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<DIV> The Saga Of Kofi</DIV>
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<DIV>(an urban street ballad)</DIV>
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<DIV>by Kevin Brown</DIV>
<DIV>384 words</DIV>
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<DIV>When Kofi Sadiqi played his drums,</DIV>
<DIV>children in droves would often gather round,</DIV>
<DIV>the gleam of inner wonder reflected outward in guileless eyes.</DIV>
<DIV>Little hands, at first tentative, would begin to perfectly clap an ancient
rhythm not so new to them.</DIV>
<DIV>Stomp, skipping, energetic feet</DIV>
<DIV>caught by contagion of the urgent beat</DIV>
<DIV>would dance complex steps known by some currently urban name:</DIV>
<DIV>such a clear example of knowledge of self from deep with in</DIV>
<DIV>When Kofi Sadiqi played his drums.</DIV>
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<DIV>Sometimes, young rough cut brothers with the Hollywood baring of gangster
lean</DIV>
<DIV>pretended total oblivion to the things engendered </DIV>
<DIV>by the red-gold-black and green.</DIV>
<DIV>But unaccountably, whenever these not acknowledged warriors strolled
by</DIV>
<DIV>their walk became a bit more rhythmic,</DIV>
<DIV>although this they would surely deny,</DIV>
<DIV>When Kofi Sadiqi played his drums.</DIV>
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<DIV>He just loved to pound-tap-slap those resonating skins,</DIV>
<DIV>make all the pretty sisters twist and move</DIV>
<DIV>with the whirling passion of buoyant river stone.</DIV>
<DIV>And of course, they did love him too.</DIV>
<DIV>A thin shabby body dashiki clad, jet black hair braided oh so fine,</DIV>
<DIV>Whenever he came around the hood,</DIV>
<DIV>they thought of much better time,</DIV>
<DIV>that is</DIV>
<DIV>When Kofi Sadiqi played his drums.</DIV>
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<DIV>Then came that bright hot summer day,</DIV>
<DIV>Brother Kofi Sadiqi was really driven to play.</DIV>
<DIV>With fingers feeling as if on fire,</DIV>
<DIV>He was truly stirred by the crowd,</DIV>
<DIV>Somebody commented in a shouting voice, "Lawd have mercy, dat boy's gonna
make his mamma and daddy sho nuff proud!"</DIV>
<DIV>But, just as he seemed the most inspired by the pull of ancestor
song,</DIV>
<DIV>the police drove up and shot Kofi dead,</DIV>
<DIV>Disturbing the peace</DIV>
<DIV>his officially stated wrong.</DIV>
<DIV>Now, elderly men and women, mammas and babbas of us all</DIV>
<DIV>lament the murder of Kofi</DIV>
<DIV>in the silence of each chilling dawn.</DIV>
<DIV>In the space where they once half heartedly complained about the uproar
that his entertaining raised,</DIV>
<DIV>there sets glaring an absence of bold reminders for them </DIV>
<DIV>of long ago more youthful days.</DIV>
<DIV>Visual memories of community,</DIV>
<DIV>an almost griot among his people,</DIV>
<DIV>illuminated by simulated rays of the sun.</DIV>
<DIV>On the side of an old brick building</DIV>
<DIV>there is a mural to Kofi, a fitting tribute would say some.</DIV>
<DIV>But, for most of us it's merely a painted shadow of</DIV>
<DIV>When Kofi Sadiqi played his drums. </DIV>
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