New life

Good vibes

Zenga Longmore

somewhat bizarre event is taking

A

place here in the heart of Brixton. The hippies next door have turned — not nice exactly, but — well, it's difficult to explain. For a start they no longer slip notes through the door bearing the message, 'Please tell your baby to stop crying'. And their appearance has taken on an abnormal cleanliness. For many nights now, I have found myself sleepwalking towards the wall, all set to bang it with a blunt object in the hope of quieting their thunderous rock music, only to discover that there was no rock music, thunderous or otherwise. Merely the faintly discernible whirr of Radio 2.

When I tell you that one of the hippies met Olumba by the lift, and congratulated him on his ike-playing instead of complain- ing, you'll have to agree that something is definitely afoot.

'Like er, hey man. Love the drum vibes I keep hearing. Cosmic, man, real third world.'

Olumba, unpursing the lips, explained that what had been heard was not so much a drum as a slit gong. But, he continued, back in Nigeria talking drums abound, whose tones can be varied to resemble human speech.

Seeing that the lift was in one of its coquettish, hard-to-get moods, Olumba launched into a tale of a real talking drum. Some years back, it appears, a stranger called at his village proclaiming: 'In return for gifts, I will play a magic drum.' Olum- ba, then a ten-year-old boy, ran home to his compound to collect offerings of fruit. Then, along with many other villagers, he returned to marvel at the 'magic drum'. Gathering his gifts around him, the stran- ger began a mournful boom-di-da-boom. Suddenly he stopped, and in faultless Ibo, the drum began to speak for itself:

'Greetings, my friends. My name is Drum, but I request you not to beat me.'

Upon hearing these eerie words, every- one in the village fled in panic. Olumba, so we were told, stood rooted to the spot. Looking back in the cold, adult light of day, he realises that the drummer was 'a voice-throw-man, you know, a yen-trick- olist.'

The last person to leave was the pastor of the local spiritual church, who stalked away, remarking sternly over his shoulder in English, 'You know your trouble, don't you? You're the Devil.' Then he raced back to his compound, with Olumba fol- lowing, 'full speed-o'.

Odd to think that the pastor felt that being the Devil was a minor fault, which

could in time be rectified. When you come to think of it, if the drummer really was the Devil, he'd be on to a fairly cushy number, as he'd have at least half the world in his thrall.

Anyway, the hippy, far from turning away to mumble unintelligible oaths, lis- tened to Olumba's story open-mouthed. He even managed a `Right-on, soul brother,' as he stepped from the lift; then immediately looked embarrassed as if he wished he hadn't said it.

Omalara clapped and squawked. When she is old enough to appreciate a really good story, perhaps Olumba will tell her the heroic tale of the Hippy Reformation.