From the moment David Brandreth met me at the Calgary airport and stuck out a meaty friendly hand, I knew I was in for a week of fun.

I had been contracted as early as March to perform at a week-long festival of African music, literature, film and visual arts held annually in Calgary which is one of the two major cities in the Alberta province of Canada, a sprawling and rapidly growing city of about 900,000 which has oil as the vehicle of its economy. A Calgary summer is one full of festivals, concerts, culture activities, lots of colour, variety and excitement. It was in this mix that the Afrikadey! Festival was born eleven years ago.

Initially just a music jamboree, it has broadened its scope over the years to include other aspects of African arts. Over the years, support and sponsorship has gradually increased well enough to ensure that big and well-established acts are always on the bill. Unlike many other festivals of its type and remarkably too, Afrikadey! has never suffered a missed year or a delay in its programming. It has always gone on and as scheduled every year - a testament to the devotion , dedication and perseverance of the organisers, the African Festival and Presentation Society of Calgary personified by the festival director for many years, Nigerian Tunde Dawodu and the many white and black Canadians who volunteer each year to make things run smoothly.

On the schedule for Afrikadey! 2002 were a literary symposium, an art exhibition called Colours of Ethiopia, community outreach programmes, an African art and craft market and the usual grand finale, a music concert with big name performers on the last day. Here, have a peep into my Afrikadey! 2002 diary…

Sunday, August 11

Here we go, culture icon bound for new conquests. I hoist my bags and guitar after a near sleepless night of anticipation and ride an early morning taxi to the Toronto Pearson Airport. True to recent news, the pre-boarding search is more thorough. Since the September 11, 2001 disaster in the United States, security has become tighter at all North American airports. To while away the time, I switch into my 'potential terrorist' mode thinking if I had a gun or a bomb where would I hide it. That morbid day-dream gets me through the two-hour delay prior to take off. Two hours of every imaginable excuse from the airline. Ok, this is Canada and they do suffer flight delays too, thanks!

What I remember about the four-hour flight? Maybe 'Superman' playing on the tiny, poor excuse for a TV in front of me. If I was a film critic, I'd give this Hollywood release one out of ten.

I am received at the Calgary airport by grinning, charming, dressed-down David and later Tunde Dawodu, the festival director who rushed up and down trying to find "the other poet", Afua Cooper, a Jamaican-Canadian poet who is on the bill with me. No luck. Afua did not make it and I am Afrikadey!'s sole poet for the festival (Dawodu worries that this may be a bad omen, for we poets are supposed to open the festival in a few hours.)

David drives me to the office of the festival in downtown Calgary where Dawodu officially welcomes and takes me to meet another artiste Kwasi Iruoje, a master drummer who is scheduled to perform solo on his palongo, djembe, bembe and gangan drums at several venues throughout the festival week. We will be working together for the community outreach programme for kids starting on Monday through to Friday and Dawodu feels we should get comfortable with each other. We share a few jokes, then go to the basement of Kwasi's living quarters to rehearse a few of my songs and poems.

A few hours later, hungry and still hot and sticky from my flight, I am rushed to the venue of the opening event of Afrikadey! 2002 labelled 'African Voices Literary Symposium'. Kwasi is on the bill too. We have to get through effectively to the about one hundred poetry and arts enthusiasts gathered inside the Glenbow Museum Hall.

It is a mixed crowd made of mainly middle-aged white people. I feel comfortable as I do my sound check with my favourite composition,"Owuro lojo", a very apt song to declare the festival open. From the resulting thunderous applause I know it will be our day. I waste no time in plunging straight into my poetry, five pieces all in a row, and this beautiful audience just laps it all up.

I take a rest and Kwasi's explosive and passionate drumming takes over. Moving from one drum to another or just playing several in a combination, he is a delight to behold. He electrifies the hall and gets the audience ready to dance by the end of his last number. It is a strange sight - one man working on several drums and all these people losing themselves in the raw, naked rhythm and dancing with no care in the world. It is a sight I am to encounter throughout the week whenever and wherever Kwasi plays.

At the request of the audience, I come again and perform one more poem, then Kwasi and I close the show together with one of my new (and lengthier) pieces. It works perfectly and we take our deserved bows.

This opening show will eventually rank as one of the highpoints of this year's festival and coming right at the beginning, it raises hopes of a great week ahead. Tunde Dawodu is oozing excitement and appreciation, "You guys did a terrific job out there. I had expected something great but not…not this fantastic!"

He is not alone. Everyone takes a chance to shake our hands and comments flow…

"You're so well-grounded, so spiritually sound."

