| 00:18 |
Theme music: |
[Instrumental Overlapped with High-Pitched Voice Begins] Can you hear me? I don’t know how much projection to do here.
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| 00:18 |
Hannah McGregor: |
What does literature sound like? What stories will we hear if we listen to the archive? Welcome to the SpokenWeb Podcast: stories about how literature sounds. My name is Hannah McGregor, and each month I’ll be bringing you different stories of Canadian literary history and our contemporary responses to it created by scholars, poets, students, and artists from across Canada. Here on the SpokenWeb Podcast, we have a fascination with language that goes beyond the novel or the codex and into the many texts and technologies that connect us through sound. This podcast itself is a way of connecting, of telling stories and building a community of literature lovers and sound fanatics across the country and around the globe. But there are many other sonic communication technologies beyond podcasts, radio, or even the humble telephone. And some are much older. For hundreds of years the Yorùbá people of West Africa have used “talking drums” to send messages and tell stories. The pitch of talking drums mimics the rising and falling tones of West African languages, allowing drummers to “speak”. The drummer encodes the language, converting it into drum patterns and in the process turns them into poetic and political expression. In this episode of the SpokenWeb Podcast produced by University of Alberta researchers, Chelsea Miya and Sean Luyk, we will hear from poets, musicians, linguists, and educators, as they reflect on the power and influence of this musical instrument, communication technology, and important symbol for West African cultures. The story of the talking drum connects to the story of written and spoken West African languages and the struggle to preserve them. This episode is part one in a two-part series about the talking drum. Here are Chelsea Miya and Sean Luyk with Drum Codes [Part One]: The Language of Talking Drums. [Feature Audio Opens with Talking Drum Music]
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| 02:29 |
Chelsea Miya: |
Long before text messages, West African communities used drums to send messages from village to village. I am Chelsea Miya.
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| 02:38 |
Sean Luyk: |
And I’m Sean Luyk.
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| 02:41 |
Chelsea Miya: |
In this episode, we consider the talking drum in the context of the struggle to preserve West African languages, and as a way to speak truth to power and protest oppression.
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| 02:55 |
Wisdom Agorde: |
[Drumming] Drumming for us goes beyond entertainment.
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| 02:59 |
Sean Luyk: |
Wisdom Agorde is co-director of the University of Alberta’s West African music ensemble. [Drumming ends]
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| 03:04 |
Wisdom Agorde: |
Drumming brings us together for festivals, storytelling, funerals, maybe dedications and weddings and all of that. But beyond that, the drama, the divine drama connects to the ancestral world, which is the spirit world. And they help our priests and priestesses to get into trance and get information from the spiritual world, which is then communicated back to the living. So the drum could be seen as the bridge between the living and the dead.
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| 03:43 |
Sean Luyk: |
In West Africa, there is a strong overlap between music and language. African languages, like Yorùbá, are highly musical. The Yorùbá language has three tones:low, mid, and high. Solfege symbols, names for musical notes, are used to teach these tones. Do. Re. Mi. The straps on a talking drum can be adjusted to mimic these tones and communicate messages. [Begin Music: Drumming] Listen to master drummer, Peter, one of our featured guests in episode two in the series, demonstrate the tones on his drum. [End Music: Drumming].
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| 04:18 |
Peter Olálékan Adédòkun: |
So this drum has ability to mimic my voice. It can speak. It can say your name. If I want to say your name as Chelsea, Chelsea Miya, I can do that. [Drumming] Yes. So look. [Drumming].
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| 04:36 |
Sean Luyk: |
Speech surrogates are instruments that mimic the human voice so that players can speak to one another. The talking drum is just one example. Some communities also have traditions of using flutes [Sound Effect: Flute], trumpets [Sound Effect: Trumpet] and whistles [Sound Effect: Whistles] to communicate.
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| 04:52 |
Wisdom Agorde: |
You know, in those days we didn’t have factories and industries. We didn’t have many cars. So the air was not polluted that much. So the talking drum is going to, is able to travel several kilometers. So, if there is a problem at home, let’s say there is fire at home. If the king wants people to run back home, because there was a problem, he uses the talking drum to call all the people to come back. The talking drum also announces if there is a death in the community. Once you hear the tone of it and the language in it, you know exactly that an elderly person had passed away. And if you know the appellation of that person, you will understand immediately who died.
