14/04/2026
The dry harmattan wind swept across the plains of Yendi, carrying the scent of parched grass and ancient dust. Musa, a tall man with skin the color of deep mahogany and tribal marks that told the story of his lineage, adjusted the folds of his heavy smock—the batakari.
Musa was a master of the talking drum, the lunga. In his family, the drum was not just an instrument; it was a library. Each squeeze of the leather strings and each strike of the curved stick spoke the names of kings like Naa Gbewaa and told of the migrations from the far north.
One afternoon, a dispute broke out at the village market. Two young men were arguing over a boundary line between their yam farms. Voices rose, and hands moved toward the hilts of their ceremonial knives. The air grew thick with the kind of tension that can break a community
Musa didn't shout.
He didn't intervene with words.
He sat under the shade of a shea tree and began to play. At first, the drum whispered—a low, rhythmic thrumming that mimicked a heartbeat. Then, the pitch rose. He played the "Ancestors' Walk," a rhythm that every Dagomba man felt in his bones. It spoke of unity, of the times their forefathers shared water during the great droughts, and of the strength found in a single, unbroken line.
The two young men stopped. The rhythm was a physical weight, reminding them that they were sons of the same soil. Musa transitioned into a praise song, honoring the families of both men, tracing their roots back to the same brave warriors.
Slowly, the tension ebbed away. The men lowered their voices, looked at the red earth beneath their feet, and eventually shook hands.
Musa stopped playing, the silence that followed feeling more powerful than the noise had been. He tucked the lunga under his arm and began his walk home. He wasn't a chief or a wealthy trader, but in that moment, he was the most important man in the village—the one who remembered that a Dagomba’s true strength lay in his song and his peace.
