My people, beat the drums,
the male and female drums
that I may feed my famished feet
with the quickness of ancestral dance
and lay your bodies in the dust
that I may rest my soles on them.
Oh people of this village,
the whirlwind is coming
People of the village,
it uproots the banana groves.
The whirlwind is riding a hyena
and it is breaking your huts.
I will dance on the tail of the whirlwind:
the fool beats the drum, the wise ones dance.
My flywhisk bears me into every hut –
Beat the drums, people of this silent village;
who has died that you mourn in silence?
People of this dead village, tattoo me with your song.
The whirlwind has undressed the trees
Come and see, it has stripped this land bare
and it has stolen the best of our children;
The trees can no longer hide the heavy secrets:
When the river is in flood
it reaches the ankles
When the river is in flood
it reaches the ankles only.
The lake has stepped on a stone, hear its weeping;
The lake has scraped its foot on a sharp stone,
And beats its palms angrily on the sand like a drum
And the rain wearing colourful waist beads dances
The river floods your huts and loots your granaries
When the river is in flood
it reaches the ankles
When the river is in flood
it reaches the ankles only.
The sun has fallen, the whirlwind is rejoicing
under the village tree, wading through the flood.
The sun has fallen, beat the male and female drums.
The sun is sleeping, light a fire that I may feed
my thirsty feet with the sap of your song:
When the river is in flood
it reaches the ankles
When the river is in flood
it reaches the ankles only.
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