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| 05:48 |
Wisdom Agorde: |
When I was in Ghana, I was quite young when my grandfather died and they were playing the royal drums in front of the family house. Normally when a royal dies, the royal drums will come out and we’ll play to send off that person to the land of the ancestors. So, the funeral started on Friday. So that Friday afternoon, we were preparing to bring the body from the morgue. And I was passing by and they were playing the royal drums [Begin Music: Drumming] and I had no clue. It just a nice sounding drum to me. And I know the drums are being played to honour my grandfather. So one of the elders called me [End Music: Drumming] and asked me my name. [Begin Music: Singing] And like, “is that not your grandfather whose funeral we’re having?” I said, “yes.” And he said, “and you were passing and they called you and you didn’t respond!?” [End Music: Singing].
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| 06:55 |
Wisdom Agorde: |
At that time I was in the university. I had no clue. City boy doesn’t understand nothing. Apparently they were calling the family name on the drum. Man, I’m supposed to acknowledge that, but because I didn’t understand it, I didn’t respond as I should. So I was just walking by. I had no clue.
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| 07:20 |
Sean Luyk: |
How are you supposed to respond?
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| 07:22 |
Wisdom Agorde: |
Most often you raise your hand. There are times also when, if you can dance, you will respond to the call through dance.
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| 07:32 |
Sean Luyk: |
One time, Wisdom happened to see across a funeral procession for an important local chief. [Audio Recording: Crowd Chatter and Noise] He remembers watching the royal drummers on their way to the palace and realizing that they were telling the story of the chief’s life.
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| 07:44 |
Wisdom Agorde: |
I was in front of the palace, that there was a huge funeral. The funeral lasted for more than a week. And every day of the week specific people from different parts of the country came to pay homage to the dead chief. And this particular day I was there, the chiefs arrived from another region and they were in a procession walking to the palace to go pay homage to the body of the dead chief that was lying in state. And whilst they were passing, I realized that when they reach the front of the royal drums, the language of the drum changes. And immediately the language changes the visiting chief or king responds through different kinds of dances. And it was so beautiful. I don’t know what the drums were telling them, but definitely be understood what the drum was saying, and the drummer knows exactly who was arriving and we’ll call that person in name. The royal drummer is also a historian. So the royal drummer wasn’t just calling them. He was also telling history. What that person has done, what their ancestors have done, and how they have survived through the years. I am very sure that the divine drama might have learnt all the drum language from all the visiting chiefs and kings in order to appropriately acknowledge them. Unfortunately we the younger generation don’t know many of those songs right now. And there is that fear that some of these things are lost because during that funeral I saw certain performances I’ve never seen before.
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| 10:01 |
Sean Luyk: |
[Music Begins: Instrumental Drumming] Different communities have their own unique talking drum traditions, their own speaking styles interwoven with sayings and proverbs that have been passed down through the generations. The richness of the talking drum is reflected in the incredible language diversity of West Africa as a whole.
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| 10:17 |
Tunde Adegbola: |
My name is Tunde Adegbola. I’m a research scientist. [Music Ends: Instrumental Drumming] I work in human language technology with emphasis on speech technologies. Also looking at the implications of speech surrogacy, which is the use of devices other than the human speech apertures, such as drums, whistles, and such to communicate.
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| 10:46 |
Sean Luyk: |
Can you tell us a bit about the history of West Africa and what made it possible for so many different languages to coexist and thrive in the same region?
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| 10:54 |
Tunde Adegbola: |
Close to one third of the 7,000-odd languages in the world are spoken in Africa. And West Africa seems to be an area where a lot of these languages are spoken. Some investigators have recognized up to about 512 various languages spoken in Nigeria. My hunch is that the Niger River [Sound Effect: Water Flowing], which deposits into the Atlantic Ocean in the Niger Delta, is a natural attraction of various peoples in West Africa or in Africa to congregate around and expand out of the Niger Delta, thereby bringing probably various languages that now have to co-exist and walk together. [Sound Effect: Crowd Bustling].
