Greetings and Welcome to the Classical African Review. We will make an attempt here at approaching life and all it involves, from one perspective. Our dialectical journey shall be that of an African way of thinking. Our predecessors are composed of those withing the "Negritude Movement", along with the concurrent *"African Philosophy" (of which we shall go into in great detail, now, later, and throughout).

Reviews of Literary works of interest, Paintings, and relevant Theatrical works and movements, this is the jest of our discussions here.

Our open is an adaptation of the great work written by Keita Fodeba, former Minister of Interior of the Republic of Guinea, apponted (1955) by Guinea's former President, Ahmed Sekou Toure. Fodeba later was invited to be the head of Defense and Security of Guinea, during the country's war to gain independence. After changing several positions within the government, he was arrested for political reasons on March 21, 1965 and was killed in prison. Guinea still mourns Keita Fodeba as the teacher who pioneered a dance company, that connected African culture to the rest of the world and introduced its legacy with style and elegance.

"African Dawn" is a timely story still ... Our African sons continue to fight abroad in wars of no interest to their own ... Humiliated while fighting ... Harrased and hunted along the way and returning home ... Disrespected and colonized at home.

“African Dawn”

Written by Keita Fodeba (Guinea)

(This piece was performed as one of three plays @ The Royal Peacock, Atlanta, Ga. by the Dawa Theatre Group)

(Guitar Music)

Dawn was breaking. The little village, which had danced half the night to the sound of its tom-tom, was waking slowly. Ragged shepherds playing their flutes were leading their flocks down into the valley. The girls of the village with their canaries followed one by one along the winding path that leads to the fountain. In the marabout's courtyard a group of children were softly chanting in chorus some verses from the elders.

(Guitar Music)

Dawn was breaking - Dawn, the fight between night and day. But the night was exhausted and could fight no more, and slowly died. A few rays of the the sun, the forerunners of this victory of the day, still hovered on the horizon, pale amd timid, while the last stars gently glided under the mass of clouds, crimson like the blooming flamboyant flowers.

(Guitar Music)

Dawn was breaking. And down at the end of the vast plain with its purple contours, the silhouette of a bent man tilling the ground couldbe seen, the silhouette of Naman the laborer. Each time he lifted his hoe the frightened birds rose, and flew swiftly away to find the quiet banks of the Djoliba, the great Niger river. The man's gray cotton trousers, soaked by the dew, flapped against the grass on either side. sweating, unresting, always bent over he worked with his hoe; for the seed had to be sown before the next rains came.

(Cora Music)

Dawn was breaking, still breaking. The sparrows circled amongst the leaves announcing the day. On the damp track leading to the plain a child, carrying his little quiver of arrows round him like a bandolier, was running breathless toward Naman. He called out, "Brother Naman, the headman of the village wants you to come to the council tree."

(Cora Music)

The laborer, surprised by such a message so early in the morning, laid down his hoe and walked toward the village which now was shining in the beans of the rising sun. Already the old men of the village were sitting under the tree, looking more solemn than ever. Beside them a man in uniform, a district guard, sat impassively, quietly smoking his pipe.

(Cora Music)

Naman took his place on the sheepskin. The headman's spokeman stood up to announce to the assembly the will of the old men: "The white men have sent a district guard to ask for a man from the village who will go to war in their country. The chief men, after taking counsel together, have decided to send the young man who is the best representative of our race, so that he may go and give profe to to the white men of that courage which has always been a feature of our Manding."

(Guitar Music)

Naman was thus officially marked out, for every evening the village girls praised his great stature and muscular appearance in musical couplets. Gentle Kadia, his young wife, overwhelmed by the news, suddenly ceased grinding corn, put the mortar away under the barn, and without saying a word shut herself into her hut to weep over her misfortune with stifled sobs. For death had taken her first husband; and she could not believe that now the white people had taken Naman from her, Naman who ws the center of all her new-sprung hopes.

(Guitar Music)

The next day, in spite of her tears and lamentations, the full-toned drumming of the war tom-toms accompanied Naman to the village's little harbor whaere he boarded a trawler which was going to the district capital. That night, instead of dancing in the marketplace as they usually did, the village girls came to keep watch in Naman's outer room, and there told tales until morning around a wood fire.

(Guitar Music)

Several months went by without any news of Naman reaching the village. Kadia was so worried that she went to the cunning fetish-worker from the neighboring village. The village elders themselves held a short secret council on the matter, but nothing came of it.

(Cora Music)

At last one day a letter from Naman came to the village, to Kadia's address. She was worried as to what was happening to her husband, and so that night she came, after hours of tiring walking, to the capital of the district, where a translator read the letter to her.

Naman was in North Africa; he was well, and he asked for news of the harvest, of the feastings, the rivers, the dances, the council tree ... in fact, for news of all the village.

(Balafo Music)

That night the old women of the village honored Kadia by allowing her to come to the courtyard of the oldest woman and listen to the talk that went on nightly among them. The headman of the village, happy to have heard news of Naman, gave a great banquet to all the beggars of the neighborhood.

(Balafo Music)

Again several months went by and everyone once more anxious, for nothing was heard of Naman. Kadia was thinking of going again to counsult the fetish-worker when she recieved a second letter. Naman, after passing through Corsica and Italy, was now in Germany and was proud of having been decorated.

(Balafo Music)

But the next time there was only a postcard to say that Naman had been made prisoner by the the Germans. This news weighed heavily on the village. The old men held council and decided that henceforth Naman would be allowed the Douga, that sacred dance of the vultures that no one who has not performed some outstanding feat is allowed to dance, that dance of the Mali emperors of which every step is a stage in the history of the Mali race. Kadia found consolation in the fact that her husband had been raised to the dignity of a hero of his country.

(Guitar Music)

Time went by. A year followed another, and Naman was still in Germany. He did not write any more.

(Guitar Music)

One fine day, the village headman received word from Dakar that Naman would soon be home. The mutter of the tom-toms was at once heard. There was dancing and singing till dawn. The village girls composed new songs for his homecoming, for the old men who were the devotees of the Douga spoke no more about that famous dance of the Manding.

(Guitar Music)

But a month later, Corporal Moussa, a great friend of Naman's wrote a tragic letter to Kadia: "Dawn was breaking. We were at Tiaroye-sur-Mer. In the couse of a widespread dispute between us and our white officers from Dakar, a bullet struck Naman. He lies in the land of Senegal."

(Guitar Music)

Yes; dawn was breaking. The first rays of the sun hardly touched the surface of the sea as they glided its little foamin-flecked waves. Stirred by the breeze, the palm trees gently bent their trunks down toward the ocean, as if saddened by the morning's battle. The crows came in noisy flocks to warn the neighborhood by their cawing of the tragedy that was staining the dawn at Tiaroye with blood. And in the flaming blue sky, just above Naman's body, a huge vulture was hovering heavily. It seemed to say to him "Naman! You have not danced that dance that is named after me. Others will dance it."