A feverish wisp of wind ran down my spine.
The December harmathan was fiercer now than it was just a few hours ago. There was excitement in the air.
This was supposed to be a holy season, but not out here.
Not under the moon, where the village drummer was oiling the skin stretched out on the ancient hollow wooden cylinder that was used to bring merry to countless generations before I was born.

The village drummer tested his instrument with coarse experienced palms;
The sleepy hills and the rocks that surrounded the market square eagerly amplified the sweet echoes over three rivers.
Ahhh! That is the signal! The darkness is a cloak for certain guilty pleasures - even in this 'holy' season.
Many disasporans had saved many Kobos all through the year for just this one pleasurable night of local rhythm.

The only lantern in the middle, where the village drummer unleashed his cherished skills cast long eerie shadows of lust on the unpainted walls of mud built bungalows;
Now, three beings were displaying signs of dancing under the influence of sweet music, oblivious of the fingers of the cold night;
Within minutes, zombies summoned from the grave of sleep had assembled and a circle formed around the ancient drum.

Three hours far past the decent hour of midnight, the reverberating beat of the village drum chased away the cold, the sleep, and yes - innocence;
Sweat mixed with blood; fear mixed with faith.
Caution became an alien, thanks to the gourd of stale gin making the rounds;
The village drummer had no care, save to please the ancestors and pacify the gods of gyration;
In a few hours, the sun will disperse the senselessness. "Make hay while the moon lasts!" someone shouted from a darkened corner of the square where mortals were huddled up in parliament.

Then, he beat faster, faster, faster . . .