“Oh, my sister! Oh, my sister! Oh, my sister! What happened to you? They did not tell me that you were suffering this much.” My mother cries while holding on to her older sister, whom she has not seen in 3 years. My aunt is hugging my mother with a somewhat blank expression that has replaced the look of surprise and pure ectasy that possessed her face once my mother entered her room. I had come into the room 5 minutes prior to my mother’s coming. My aunt had seemed happy to see me, but she had not recognized me although I had visited her only a year ago.
My mother’s outloud cry goes on. By now, it is being accompanied by the soulful beat of the drums being played right outside my aunt’s house. It’s Saint John’s Day, a day of maximum celebration in Praia Branca, the town where my mom was born. I had never celebrated Saint John’s Day in Praia Branca before and was looking forward to this years’ festivities. The drum players and dancers of Praia Branca are well-known throughout the island. They are supposed to be some of the best in the country. Typically, men play the drums while women dance “Kola Tambor” with each other while repeating enticing words as a tease to the men. Despite its simplicity and structure, Kola brings a sort of freedom that is not typically experienced in other Cape Verdean dances. The women are allowed to say just about anything and they do say just about anything. Now, men also participate in Kola and some women have learned to play the drums. The tradition is being passed on to little kids whose arms are as long as the drum sticks and are barely tall enough to hold on to a drum without it hitting the floor. Despite their small stature, the passion is already evident in they eyes and their hands are already capable of accompanying the beat produced by their fathers and grandfathers.
Goosebumps appear suddently all over my body as my face becomes warm with tears. “Mom, please. This is supposed to be a happy moment. Don’t make auntie feel worse!” I plead. I’m not sure she heard me and if she did, she ignored me. My mom’s morneful words seem to dance around the vibrant noise of the drums. Her voice is filled with sorrow. Her face is one of concern. Her embarace is sweet and protective. “Mom, the neighbors will think something horrible happened.” This time, she quieted down slowly.
I look at my mom’s face. I look at my aunt’s face. These two faces are so similar. Both tell stories of survival. There are years of wisdom written in every line. Will they ever share with me their full story from struggle to triumph? In my heart, I know my aunt never will. I love her more in this moment of weakness. I see my mom in her. I see me in her. I feel a sense loss as I witness her physical and mental decline. I have this urge to hug her, to protect her, to love her.
For a while, no one speaks. The beat of the drums seems more intense, more passionated. All of a sudden, my aunt begins to dance to that sweet rhythm that for a lifetime had vibrated her heart and touched her soul. I wonder if she is thinking of when she used to dance Kola. I can see her jumping on her feet with her hands up in the air as she shakes her hips and sings out a sensual line she must of heard from one of the older women when she was growing up. Instead, her left side is heavy and no longer obeys her brain. But, at this moment, her handicap does seem to matter. She claps her hands to the sound of the drums and shakes her upper body harmousnously. I can almost touch her happiness. She smiles like a little girl. She looks so radiant, so beautiful, so innocent. It’s the drums! It’s the drums! It’s the drums!
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