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| 11:50 |
Sean Luyk: |
Nigeria is one of the most multilingual countries in the world, but over half of its languages are in danger of disappearing. Tunde is the founder of Alt-i, the African Languages Technology Initiative. His organization is searching for technological solutions to the language crisis. As he explains, colonialism fundamentally transformed West African languages chiefly through the introduction of written forms of communication.
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| 12:22 |
Tunde Adegbola: |
Most, if not all, West African languages had strong European influence in their writing systems. In languages like Hausa, for example, which is probably the second-widest spoken language in Africa, had long histories of exposure to Arabic literature. So there is a tradition of writing Hausa in Arabic script, popularity referred to as the Adjami script. [Sound Effect: Writing].
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| 12:59 |
Sean Luyk: |
Ajami is an Arabic script for writing African languages and is about 500 years old. So, although there is an assumption that African cultures are purely oral cultures, written Yorùbá has actually existed for quite some time. It is true, however, that Yorùbá literature only really started to take off in the mid 19th century with the arrival of missionaries. [Sound Effect: Church Bells].
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| 13:26 |
Tunde Adegbola: |
The coming of Europeans, particularly European missionaries, who saw a great level of importance in developing a literate people, because they were bringing a religion of the book to a people that were either oral societies or as Walter Ong would put it, a society with a high “oral residue”. So there was this need to develop literacy.
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| 14:05 |
Sean Luyk: |
And so, Yorùbá writing was reinvented once more, this time using the Latin alphabet. But the characters weren’t the only difference. The Yorùbá vocabulary itself was transformed to accommodate new ideas.
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| 14:18 |
Tunde Adegbola: |
I know that effect on the language and other various West African languages, is the fact that Christianity came in with new ideas. Ideas that were not embedded in the culture. So there was a need to develop words for them. And that also had great effect on the languages. The Yorùbá language that I speak, for example, does not take much account of gender. In the language you wouldn’t have such gender pronouns like he and her, uncles and aunties, nieces and nephews. Apart from fathers and mothers, everybody else is pretty the same. But with the advent of Christianity words for a brother in the fellowship, words for sister in the fellowship, some ideas came and was like [Yorùbá phrase] and [Yorùbá phrase] came into the language.
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| 15:35 |
Sean Luyk: |
So, on the one hand, the writing system, the Latin alphabet reinforced Christian colonial ideas. But, on the other hand with the advent of writing also came a new generation of Nigerian authors.
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| 15:56 |
Audio Recording: |
Street Scene, People Speaking]
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| 15:56 |
Sean Luyk: |
These are sounds from Onitsha, port city on the Niger River. Today, Onitsha is most famous for being the home of Nigerian cinema, nicknamed Nollywood.
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| 16:07 |
Audio Recording, Film Clip: |
If we go down, we go down.
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| 16:11 |
Sean Luyk: |
But it’s also the birthplace of Nigerian print culture.
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| 16:15 |
Tunde Adegbola: |
Immediately after the European missionaries developed literacy, there was great enthusiasm in writing and lots of Yorùbá people try to write. And many printing presses were established in Ìbàdàn, the capital of Yorùbáland. And you saw a lot of printing presses rising up in small shacks. It was like a Gutenberg revolution in Yorùbáland at that time. And these also permeated the whole country seeping into other areas producing what was known as the Onitsha market literature.
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| 17:02 |
Sean Luyk: |
[Begin Music: Instrumental] In the 1940s to 1960s, Onitsha was the home of the largest outdoor market in West Africa. Market stalls were packed with books and pamphlets all printed on hand presses. This was a period of intense creativity and of pride in one’s local culture. For the first time Nigerian authors were writing novels in Yorùbá and winning huge acclaim.
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| 17:24 |
Tunde Adegbola: |
But somewhere along the line, [End Music: Instrumental] this excitement in writing in Yorùbá seems to be petering out, and less and less of Yorùbá literature is published these days. People tend to think, they see English as the language of administration, the language of officialdom, the language of education, the language of opportunity. And for that reason, people put lots and lots of efforts into getting their children to speak English, to the detriment of the Yorùbá language.
