“Yeu mast find Priestess Matha and get de potion to summon de rain, lest our entire clan perish without eh tress”, says Seer #1. He is bent over double, supported by an old wooden stick that rests securely between his aged, brown fingers. He gazes, eyes pleading, beyond the cliff beneath his feet, into the vibrant orange and yellow sky, a steady and tranquil expanse, interrupted only by the dark silhouette of a sole tree with long branches fanning out. 

“Ehnd remembah, de seed mast be treated before de third 

crow of de jibjib bird”. 

Seer’s accent is as thick as it is undetectable - 

is it Nigerian, South African? Perhaps he is from Mali. 

Warrior #1 bows quickly in acknowledgement of Seer’s instructions, lumbering briskly down the cliff toward the mounds of mud structures, arranged in a circle, forming the habitation of the Zamugi tribe. Each hut is decorated externally with intricate white markings - 

hieroglyphs? Nsibidi script? What does it matter? 

Warrior #1’s eyes searchingly pan the courtyard, hurriedly overlooking the little naked boy milking a baby goat. They look past the women weaving baskets out of straw and glaze over the dance troupe preparing for the tribal showcase slated for half a moon from today. His eyes finally settle on the clan’s arsenal. It is a wall, slightly taller than the huts, strategically positioned to be accessible to the men of the village in the very likely chance that the clan is attacked by a wild animal of some sort. Warrior #1 searches through the array of brass bows, wooden arrows with poisoned heads and iron animal traps that hang on sturdy hooks jutting out of groves in the mud wall. He finally chooses a tube of poisoned arrows, throwing them diagonally across his malnourished torso. He also retrieves a catapult and a handful of stones, which he places carefully in an opening in the cow skin loin cloth that rests below his waist. 

The jibjib bird crows for the first time that day.

Warrior #1 hastily makes his way into his family hut, where his woman has just prepared him lunch. His first meal in a week. “Wieh are yeu going my husband?”, she asks. “Yeu hev thet lewk on ya face thet yeu onle get when gret trahbel is upon ahss”. “Warrior #1 chews intensely on a large piece of cooked bushmeat, which he had killed with his bare hands the day earlier. He lifts his gaze from the clay bowl set before him and says, “Woman! Haw menay tamz hev I told yeu thet thiss err nat de kind of matters for yeu to worry ehbout?”. He glances at their small girl child of about a year old playing with a twig in the corner of their mud hut. The child glares blankly at her father, her soft brown skin flowing into the earthen floor her infant frame rests upon.  “Look”, he admonishes, “she hez wet herself. Why don't you go cleen her ahp?”. He licks the bowl clean and gulps down a calabash of water. 

“I will be beck no later than after de third 

crow of de jibjib bird”. 

Warrior #1 gathers three of the strongest men from each kinship group. “I don’t have mahtch time to explain, baht I hev just been wid Seer and he told me thet iff we do naht get de sacred potion from priestess Matha tonight, we will not see rain for ten moons and awah entire clan will surely perish before the next moon”. The men immediately understand the stakes and quickly select their own weapons from the kinshp arsenal. They make their way out of the village grounds, past the farms and far beyond the ancestral stream. After hours of walking, the men can finally see Priestess Mathah’s sacred cave on the horizon, when suddenly, a lion springs from among the tall, dry grass that surrounds them. The creature leaps determinedly at Warrior #3, sinking his teeth into his left leg, throwing him off his feet. In the distance, 

the jibjib bird lets out a steady hum 

as other men ready their arrows. “Go on widout me”, Warrior #3 implores, as he lies underneath the weight of the audacious beast. Even under the dim moonlight, the scarlet red blood glistens potently as it saturates the dry grass of the savannah. 

Warrior #1 approaches the beast, retrieves his arrow from its shoulder blade and rolls the lifeless animal off Warrior #3. The damage has been done, but he will live. Warrior #1 hangs #3 over his shoulder and holds his now detached leg underneath his right arm. 

Just another day in Africa. 

The men continue their journey to the sacred cave, where Priestess Matha is sitting in the dark, with her back facing the rocky entrance. Her face can’t be seen by mere kinsmen. Warrior #1 bows his head and explains their plight to her through shaky breath. 

“Madenkabuye dilamanpaaaaaa”,

she squeals and a small satchel falls from above into her lap. She picks it up and throws it over head. “Now go!” she hisses. Warrior #5 hobbles over and grabs the satchel, fastening it around the neck of Warrior #1. He turns around and leads the men through the opening in the cave and back to the encampment. 

At the clan habitation, the backdrop of the deep blue night sky is bodied with dark silhouettes of anxious women waiting in the courtyard, children asleep on their backs. Breathing heavily, bloodstained, with #3 hanging around his shoulder, and a decapitated leg under his arm, Warrior #1 limps toward the eastern portion of the courtyard. He hastily yanks the potion-wielding satchel from his neck, desperately emptying its contents over the portion of soil where the grub seed had been planted almost half a moon ago. In seconds, the patter of rain reverberates throughout the land, its cleansing moisture washing away the blood, sweat and tears of the warriors and their women. 

The jibjib bird crows for the third time. 

All is well and the clan will live to survive another day. 

Darkness washes over the screen and bright white letters start to stream out. I read mine in my head as it flashes in Old English script, 

“DIRECTOR, BRAIG CREWER”. 

Applause.

Even though this is exactly as I pictured it, my eyes steer away from the screen and down into my laps. 

I’m bashful, you know? 

The camera pans toward me. I look up and am confronted with a giant LED projection of my face. That’s my que. I clasp my hands tightly together and tilt my head down in a display of humility, a least earnest gesture to the audience to “stop it”. I steadily rise from my seat and gallivant toward the stage.

“When Teddie Gurphy first asked me to direct Rain Dance…”,

I begin speaking into the microphone, 

“I was enthralled, but I must confess, the feeling was accompanied with an equal measure of fear. You see, it is a great deal of responsibility to unravel the huge mystery that is Africa to the world. An even greater feat is doing so in an authentic way that truly displays the essence of her people and gives them a voice”. 

My forehead begins to get sweaty from the heat of the spotlights that shine down on me. I dab the beads of sweat with my handkerchief. 

“I’m sorry”, 

I stutter nervously into the mic, fighting back tears. 

“It’s just that, as I feel the heat from the spotlights in this moment, I’m just taken back to long days of shooting on set in the hot Santa Monica sun”. “I tell ya, when that sun is beating down on you like that, you can’t help but feel that connection, that oneness to our brothers and sisters back in Africa. It applies to all of humanity and I think that is what keeps me going - this comfort that comes from knowing that no matter how far apart we are, at the end of the day. We Are One…and that's all that truly matters. Thank you!”