The giver of the blow forgets, the carrier of the scar remembers. -Haitian proverb With the slow beating of thetanbou,David drew Ezili Danto to his fire. He sensed the spirit mother lurking close, not yet ready to allow him to see her. Tangy salt air sagged under the weight of her presence. The scent of vetiver accompanied her, crisp with wild grasses and smoky with ash. His bare toes itched where they curled into the dry dirt of the Haitian mountainside. Drumbeats thudded against the darkening sky and echoed off the dilapidated buildings clinging to the cliffs. The promise of rain hung just out of reach. He felt born to this land and its pulsing, eerie music. It swelled within him, growing, feeding. No stage performance had given him the feeling of pride he felt from learning the intricate tempos native to the tanbou. He’d played the bongos in Cuba and the djembe in West Africa without the surge of power that surrounded him tonight.
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