet struck Naman. He lies in Senegalese soil."
(Guitar Music)
In fact it was dawn. The first rays of the sun lightly brushing the surafce of the sea tipped the little foam-flecked waves with gold. Stirred by the breeze the palm trees gently bent their trunks towards the ocean as if sickened by this morning's battle. The noisy flocks of crows cawed to the neighbourhood the news of the tradegy which had bloodied the dawn at Tiaroye..... And in the scorched blue of the sky, right above the body of Naman, a gigantic vulture slowly hovered. It seemed to say to him: "Naman! You have not danced the dance that bears my name. Others will dance it."
(Kora Music)
- By Keita Fodeba
This poem has an undeniable pedagogical value. It is clear, we view things clearly here. It is a meticulous account that develops with every line. Understanding this poem is not only an intellectual act, but also a political one. You identify yourself as an African in this poem. Stating our challenges, our hopes, our approach and readiness to fight. There shouldn't be an African who will not understand the message in this poem. Naman a hero, who gets gunned down by the police when he gets home. It happened with Setif in 1945, and it is happening presently in this new and modern generation.
Africans are atributed with the lack of heroism, but know different. We are strong, heroes in our own different ways. One day our silence shall be our strenght. Just delve deeper and see how Naman relates to you presently.
Aimer!
