Jumbalaya
by Mark Niedelson
It was a strange day in Paris that humid August morning. There was an incredibly tall, skinny black man with a bongo on his back that exited the airplane. As this man left the plane the skies turned black in a matter of seconds, as if it were directly connected with his presence. There was thunder that roared into the ears of everyone within fifty miles. Then lightning that devastated trees, houses, firemen, and yes, even golfers.
His name was Jumbalaya, and when he passed through the metal detector the entire city went black.
That afternoon, Jumbalaya found his way to a bridge in the center of Paris and started to play his bongo. He played for three days straight only stopping for beer, wine, food, or anything else that was offered to him. His bongo pulsated through the ground, calling for people to come, look, hear, even to drink a beer. They came from all parts of the city not knowing why they were being summoned.
The bridge filled with bongo players joining in this rhythm that had never been heard of by any of the young drummers. His stamina was inhuman, he outlasted them all by far and still continued. Who was this man? Where was he from? And why was he here? He was admired by all. Many of the young drummers were squatters who belonged to different communities. They all begged Jumbalaya to come back with them. He was being asked to be their leader, their tutor and mentor.
When he came they rejoiced. They drank and played, they smoked and played, they laughed and played. He was given the king's quarters of the domain. He was given first tastes of the food, wine and anything else he wanted. All he was expected to do was play. And play he did, uniting all these communities into one. From all over Paris they were filing in to be a part of what was happening. They played and rejoiced for weeks.
Then it started! He started to play a magical tune. It was mesmerizing! They couldn't move. He had put them all into a trance. He had total control over them. That night Jumbalaya informed them of the plan!
They must find black leather shoes!
They willingly brought thousands of shoes back. He didn't say why and wasn't asked. That night he burned them in a barrel drum. He melted them into a black gooey substance. He gathered his young troops and told them that it was time to rejoice. He then brought out a huge bowl of this black goo. They passed around the pipe as Jumbalaya stood and watched. They were unable to speak after this wonderful treat. He told them not to be afraid. Just play. Speak with your hands.
They couldn't speak! They couldn't move except for their hands. They were in some kind of a trance. They had no control. "What is happening?" they thought. The music got louder and louder and deeper and darker. Then, out of nowhere, a small red dot appeared in the floor in the center of the room. It started to grow. It got bigger and wider and there was a tremendous heat that poured out from the hole. The young drummers' eyes became wide and they had no control of their bodies. They just kept playing their drums in a continuous beat that was being led by Jumbalaya. Jumbalaya laughed a thunderous noise and the echo continued in the ears of the scared young drummers - as if it would never stop. They were then summoned one by one to stand up. They stood up one at a time, the others continuously drumming to the beat.
One by one they marched to the red hole. They fell one by one until there were none. Never to be seen again.
It was a strange day in London that humid August morning. There was an incredibly tall, skinny black man with a bongo on his back that exited the airplane. As this man left the plane the skies turned black . . .