"Your view of the world and human existence and relationship is refreshing…"

"Your English is so good…how long have you been in Canada? You must have schooled here."

No ma'am, I came to Canada only last year and all the formal schooling I had was in Nigeria…

"Where, Africa…?"

Yes ma'am, Africa is a continent like your America, made up of many countries. Nigeria is Africa's most populous country, a land of diverse cultures where music and art is just a natural way of life.

A well-endowed black lady walks up to me and introduces herself as Genevieve Balogun.

"Are you Nigerian?", I ask.

"No"

"Your husband is Nigerian"

"How do you know?"

"Your name ma'am, your last name"

Genevieve is a much decorated educationist who also produces a multicultural newsletter. She requests for a copy of the last piece I performed titled 'Where rivers sing a song' which deals with the religion of the Yorubas.

"I'd love to publish it in the next edition of our newsletter. We are a pretentious society in North America, we like to think we are open minded and cosmopolitan but we really have little tolerance for other religions especially the ones we don't understand. I think by becoming more familiar with the beliefs of other people, we will come to appreciate that we are all the same…"

I am thankful that the lengthy poem I had painstakingly and painfully put together under the most harrowing and restrictive conditions could have had such a profound effect on the audience. A full hour after the close of the show, most of the audience is still hanging around asking questions or just taking pictures with Kwasi and I.

Much later, David drives up and introduces me to his lovely and friendly girlfriend Debbie. Together we go to a supposedly African restaurant. "It's actually a Tanzanian joint," explains Debbie. The only thing African about the place as I can see is the 'Tusk' beer imported from Kenya and the African barbequed chicken proudly and boldly promoted on the menu card. I was wise enough not to try it despite all the urging by my hosts.

It's been a long day and as I get ready for bed late at night, my mind roves over it with a sense of achievement-in our own little way, Kwasi and I brought a taste of Africa to a room full of North Americans. I am more convinced today that one of the major ways to reverse the negative impression of Africa in Western minds is by showing the real Africa of beauty and love in our music and art.

Many African artists, in a hurry to satisfy the American stereotype of Africa and make a head way in the crowded North American market, sacrifice the real thing for the mediocrity of sensationalism that brings in the dollars quicker. African writers, poets and musicians must realize that we have a task to present a new Africa, the real Africa where good neighbourliness and the fear of God reigns. Where the rhetorics of African thinkers, philosophers and politics have failed, art will succeed. On this note, I submit to an overpowering wave of fatigue and drift off to sleep…

Monday, August 12

I am woken up early to meet up with a TV interview appointment. Afrikadey! is billed to feature on a cable TV station's breakfast show and Kwasi and I are still the only artistes in town to carry the burden. Kwasi blasts away at his drums, I sing my songs and twang my unconventional guitar, belting out the message clear and loud: Come beloved Calgarians, Africa calls, come feel the beat!

Also on song is Alemayehu Argaw, a much travelled Ethiopian painter who presents lovely breathtaking paintings under the theme 'Colours of Ethiopia'. In halting English, Alemayehu chats away with the press crew and later joins Kwasi, Dawodu and I in sipping (and pretending to enjoy) a fresh brew of Ethiopian coffee as part of a special coffee ceremony for the cameras. While the TV crew rounds off, I befriend the youthful owner of the cafe, Yohanis. Despite having lived in Canada for seven years (and in Italy several years before that) he still hungers for the familiar streets, smells and sounds of Ethiopia where he grew up, "You know Ethiopia is the original home of coffee, it was first grown on our land and now that it has become the drink of the world, everyone seems to have forgotten that bit of history…sometimes when traffic is low here, I sit down and look out through the windows and think of home…"

"Have you never gone back?". I prompt.

"Oh, I did, some time ago…but everything's changed. Africa changes so fast, while you are out here thinking you are priviledged, your contemporaries back home are going through amazing growth and positive changes…and no matter how long you live here it doesn't really feel like home especially in the long cold months…"

I have lived in Canada only one year but I know where he is coming from. David soon comes in to drag me out to our next engagement, playing out in the open at the pulsating heart of downtown Calgary, Stephen avenue where busy execs, the white collar types and everyone who breathes in the downtown core seems to come for a lunch break (the show is aptly called the 'brown bag lunch series').

Kwasi is first to go on accompanied by his bosom friend, Willie, who also happens to be a certified chef when he is not playing drums. I ride on the excitement created by the duo to do a set of three poems in my aged flowing agbada .We round off with a jam featuring more people on the drums with and on the riotous rhythm created I chanted my ode to Yoruba traditional religion. Afterwards, we mingle with the audience and give some press interviews. I find myself facing a large matronly white lady.