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| 18:07 |
Sean Luyk: |
[Begin Music: Singing] Speaking Yorùbá, instead of English came with consequences.
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| 18:11 |
Tunde Adegbola: |
I was punished throughout my young age for speaking Yorùbá in school. [End Music: Singing] My good fortune is that my parents were educators and they knew better. My mother taught in a teacher training college and students from the teacher training college would come for teaching practice in our school. My mother would come to supervise them and would speak Yorùbá to me when she met me along the path and the school. And everybody’s expressed surprise that Tunde’s mother who is the teacher of teachers is disobeying the law of not speaking Yorùbá. There was a time in Nigeria when institutions felt English is the way of development, English is the way of modernity, English is the way of opportunities. There was a time that there was a slogan in the educational system and the slogan was “fail in English, fail in all.” So if you took five papers, mathematics, chemistry, biology, physics, and did very well in all this, if you failed in English, then you had to repeat the whole class because you failed in English. And this type of retrogressive thinking continues to pervade the educational system.
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| 19:48 |
Chelsea Miya: |
[Begin Music: Drumming and Singing] Yorùbá and other West African languages are continually evolving. The diaspora has been particularly influential. [End Music: Drumming and Singing].
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| 19:57 |
Titilope Sonuga: |
There’s always been this balancing that I’ve done between the English language and Yorùbá and recognizing that Yorùbá was acceptable in some spaces. Whereas it wasn’t in others.
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| 20:08 |
Chelsea Miya: |
Titilope Sonuga is a spoken word poet and performer based in Edmonton, Alberta. As she explains, her approach to writing and performing poetry is informed by her Nigerian heritage and her interest in the politics of language.
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| 20:25 |
Titilope Sonuga: |
I grew up in Lagos, Nigeria, in a household where we spoke predominantly English. Yorùbá, I would say, is a gift that my grandmother gave me. So my grandma was very particular about us speaking Yorùbá. And even though she spoke English, she always pretended like she couldn’t really understand what you were saying if you tried to speak English with her. So there was a way in which like Yorùbá was like the default language and my grandmother’s house. As a child, I regret to say, we were raised to kind of view our mother tongue, our native languages, as inferior to this other, this English language. Right. So there was a sense in which English was the official language that you spoke at school when you were trying to be proper and in certain spaces, the better your English was the more respected. So Yorùbá became relegated to the space of what you spoke at home behind closed doors or with family, but it was kind of an informal language.
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| 21:28 |
Titilope Sonuga: |
It took years for me to understand that as a kind of shaming [Audio Recording: Street Scene?] Then we moved to Canada, Yorùbá then became this bridge. It was the way in which we could communicate in public spaces without being understood by other people. It kind of became a refuge as well. So, I would say that my relationship to the language, this shuffling between English and mother tongue has been sort of the balance of my life. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to recognize what a gift it was that my grandmother gave me. And what a connection it is to my roots and to who I am. I don’t write or create arts in Yorùbá, but I definitely feel like there’s a sensibility of how the language works that follows me. You know, these proverbs and dual meanings and things like that, that I carry. Even in my writing in English, I think Yorùbá is as much a part of me as anything else. And so it kind of, it comes out in my work. Always.
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| 22:33 |
Audio Recording, Titilope Songua, “My Mother’s Music”: |
My mother sang when I was born, she welcomed me head first into melody. She chanted like a talking drum. She caught Godspell in gospel. And then she named me Titilope. An eternal love song to her creator.
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| 22:51 |
Titilope Sonuga: |
I remember even as a kid, just being fascinated by the instrument and the way that it sounds. I don’t know if you’ve ever watched or listened to it being played. It sounds like a voice. Like that’s why it’s called the talking drum. Is that like, if you’re still and listen, there is a language that is happening there that is very similar to what it sounds like to tell a story, to speak out loud. I think to do it well, to do it beautifully is to connect to this ancient oral tradition that Nigeria is so rich with, that all of Africa really is so rich with. [Music Start: Instrumental] The proverbs, the prose, the sayings, the hidden messages, this drum kind of encompasses all of that. Music has been such a big and important part of my creating life. I don’t know a poem that I’ve written that wasn’t written to something playing in the background somewhere, or a song that I had heard that inspires something.
