A friend of mine sent me a video of African drums—deep, layered rhythms that felt ancient. I didn’t think much of it at first, but I decided to play the video while I got in the shower. The steam began to rise, the water hit my skin, and the drums filled the bathroom. It was full. Thick— full of love.
As I stood there washing, one specific rhythm hit differently. The sound broke open my senses. I could see the sound—literally. The vision took on the image of that cascading green and white code from The Matrix, falling from the ancestors to my mind’s eye. It wasn’t just auditory anymore; it was data, some kind of spiritual transmission I couldn’t fully access.
I stepped out of the shower, like something had cracked open. As I sat on the edge of the bed drying off, I heard two words, clear as a bell—Ngoma and Sangoma. They weren’t thoughts. They were spoken inside me. I looked them up. Ngoma was a dance, a spiritual one rooted in African tradition. Sangoma—I knew was a healer or seer. What were these word saying to me?
As I continued to research these words, the drums were still playing. Without realizing it, my feet had started to move on their own. Just a gentle rocking and tapping at first. Like that automatic rhythm your body catches when you are in church and something stirs your spirit. This wasn’t just vibing. My feet were dancing. My body was remembering something my mind had no clue about. I was not in control.
I stood up.
And danced.
Not a choreographed kind of dance. Something ancient moved me—fluid, instinctive. At first, I was alone. Then, without warning, I was no longer there. I was in a circle and there was dirt. People surrounded me, dancing in rhythm, calling in something sacred. Then I was outside the circle, watching. The energy had shifted. The dancers prepared for Ngoma—the kind of dance where they kick their legs high, in ceremony, in offering. I moved toward the center, pulled by something deep, but someone stopped me. “No,” they said. “Not you.” It wasn’t time. Or maybe it wasn’t my role. I remember wondering if it was because I was a woman—or if there was something I hadn’t yet earned or remembered or maybe it was because my feet were still wet and they didn’t want me to fall.
So I stepped back.
The scene changed again. Now I was somewhere else entirely, the dust from the ground covered my feet. There were two lines of women—one on each side of a wide path, like a runway. They were moving in unison, rocking side to side, pushing their hands forward and pulling them back toward their chests, over and over again. Their movements were steady and hypnotic, a kind of invocation. Something was about to happen.
At the end of the path, two men stood facing each other.
It felt like a ritual—a contest, maybe even a rite of passage.
The first man ran down the walkway. When he reached me, he didn’t just approach—he entered me. It was sudden, intrusive. I felt his energy fill my body like a jolt. He held a small dagger, but it didn’t feel like protection—it felt threatening, grimy. His presence inside me felt wrong. Heavy. Dirty. I dropped the dagger instantly, repulsed by it. I didn’t want him in me. I didn’t want that energy. He left defeated.
Then the second man came. He moved with intention, carrying a long, beautiful spear. His body matched his weapon. He ran down the path and when he entered me, it was completely different. His presence was familiar—familial. The spear in my hand felt right. Like it had always been mine. I raised it in the air, and as I did, I heard his voice echo through my being:
“This one is mine. This one is mine.”