"I am from the Red Cross of Canada, we were hoping you would announce our 'Help Southern Africa" project during your performance".

Without missing a beat I ask, "And how do you propose to do this?"

"There is famine all over southern Africa, lots of people are dying of hunger and we need to help…"

"I mean no disrespect, ma'am but I don't think Africa needs any more hand-outs and donations, what she needs is a fair chance to evolve into the land of promise she is and less of the destructive interference from the western powers".

She smiles kindly at me. Leaves me feeling foolish and wondering if they are trained to do that…

Kwasi and I get together after the show and spend some time to know each other better. I tell my story in about five minutes but his takes the better part of two hours. When you are fifty I guess you do have a lot to tell. Not that Kwasi looks his age - on first contact and gauging from his exuberance and zest for life, you would imagine him to be in his thirties. But Kwasi has been there, done that…including fathering three beautiful kids with three different woman and spending the last twenty of his years traversing the length and breadth of Canada spreading his message of African culture and brotherhood.

"I've been around man. In the early days I formed my first group with some friends. Known as the Ogedengbe drummers, we made so much money on our first tour but the others broke off to pursue different dreams. I kept on and today I can boast of having done all you can do as an African traditional drummer in North America."

Kwasi's full names are Boluwaji Kwasi Iruoje, he hails from Sobe near Owo town and his brother is showbiz personality Odion Iruoje. "I've always been a tough one, always doing things my way. I go home regularly to pick up new drums and some other things for my trade. Each time I go, I meet with the same resistance, people want to change me, my lifestyle. I am comfortable with what I have achieved here in two decades. I have paid my dues to my people and culture. In a few more years I will return home semi-permanently and spend more time close to the ocean…"

Kwasi is no stranger to the ocean, he lives in the coastal city of Vancouver where he also runs an art shop and gives drum workshops. One notable feature of his long career is his art-in-motion vehicle which he fondly calls 'the beast'. Painted in all shades of colours and designs, the beast presents a curious and enticing sight. "I acquired this modified 1960 Plymouth Savoy about twenty years ago from a former hippie. The car is forty years old but it still runs well. In fact I travelled the ten hours from my Vancouver base to Calgary in it".

He gives me a peep into the interior and I come to realize this is more than just a vehicle, it has enough room to take all his drums (which number up to fifteen), his costumes, a little kitchen and washbasin as well as a toilet bowl. "In years past I would drive from town to town for months basically living in this car-truck. When I arrive in a town, I go to a popular park, set up my gear and start playing, within minutes a crowd will gather…"

We bring our meeting of minds to a close with a shared drink then Kwasi brings out some drums. He starts playing slowly. Caught in the moment's magic, I join in thumping and singing with abandon like a soul possessed. By the time David comes to take me to dinner, my hands are all sore. Dinner will be a Chinese affair with David and his delectable, witty woman but first we stop at his place to pick up Debbie. Just a few minutes into our drive to the restaurant the weather which had been so friendly all day suddenly turned drizzly and chilly making Debbie chuckle, "Welcome to Calgary, Segun. We have a saying here, if you think you don't like Calgary weather just wait another five minutes…"

We are through dinner in record time and return to David's to go through his impressive collection of African music. From Manu Dibango to Franco to Yoruba Diaspora (Cuba/Brazil) Orisa music, he seems to have it all covered. I tell him there is only one thing missing: Fela. David appears oblivious of the name or that of any other major Nigerian musician except King Sunny Ade. He is not alone, it often appears as if Nigeria exists in the mind of the average Canadian (if it exists at all) as a country of sit-tight military leaders, Christian-Muslim tension and violence and people who bury adulterous women up to their necks in the earth and stone them to death. Mention Senegalese or Zairean musicians (Youssou N'dour, Papa Wemba…) and faces light up. Try out I.K.Dairo and you meet a blank wall. Fela is quite well known in Montreal (French speaking Canada) but mention of him is often in relation to new, pretentious afrobeat releases by Canadian or American bands.

The same scenario plays out with literature. As a member of the League of Canadian Poets, I am moving in quality circles but I often fetch a blank when I refer to our literary heroes. Once in a while someone remembers Soyinka's Nobel prize but it's mostly a hazy memory. This, I guess, may also be because of the undecided state of Canadian literature itself. In all aspects of their lives, Canadians are often caught between being culturally British or American or even French. With so much to choose from, they often decide to just remain Canadian which is a state of being that is hard to define.

