Symphony of the Ancestors.
Africa is not a place. It’s an ideology. My Grandmother once told me, “when you sing in Yoruba, don’t open your eyes.” I was confused, “why” I asked. She held my hands—her skinny veiny, fingers wrapped around mine, which was full of flesh. Smiling, I could see her brown teeth, a million stories embedded in each tooth. She begins, her voice echoing, in the rooms of my mind. “When you sing in Yoruba, you’re invoking the spirits of your many ancestors.” I laughed because it sounded ridiculous, my teenage mind wandering from the room into the scene of "Avatar” when Aang entered the Avatar State. My grandma was looking at me. Her face bent into a frown. She knew I was mocking her story. At once, I stooped laughing. And focused, she let out a laboured cough and continued.
"Yoruba isn't a language. It's a journey. This journey doesn't end. Even in eternity, you're still on the path. The yoruba language is the language of gods so powerful that there are some phrases you must never let out alone. Only an Initiate posse such power.” She stopped. This time It was apparent that I was already drooling. I wanted more of her story. But my grandmother was a tease. She knew how much I wanted to hear the story and so flirted with my mind.
She continued, “Our forefathers needed a language to ease communication between themselves and us. So they created the language. The entire sentence structure and composition must be precise to communicate effectively. Your body language and voice must be in constant synchronisation. The ancestors are demanding and jealous. Then come songs. Child, songs are the gateway to paradise. I know because I've been singing since I was a child. And every time I sang, I saw our ancestors, my voice was only enjoyed because they joined me. That is why I told you to close your eyes before you start any songs and leave them closed during every note rendition. Your voice will be propagated beyond proportion.” My Grandmother didn't tell any lies; her musical prowess was widely known across the country. Her voice, even in old age, was so fierce and soothing at the same time I couldn’t understand the oxymoron, but I knew as a child, I was often petrified while she sang. Her voice was the first I ever heard. Her voice sang me my first music. I did remember several years ago, when she sang at the town’s annual concert, everyone became glued to her. Tears were streaming down the eyes of both the young and old. It took a minute for us all to recover ourselves after the music had stopped playing. She knew how to pull you in with her voice and bring you back in. My grandmother was a goddess. She was the goddess of music.
A month after our august conversation, I was to give a rendition at a concert. I was the only one that took my Grandmother’s gift of all her children and grandchildren. But she never heard me sing before. I was always too shy or ashamed to sing in front of her. So as it happened that night, I stood before the large crowd, their roar so massive I barely heard myself. I could feel my heart in my mouth. I almost turned back to leave. But in a moment, I remembered my grandmother. My mother had told me she would be watching with the rest of the family. So at once I stood, closed my eyes, counted to ten, on five I began the rendition, it was “The Lord’s Prayer” in Yoruba. Then in a moment, I was transported to someplace else; in there, I saw my ancestors come to me one after the other and finally, my Grandmother joining. Then the music began. We all sang together, like a choir. We sounded heavenly.
I couldn’t believe my ears and eyes; it was like a dream. Tears were dropping from my eyes. My feet trembled. My voice fiercely raged on. Each note was carefully delivered, including the chorus and refrain. And at once, the song ended. I took a minute. I opened my eyes, and the crowd was still. The whole hall fell silent. That was the moment I realised that I’ve just invoked my ancestors. With a trembling voice, I screamed, “Thank you.” And as if on cue. I heard the crowd come to life. Claps and screams were roaring, through the hall, sending shock waves through the foundation and pillars that held the building. Cameras flashed, lights blinding. At once, I left the stage, scared, excited and embarrassed. I called my Grandmother. Immediately, my mother answered the phone. “Daughter, your Grandmother gave up the ghost a few moments ago.” I couldn’t see or hear anything else.
The End.