[Critique Group 1] July submission for critique

[Kevin Brown]

    The Saga Of Kofi
   
(an urban street ballad)

by Kevin Brown
384 words


When Kofi Sadiqi played his drums,
children in droves would often gather round,
the gleam of inner wonder reflected outward in guileless eyes.
Little hands, at first tentative, would begin to perfectly clap an ancient rhythm not so new to them.
Stomp, skipping, energetic feet
caught by contagion of the urgent beat
would dance complex steps known by some currently urban name:
such a clear example of knowledge of self from deep with in
When Kofi Sadiqi played his drums.

Sometimes, young rough cut brothers with the Hollywood baring of gangster lean
pretended  total oblivion to the things engendered 
by the red-gold-black and green.
But unaccountably, whenever these not acknowledged warriors strolled by
their walk became a bit more rhythmic,
although this they would surely deny,
When Kofi Sadiqi played his drums.

He just loved to pound-tap-slap  those resonating skins,
make all the pretty sisters twist and move
with the whirling passion of buoyant river stone.
And of course, they did love him too.
A thin shabby body dashiki clad, jet black hair braided oh so fine,
Whenever he came around the hood,
they thought of much better time,
that is
When Kofi Sadiqi played his drums.

Then came that bright hot summer day,
Brother Kofi Sadiqi was really driven to play.
With fingers feeling as if on fire,
He was truly stirred by the crowd,
Somebody commented in a shouting voice, "Lawd have mercy, dat boy's gonna make his mamma and daddy sho  nuff proud!"
But, just as he seemed the most inspired by the pull of ancestor song,
the police drove up and shot Kofi dead,
Disturbing the peace
his officially stated wrong.
Now, elderly men and women, mammas and babbas of us all
lament the murder of Kofi
in the silence of each chilling dawn.
In the space where they once half heartedly complained about the uproar that his entertaining raised,
there sets glaring an absence of bold reminders for them 
of long ago more youthful days.
Visual memories of community,
an almost griot among his people,
illuminated by simulated rays of the sun.
On the side of an old brick building
there is a mural to Kofi, a fitting tribute would say some.
But, for most of us it's merely a painted shadow of
When Kofi Sadiqi played his drums.  

   
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