At midnight, Dawodu and Kwasi drive up to David's pad and convince me to come with them to a raving reggae/calypso club where we meet the kids of both men also having a good time with their friends. "Imagine", sighes Kwasi, "Life is such a strange thing, just across our table, our own kids hanging out in the same club with us…kids grow up so fast and you are still in the same place…".

We sit there just sipping our drinks and enjoying the music and the room's ambience. A couple of hours into the fun, when a drunken white girl careens into me and falls flat on the floor, I know it is time to go.

Tuesday, August 13

Kwasi and I begin our community outreach programme. This basically involves going with all our stuff to meet vacationing kids in their schools and day camps. The first performance begins at 10 am at the Thorncliffe Boys and Girls Club. The excited kids run up from their playground and, because it is such a sunny, glorious day, we choose to stay out in the open under a large tree in order to achieve a typical African story-telling setting. The kids, numbering up to fifty join in all the singing and dancing. Kwasi opens up with his intoxicating drumming and I compliment him on the agogo, shekere or the bembe drum. Later, I tell the kids one of the stories of my childhood complete with a song they join in with fervour. We give them time to ask questions which are mainly about the drums and our dresses and language. As we pack up, a bespectacled white man of average build shyly calls my attention "Hi I am Paul, I heard about your performance at the Glenbow on Sunday then I tried to catch you at Strephen avenue yesterday but got there late. Today I took time off work to come here but you chose not to do a poem though I must say I enjoyed the story…"

I apologise and ask him to try and be with us tomorrow morning. We move to another school and go through the same motions. The kids with ages ranging from three to ten years have a narrow attention span. We keep things very tight, my story is short and Kwasi's routine is compact.

In the evening, I join Kwasi as he leads a drum jam session which is just thirty white adults flailing away at their djembe drums and changing rhythm at the cue of the drum master, a very beautiful event to behold and be part of. These djembe drums which are of Senegalese origin are very popular in Canada and in typical North American fashion, rather than import them from Africa, they now make them in Canada. In my wandering all over this country I have seen all kinds of African music instruments including shekere and Yoruba gangan made with imitation, synthetic materials. My thoughts are that these culture items which were developed by our ancestors should earn us good foreign exchange today but either due to our own lack of desire or focus or because these North American businessmen just like to do what they do best (take an item or idea from us, improve it and then sell it for huge profits in their highly consumption-driven markets), we end up empty-handed.

Kwasi's opinion is strong on this, "Years past I used to derive joy from teaching white adults my drumming and drum building and repair techniques which took me so many years to develop but once they know one percent of what you know, they go ahead and set up their own workshops, not just taking the business from you because their people are more comfortable with them but also adulterating the art because they do not know enough. With kids, it's a different thing, you have the satisfaction that you are bringing a bit of the real, beautiful Africa to kids who otherwise would only be taught about a dark continent of poverty, disease and violence."

We round off the day with an African film titled Karmen Gai (shot in Senegal). Lots of strong sexual undertone but poor editing. Still the quality of production is worthy of the extended applause the film gets.

Wednesday, August 14

With the festival moving to the elaborate music concert phase and new artistes arriving by the day, David's trips to the airport become more frequent. So I get a new volunteer driver, Micki, a pretty, highly opinionated white lady. Even though I have grown fond of David, I am glad for the change.

We do two schools again today. The first is a group of children of new immigrants finding it difficult to adapt to life in Canada. The partnership between Kwasi and I works perfectly, we get the kids to dance and play some music with us using agogo and sticks. Question time and one kid shocks us, "Why is Africa called the third world?"

It takes three flustered adults to lay that to rest and yet somewhere in that kid's eyes I can still see a hint of confusion.

I notice a familiar face at the back of the hall. It is Paul and I have disappointed him again. He shrugs it off, "Today's story was even sweeter and I really enjoyed all the singing and dancing. I guess I'll just have to get your poetry CD to experience your poetry…" I feel bad to my gut. Sometimes you meet people like this who are just dying to have a piece of your creative output at any price. I wish I can promise Paul a special performance but the programme is so tight…

Micki, my new driver and friend takes me to her mum's place for a late breakfast. Her mother Giselle, a retired nurse is so full of good humour and life, she gives me a warm welcome like she's known me all her life. Micky tells her about the kid and her third world question. Giselle finds it very amusing, "Poor kid, probably thinking Africa is on another planet and you guys must have travelled in a space ship to get here…in my days as a child, things were even worse, all we knew about Africa were the animals…"

On the way to our next engagement, Micki becomes Michelle Honkanen, a Phd student at York University in Toronto. She is also a strict vegetarian, a lover of African music and an astute scholar of things spiritual. We connect on some issues including non-materialism, environmental protection and the brotherhood and equality of humanity. She is addicted to hiking and asks me to join her later in the day to walk up a reserve called Nose Hill.

