Bambula

Mwana ya Ngoma ya Nlongo

Muntu ya kikesa ya ngoma ya nlongo yina ke nata ngoma, mayindu mpi mpeve.

Songa munu kana yo me basika

Disolo

Before words, there was rhythm. Bambula is the child who hears everything. When the drums were taken and the land went silent, he kept the rhythm alive inside him.

Armed with the sacred drum, he walks between the spirit world and the living, among the baobabs and the waterfalls, a leopard crown on his head. He does not fight to destroy. He protects to remember.

Before it was ever used to shame us, Bamboula was ours. It began as a drum, a sacred beat carried out of Central Africa, out of the Congo, in the hands of our ancestors. When they were enslaved, they carried it across the ocean, and on Sunday afternoons in Congo Square, in New Orleans, they played it again. Those who ruled them feared what a drumbeat could awaken and tried to silence it. They failed. The rhythm lives on beneath jazz and the second line.

Later, across another ocean, some tried to shrink the word into an insult thrown at Black children. ISOLELE takes it back. Bambula is not a caricature and not an attraction. He is a child with a name, a history, a culture and a crown. They used this name to shame us. We gave it wings.

The next generation will not inherit our shame. They will inherit the drum. Remember who you are, Negus.