Just a few light taps of the fingers and a unique, almost
spiritual reverberation emerges.
A Bongo drum, small but beautifully formed, wearing the skin
of some long ago eaten pig whose spirit lives on in the form of echoes in the
air. Skin stretched over a carved wooden frame produced with loving care for a
few pence. More likely thrown together
for the gullible tourist eager to bring home something handmade, adding credence to the story of a day trip from the four star
hotel or the cruise around the med. Given pride of place for a while on the
living room hearth, handed around at dinner parties always twinned with the holiday
photographs discretely used to fan the yawns of guests who have to endure the
regurgitation of their host memories. Perhaps this is a small price to pay for
a free dinner, good company and flowing wine but a poor substitute for
interesting conversation.
Not for me the memory of holidays long past, more of an
image plucked from history capturing my big brother in a snapshot holding the
beloved little Bongo held between his knees. Spiking hair in need of a brush, frayed collar
from student days of poverty, eyes huge bespectacled in national health glasses
which glint the reflection of single light bulb as he attempts to keep up some
semblance of a beat. Alongside stands his tall, lean friend Jim plucking a
makeshift base fashioned from a tea chest, stick and string. Whilst in the shadows
a real musician, Theo, strums his guitar. I adored my brother but I worshipped even
more, Theo with his thick blond hair and deep blue eyes. When you are a thirteen
year old girl the Bongo drum holds the key to memories of a little girl yearning
to be noticed by a boy who only had eyes for his guitar.
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