Title: The Drums Beneath Our Feet
Charleston, South Carolina 1863 & 2023
The land was quiet, but Micah could hear them.
He stood near the ruins of an old plantation, now a historical site, as his classmates wandered through with disinterest. But Micah stayed behind, frozen by a sound only he seemed to hear: soft, rhythmic like drumming beneath the earth.
It was his first time in the South. Born and raised in Chicago, he hadn’t cared much for history, especially the parts about slavery. But his grandmother had insisted he go.
“You come from more than chains, baby,” she said. “You come from kings, warriors, and drummers. Go listen.”
The guide's voice drifted back: This was one of the largest rice plantations in the Lowcountry. Enslaved Africans from Gambia and Sierra Leone brought the skills that made the crop profitable..."
Micah closed his eyes.
Suddenly, the air shifted.
He was no longer in denim jeans and sneakers. He wore coarse cotton. Around him, fields stretched out under a burning sun. His hands were calloused. The drumming was louder now not under the earth, but coming from a clearing.
There, men and women gathered after nightfall, moving in a circle, feet pounding soil that remembered them. One woman sang in a language Micah didn’t know, but somehow understood. It told of survival, of memory, of Africa.One of the men looked at Micah and said, “You’re the one we been waitin’ for.”
The next moment, he was back his classmates now heading to the bus.
But Micah remained still.
The soil beneath his feet wasn’t just ground it was a drum. And it beat with every step of his ancestors.That night, he began writing. Not just a report for class, but the beginning of a story a tribute to those who had come before, who had danced on forbidden ground, and who had survived.
Charleston, South Carolina 1863 & 2023
The land was quiet, but Micah could hear them.
He stood near the ruins of an old plantation, now a historical site, as his classmates wandered through with disinterest. But Micah stayed behind, frozen by a sound only he seemed to hear: soft, rhythmic like drumming beneath the earth.
It was his first time in the South. Born and raised in Chicago, he hadn’t cared much for history, especially the parts about slavery. But his grandmother had insisted he go.
“You come from more than chains, baby,” she said. “You come from kings, warriors, and drummers. Go listen.”
The guide's voice drifted back: This was one of the largest rice plantations in the Lowcountry. Enslaved Africans from Gambia and Sierra Leone brought the skills that made the crop profitable..."
Micah closed his eyes.
Suddenly, the air shifted.
He was no longer in denim jeans and sneakers. He wore coarse cotton. Around him, fields stretched out under a burning sun. His hands were calloused. The drumming was louder now not under the earth, but coming from a clearing.
There, men and women gathered after nightfall, moving in a circle, feet pounding soil that remembered them. One woman sang in a language Micah didn’t know, but somehow understood. It told of survival, of memory, of Africa.One of the men looked at Micah and said, “You’re the one we been waitin’ for.”
The next moment, he was back his classmates now heading to the bus.
But Micah remained still.
The soil beneath his feet wasn’t just ground it was a drum. And it beat with every step of his ancestors.That night, he began writing. Not just a report for class, but the beginning of a story a tribute to those who had come before, who had danced on forbidden ground, and who had survived.