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| 23:58 |
Audio Recording, Titilope Songua, “This is How We Disappear”: |
This is how we disappear. We fall backwards into our mother’s mouths. Become them. Become the only stories we have ever been told. Stories about women who stay. Women who endure. Women who offer their bodies into the belly of the beast to protect their children. This is how we go missing. We tumble into… [Music End: Instrumental]
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| 24:26 |
Chelsea Miya: |
Can I ask about “This is How We Disappear”? So like a lot of your earlier work, I think it also has a really powerful, sonic or oral quality, but of a really different kind. How does sound or absence of sound factor in this work?
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| 24:43 |
Titilope Sonuga: |
Well, that’s an interesting thing. I remember in an earlier edit of the collection, I had a line in there comparing the disappearance of the Chibok girls to like a tree falling in a forest. You know, if a girl disappears and nobody’s there to hear her, did she actually make a sound? The book is about disappearances. It’s about silences really, and silencing. But it is also about celebration and remaking ourselves, the ways that women do that, the world over. I would say when I started working on the manuscript itself, I was very heavily pregnant and had just had a baby. And a lot of those poems were written in the twilight hours. I remember listening to a lot of gospel and spiritual music. Somebody said recently to me about how the book feels like it has a lot of ghosts in it. And it definitely feels like a bit of a haunting. It’s interesting that you talk about silences and sound because there was a lot of both, there was these quiet moments in the world. There was me revisiting the ghost of these women who had disappeared the world over, but also there was this hum of this spiritual [Music Begins: Instrumental] sort of awakening that was happening for me as a new mother.
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| 26:13 |
Audio Recording, Titilope Songua, “This is How We Disappear”: |
These women who reinvented joy. Who snapped back our broken bones to the rhythm of a survival song, a song about the audacity of living and loving anyway. We became a whole new kind of creature. Something fearless and fierce. Something bold enough to call down even lightning and dare it to touch us. [Audience Cheering].
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| 26:36 |
Titilope Sonuga: |
Performance for me was never an option. It was just like, this is what I know. This is who I am. [Music Ends: Instrumental].,and not just performance to read the poems out loud, but performance that connects to a musicality that is grounded in the talking drum that is grounded in Yorùbá language, and Yorùbá songs, and Yorùbá names and naming. The first poets I knew were these people on the drums singing [unknown word] at weddings. Telling you of your entire lineage, the names and the names and the names of your father’s father, your mother’s mother. These people were my first experience of memorized poetry. They’re people who know, who at a glance can tell you who you are. And they know this stuff [Music Begins: Drumming] in their hearts and minds. They don’t need a page or a paper to tell them.
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| 27:40 |
Chelsea Miya: |
The talking drum is in some ways inherently poetic. This is because of its unique grammar, which creates room for ambiguity. [Music Ends: Drumming].
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| 27:49 |
Kọ́lá Túbọ̀sún: : |
Yorùbá is a tone language, which means that meaning can be derived from just a slight inflection of the vowels.
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| 27:58 |
Chelsea Miya: |
Kọ́lá Túbọ̀sún is a linguist, poet, and cultural activist. [Audio Recording: Engine Revving] He recently worked with Google to create the Nigerian English version of Siri.
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| 28:07 |
Audio Recording, Siri: |
Navigating to Hartfield.
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| 28:11 |
Chelsea Miya: |
But before that, he was a language teacher. He won a Fulbright scholarship to attend grad school at Southern Illinois University in a small town called Edwardsville. While there, he taught Yorùbá to American students and wrote poetry about his experiences. This is a reading of his poem “Being Yorùbá”.
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| 28:33 |
Audio Recording, Oláolúwa Òní, “Being Yorùba”: |
How do you teach a state of being? You don’t. You teach instead tone. Do-Re-Mi. Like music on the tongue.
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| 28:43 |
Chelsea Miya: |
Kọ́lá explains how the talking drum strips away everything except for the tones, which means that the messages sent by the drummers can be interpreted many different ways.
