By Muzhinga Kankinda
Childhood was sweet, melodious and delightful. The sun was a ray of hope as it shine upon our foreheads while, we merrily played. The beams on our faces were almost magical as our folk watched us fidget from place to place with no sorrow engraved in our eyes but, a song of laughter heard from a thousand miles.
They remembered how they too, played in the mud and danced to the rhythmic beat of the African drum; ululating as the women whined their waists and twisted their hands as the men wrestled around the fire for monopoly.
As our folk recalled, tears came streaming done their faces, their eyes were weary and their skin stretchy; old age had soon taken over and all they were left with is their voice, a voice of caution for the latter generation. A voice of pain and sorrow for the change that had enveloped their innocent children and grandchildren. Full of love and blessed with the wisdom of the gay hair, they spoke, they speak and they will continue to speak; cautioning the generations of today to be weary of the promises of globalization of culture for some were lost, many are lost and many will be lost in the future as the sound of the African beat becomes fainter and fainter.
Those were the days when people respected culture and thus, respected their values and beliefs. Then; no one could erode the deeply enshrined vines of discipline without knowledge that one day globalization would soon take over and kill the rhythm of the African beat.he old will no longer live and the lost will continue to be in the wilderness; a place where change cannot locate them thus, it is time to bring back the rhythm of Africa. The beat of the drum that sets us free from the imitation.