Twice now I’ve sat on a stage. Twice I’ve followed the procession, up the cobbled road and through the thick’ning crowd, past the dusty vendors and the butcher’s crimson slabs; all the while the gendarmes, clad in olive green, beat back the crowd with sticks and whistles loud. I am clearly set apart – my skin, my clothes, my countenance – yet I take my place on the stage with the Antanala, men old in rimmed hats, women strong and beautiful; village leaders, families, kings and vagabonds. We are here to listen to a kabary or a few lines of verse, to watch the fokontanys at their dance or sit in awe of the youth and their raw talents. Twice I’ve felt the beat of the African drum; once in my youth at the potter’s hands; once in the fires of the kiln.