In Ghana, the beat of life is sounded on a drum

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My companions and I sit facing our drumming instructor, our skin glistening in the West African humidity. Our teacher's face appears solemn, as though we are at a state ceremony instead of seated outside under lush palm trees.

"Let us begin," he says in his clipped Ghanaian English accent. Without another warning, he expertly pounds out a rhythm. We barely see his hands move. He plays it once more and then glances over at us. The expectation is clear. We are to play what we've just heard.

Drumming to different beat

We freeze. Our first lesson, and already we are failing Cephas, our teacher. He looks disappointed, as though he cannot believe that we are really drummers. To distract the tension, I ask him how old he is.

"Thirteen," he replies with pride.

Except for the music master, Mr. Dzekepulli, all of our drumming instructors are young boys. Dzekepulli has enlisted a handful of students to help teach us, a group from Seattle. Fourteen of us have journeyed to Jordan Nu, a small village in Ghana's Volta Region, each of us drawn by the motherland and its rich musical culture.

Though the residents of Jordan Nu are used to seeing the occasional Western aid worker, a visit from such a large group specifically to get to know them is a rare honor. Aided by our friend Janell, a Peace Corps volunteer, we have come to immerse ourselves in the villagers' daily lives for two weeks.

"Please play it again, Cephas," I request. "Slowly." I wink at him. In spite of himself, a smile lights up his face.

Getting in the groove

We meet every day under the palm grove, fragrant with creamy flowers that have drifted to the forest floor. The music master organizes us into small groups, each unit tackling one part of the complex rhythm known as the "bobobo." The bobobo was created in the 1940s and '50s in the movement for Ghana's (then known as the Gold Coast) independence. That day came in 1957, when Ghana became the first African nation to be liberated from England.

Within the first drumbeats, dozens of children come running from the fields and their homes. Some kids crowd around our chairs, others hover around the perimeter, still more boys come to see if they, too, can offer their expertise, until they are shooed away by Dzekepulli. The children clap and cheer whenever we play something correctly, and when we miss, which is often, they patiently tap or sing the pattern back to us. Even the girls, who are not traditionally taught to drum, nod when we play well. They seem fascinated at the women drummers in our group, and we hope that one day they, too, will be invited to play.

I ask Cephas who first taught him to drum.

Learned on his own

"Nobody!" Drumming is almost always accompanied by dancing and singing; celebrations take place frequently in the village.

I realize that Cephas has been hearing these rhythms all of his life, and most likely even before that, in his mother's womb. "But you must have had a teacher in the beginning," I persist. "Perhaps your father?"

"No," Cephas explains again, confused at what seems so obvious to him. "It's a gift from God!"

Though music is central to village life, we learn that drums are a luxury that most people cannot afford. Each day after our lessons are finished, the boys swarm our instruments.

Singing and dancing requires only your voice and your body, but drumming requires something strong and melodious to hit.

At the end of our stay in Jordan Nu, our group discusses what to leave the village in appreciation for their hospitality. We decide to give them our drums.

Though we originally had had them made in Ghana with the intent of taking them home, it is clear that they already are.

(Eve M. Tai lives in Seattle.)

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