Simpa

He’s a normal guy in the village, a farmer. Usually he is dirty, covered in old clothes marred by his father’s farms dirt. But when the village dances a boisterous simpa, glowing yellow under the solar powered light in a village untouched by electricity, he is a hero. The children pull him from his home, ten children tugging each of his fingers, more pulling his sweat and dirt stained pants while he laughs and complies. Set up under the yellow light, modernity barely touching, glowing the crowns of their heads a halo hue, the drums begin centuries old rhythms. Light heartbeats in the night. “Salaam Salaam” he sings, and the children, in voices sweet with innocence reply “Salaam Alaikum”