Even words can sing: Lessons from my father's tribulations

I was born eight years after publication of Weep Not,Child in 1972. Eight years after that, my father was forced into political exile. Eight years later, I would see him again in Harare, Zimbabwe, coming to get me to join him in the US.

Sitting at the Great Zimbabwe, a ruined city of one of the most significant civilizations in the world, watching a musical performance, it was as if time had never elapsed. We watched the Jerusarema dance, characterized by acrobatic movements, essentially driven by master drummers, hand clapping and whistling.