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| 28:54 |
Kọ́lá Túbọ̀sún: |
Yorùbá is a tone language, which means that meaning can be derived from just a slight inflection of the vowel. And tone is realized basically on the pitch level, on the vowel. So when it would like “igba’, is different from “igba” is different from “igba” is different from “igba”. These are different words. You have got “an egg”, you have “200”, you have “time”, you have “Calabash”. All of those things spelled the same way: I-G-B-A. Except for the tone that you put on it when you speak. So it makes Yorùbá very interesting, especially for those who are trying to learn it for the first time. In English, when you say “go”, it’s still go when you say “go” or “go” or “go” the only difference is when it comes at the end of a question. But in Yorùbá, it’s not just the sentence itself that it changes. It changes the character of the word itself. When you’re playing and talking drum it’s about the same.If I say “igba” on the drum, I can make the same sound, “Re. Me.” I mean, Yorùbá tones — Do. Re. Me. is the same three level tones as you have in music. Which makes [Music Begins: Drumming and Singing] the language sound very musical when you speak it. But what is fascinating, really, especially what makes the language more amenable to poetry [Music Ends: Drumming and Singing] and literary expression, is the idea that you’ve got a talking drum, you can’t see the words that is being said. You are playing a drum and all you have is a tone. And the person listening to it has to figure out from just the tone, what kind of words you’re trying to say. If I say “uh-uh” with a drum, I could be saying “igba”, I could be saying “ohwa” I could be saying “ideh”, a number of different things. But when you put that then in a sentence, or in a song, or in tune, then you leave like so many different possibilities that can happen. And in traditional Yorùbá communities, this has either been a cause of conflict, it has caused wars, or a source of entertainment for those who understand it, consternation for those who don’t.
|
| 31:11 |
Chelsea Miya: |
That’s interesting. So the drummer could be praising someone or complimenting them or insulting them, I guess it will depend on the context.
|
| 31:21 |
Kọ́lá Túbọ̀sún: |
Indeed. There is an example, actually, a famous example, in the 60s, I believe, when the radio Nigeria, the Nigerian Broadcasting Service started they were looking for a signature tune to play before the program starts in the morning. And it went like this, “dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-deh-dum”. And it meant, “this is the Nigerian Broadcasting Service.” But that was the first time an English expression was played with a drum. So the people who are listening to the show, in the radio every morning, many of them literate in the drum culture, couldn’t figure out what he was saying, because it was not a recognizable tune and pattern. So they decided to make up their own interpretations for it. Some people said, it’s saying [Yorùbá phrase], which means “when the Yorùbá dies, who is next in line.” Or something like [Yorùbá phrase] like “your child is little by little becoming criminal”. And there were several interpretations people just made up. Some of them pleasant, some of the funny, some of them just plain insulting. And it caused a lot of consternation among the people, especially people who were in charge of the radio, who were from a different culture of upper class elites who didn’t care about or know about the drum culture, or the colonialists who were just there to have a radio that people can use to communicate. So that’s how sometimes just a simple piece of expression can have different interpretations just because you’re not sensitive or familiar with how it’s used in society,
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| 32:56 |
Chelsea Miya: |
As Tunde explains, historically the talking drum has also functioned as a powerful tool of political expression. Because of the ambiguity of the messages, the drummers could use their music to critique leadership and speak truth to power.
|
| 33:12 |
Tunde Adegbola: |
There are lots of narratives around the talking drum. There’s a particular saying, [Yorùbá phrase], “that it is only the drummer that can say for sure what he is using his powerful drum drumstick to see.” There are lots and lots and lots of accounts in history where talking drummers have saved whole communities from unfair leadership, wicked leadership, by naming and shaming negative acts in society to the extent that as such people have had to stop what they were doing, because they could not punish the drummer because they had this facility for plausible deniability. And yet everybody knew that the leadership was being blamed for misbehaving.
|
| 34:12 |
Audio Recording, BBC News: |
Nigeria’s president has called for calm and understanding after protests against police brutality turned violent on Tuesday evening, with soldiers reportedly opening fire on demonstrators in the country’s biggest city, Lagos.
