A line of plastic molded chairs marked the edge of the circle. We were expected. Jahanfo came and greeted each of us, shaking our hands as we filed in and sat down. Barefoot boys in dusty tee shirts flung fistfuls of water on the ground, tamping the earth. The small saucers of dampness began to evaporate as the boys ran back to fill their buckets. Water! We each downed a half to a full gallon a day, and our conservative but still too-frequent showering had already emptied the cistern at the palace, warranting a visit from the water truck. This was luxury indeed to dampen the earth with water.
Noise grew across the circle, drumming intensified as an ornate ten-foot wide parasol cut the crowd. The singing crested, wood sounded on wood, metal on metal, while around us conversations continued in the soft tribal language that dominated this region. The chief and his retinue approached his compound, lingered for a moment, and then turned and processed to the open-air portico where he could watch the dancing. Conversations returned to their normal buzz, the boys returned with their buckets, and I settled back again letting go of my Western ideals of scheduling and efficiency. We had come to celebrate the birth of Mohammed, and after all, birth happens in its own time.
A man swirled out through the crowd orbited by drummers and Gonje players. His smock spun wide and he stomped his cowboy boots in the dirt. Laughing, Fati got up and handed him a coin. Another woman rose and stuck coins to the dancer’s forehead. As she returned to the circle he shook his head and the coins fell one, two, three into his outstretched palm.
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