ABSTRACT
The procession had already started. It meandered through the valleys, shallow waters of the Niger and dizzy heights of Adamawa. Ages passed in a cyclic dance of time. The cradle song soon faded behind the Kilimanjaro as the winds hurried Sir John Hawkins’ mast towards the Caribbean. Clouds gathered, crickets stayed the night and squirrels hid in trees. Then a whip struck a thunderbolt which spun in the sky and exploded. A tear dropped, the procession lingered on ‘til morn. When dawn broke the sun lit the skies again. The breeze had a new chant and a new song bellowed again from the horns. Old instruments held the rhythm. The majestic colours grew brighter. The procession turned into a Netting Hill street….