|
| 34:27 |
Chelsea Miya: |
Kọ́lá is well familiar with the role of art and poetry in exposing corruption and facilitating political change. He lives in Lagos, Nigeria, close to where the #EndSAR’s protest took place. [Sound Effect: Crowd Protesting and Chanting] For months, young Nigerians [Sound Effect: Gun Shots] have gathered by the thousands in these city streets to protest against the notoriously corrupt and brutal police force known as the Special Anti-Robbery Squad or SARS.
|
| 34:58 |
Kọ́lá Túbọ̀sún: |
Since September and since, especially this #EndSARS movement, the disappointments and outrage I feel about how the government reacted to the crisis has spurred me in a new direction, and I’ve been writing a couple of forms about that. I feel my despair, my hope, my aspiration. There was one that I wrote in the midst of anger at looking at the flag of the Nigerian nation drenched in blood. It was one of the symbols of the 20th, the outcomes of 20th of October when soldiers went [inaudible]. Nonviolent protestors were gathered at night and opened fire. Somebody bled on the, on the national flag and national flag is green, white, green, otherwise. And the white part was filled with blood and many people have changed their Twitter profile pictures to that image. So I wrote a poem called a “Blood Spangled Banner.” ‘In the white of a flag, the bleeding soul of the moment wept blood near the gaping toll/ Ghosts of the nation’s past haunts in the cries their bodies made in that horrid night, singing the words written to mock their hope/ On the streets, the marauders mark the ground with the cases of the killing rounds /picked up horridly to mask the proof that the promises of vain that leaders make/ that the land is still a butcher’s slab.’
|
| 36:33 |
Chelsea Miya: |
Kọ́lá’s passion for advocating for local languages, including drum languages, is in a way a part of the same struggle. Much like the #endSARS protestors, he’s fighting for Nigeria to find its own voice.
|
| 36:47 |
Kọ́lá Túbọ̀sún: |
People don’t see this kind of literacy as equally as important as writing literacy or reading literacy. But it is a kind of literacy. When people mentioned, for instance, somebody who speaks only Yorùbá or writes in only Yorùbá is an illiterate, we forget that many of those people can actually learn, can actually understand and decode drum patterns, et cetera. So, I’m interested in how this kind of engines, a kind of civilization, survives along with modern ones as a way of moving the culture forward into the future. There are probably fewer people today who know how to read or listen to the drum as the way in the past, but I’m hoping that the medium of technology keeps them relevant and important for the next generation. [Music Begins: Drumming]
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| 37:45 |
Chelsea Miya: |
In part two of this episode, airing next season, we’ll look more closely at how the talking drum functions as not just an art, but as technology.
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| 37:55 |
Peter Olálékan Adédòkun: |
What makes a master drummer? It has to do with your years of experience, the ability to lead, and your impact on other people’s lives and society.
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| 38:06 |
Chelsea Miya: |
We’ll also meet a talking drum master and learn about the art of drum making. [Music Ends: Drumming]
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| 38:23 |
Hannah McGregor: |
[Theme Music] SpokenWeb is a monthly podcast produced by the SpokenWeb team as part of distributing the audio collected from and created using Canadian literary archival recordings found at universities across Canada. Our producers this month are SpokenWeb team members, Chelsea Miya and Sean Luyk of the University of Alberta. Our podcast project manager and supervising producer is Stacey Copeland and our assistant producer and outreach manager is Judee Burr. A big thank you to Titilope Sonuga, Wisdom Agorde, Kọ́lá Túbọ̀sún, and Tunde Adegbola for their generous contributions. And a special thank you to master drummer. Peter Olálékan Adédòkun who provided music for the episode. To find out more about SpokenWeb, visit spoken web.ca and subscribe to the SpokenWeb Podcast on Apple podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you may listen. If you love us, let us know, rate us and leave a comment on Apple podcasts or say hi on our social media @SpokenWebCanada. From all of us at SpokenWeb, be kind to yourself and one another out there. We will see you back here next month for another episode of the SpokenWeb Podcast: stories about how literature sounds.
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