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wooden gong. Erelu was not slender, but she was not fat either. She looked muscular,
almost masculine in form. Her head seemed rather small for her massive chest, but
the most prominent feature is her neck. As she chanted poetry, her neck swelled like a
bullfrog’s, and large veins and arteries bulged out like roots all over the neck. She did
not make a pretty picture. But this was partly why her voice sounded especially pleasant,
because she had the most beautiful voice given to any mortal for chanting poetry. This
explained why she did not use much music, because music would only reduce from the
power of her beautiful voice. Her voice was too sweet for music. The gong beater was
more of a decoration than a performer. She hardly touched the gong throughout Erelu’s
performance, although she also served as a voice accompaniment, sometimes repeating
what Erelu had already said, like a deeper echo of Erelu’s voice. When she actually struck
the gong, it was quickly, roughly and dramatically, in-between Erelu’s chants.
Erelu’s voice, when she started chanting, was a thin and sugary sound that
sweetened the air so seductively, so sharply and so intensely that the listener was
instantly struck and held captive until the sound stopped. The energy behind the voice
was compelling from the first sound to the very last. Standing immobile like one of the
volcanic Igbimo rocks, with her eyes tightly shut, she sonorously began chanting her
festival poetry, almost oblivious of the audience in her carefree mode of recital:
In a line
We filed
Like sugar ants
Bearing the weight
Of our bondage
With vigilant limbs.
We are the survivors
Of a river that ran dry