Ancestral echoes(African Hymns)
Ancestral Echoes (Chapter One of African Hymns) The drum remembers, even when silence lays heavy on the soil. Its skin is stitched with centuries, its rhythm a memory of footsteps that once marched barefoot through kingdoms carved from iron and song. I hear the whispers of griots, their voices cracked with age yet eternal, telling us: Africa is not a wound to be dressed in pity, she is a scar turned into scripture, a mother whose lullabies still echo through the marrow of our bones. The baobab stretches its arms skyward roots sunk deep in red soil, branches open like an elder’s embrace. It teaches us: to stand tall, one must bow first to the ground that bore them. And so I bow to Nubian sands, to Buganda’s drums, to Timbuktu’s libraries where ink was a river, to the nameless warriors whose names still live in the tongues of children shaping alphabets with their laughter. But hea...