Our second date for the day goes as perfect as can be prompting a gush from Dawodu, "Perhaps you and Kwasi should form a team playing poetry, music and drums all over North America".

Kwasi has a drum workshop for kids starting at 8pm and invites me to come along but I choose to take Micki up on her invitation. First, we go to Giselle's place to pick up some gear then head out for Nose Hill Park. She leads the way up the hills, we climb and descend several peaks in the next three hours and spend a further two hours talking of this and that at a serene spot as the day grew dark. At 12 am we decide to leave and lose our way several times before finding the car park. We are both very hungry so we share a Chinese food pack.

Micki's time with me is almost up. She is going cross-country hiking with her father tomorrow and I will be given a new driver. I will miss her.

Thursday, August 15

We do our biggest school today. Five hunded-plus kids in a school gym all gorgeously dressed for the first day of school. Glenda McLeod, a blonde energy pack and the school's music teacher leads the way with a song rendered in corrupted Yoruba backed by five of her white female colleagues on drums. We go through our usual stories and songs and get 100 percent audience participation. The hall reverberates with African music (It's funny how North Americans are trying to bring Africa into the classroom while educationists in many parts of Africa are trying to keep it away). You can feel the overwhelming enthusiasm and excitement among both teachers and students as we do our job and everything really goes well, far beyond our expectations. We are presented the school pin as a token of appreciation and get to leave our signatures on the wall of the school library.

Glenda sees us off with effusive thanks and then, "You have touched more lives here than you can imagine, our single female teachers are asking if you guys are also single…"

Kwasi and I exchange glances of fulfillment.

This evening marks the commencement of the other and more visible aspect of the festival, the music concerts. Mona Mingole, a Camerounian powerhouse resident of Montreal gives an electrifying performance at a theme bar and had everyone dancing for hours. Except me, I guess, until Glenda, our friend from the school (and as I am to find out later, also one of the organizers of the festival) came at me with a dazzling smile. I show her a few fancy dance steps and then the spirit catches on and I loosen up. Mona has that effect on you, she taunts her audience, dares you not to get into the groove and seems on top of her act and in control. It's a long night that ends in hot sweaty hugs and hearty laughter.

Friday, August 16

It's the last day of the literary/art portion of Afrikadey! 2002. We round off our road show in a fitting finale, performing for five kids in a small but well furnished and appropriately decorated kiddies playroom. This is, by far, the smallest audience we have had to face and rather than feel depressed, we are happy for the opportunity to take the kids on - one on one. We try out all the things we couldn't do with the other kids. I even get to dance in a circle with the kids. It may not qualify as our most perfect date but it is the most enjoyable. It is a great feeling to be able to throw away all your pretentions and liberate the little child within. Working with children always leaves me feeling like a reborn individual. It has been six days of a hectic schedule but nothing can take the place of this sensation of achievement. There is a little deficiency in North American education. Part of that gap is slowly being filled in the minds of the kids and adults we have met over the week.

The evening comes alive with another concert headlined by South Africa's Lorraine Klassen. I spend a quiet night in my hotel room.

Saturday, August 17

Thinking my job at Afrikadey! 2002 is over, I pack my cameras and head for Prince's Island Park where the grand finale of the festival opens at 10am and runs all day featuring, amongst others, Ethiopia's Aster Aweke, Paris-based Zairean superstar, Diblo Dibala and Angelique Kidjo.

I join the thousands of festival addicts enjoying a clean bright day, listening to good African music, ducking from one food tent to another, tasting all kinds of cuisine, Carribean to Continental or just picking up art pieces at the art and craft tents. I bump into several friends and fans I made during the week especially many of those who had watched me at the Glenbow museum almost a week ago. And yes, my ardent fan, Paul, is there too and he has brought his wife and daughter to meet an African poet whose work he hasn't even heard. A man with such blind faith!

I spend some time with music teacher, Glenda who thinks the world of Africa and her cultures, "I just love everything African…I wish to sing your songs just like you and I try to play the drums and dance like a real African".

"So what do you think of the community outreach programme?" I ask as I capture her lovely animated face on my camcorder.

"Afrikadey! Has always been mainly about music but this year's effort to reach school kids with poetry, stories and songs has made a great impression and we should do more of this in the future" Then she goes ahead and, sticking out her ample chest proudly lunges into her corrupted Yoruba song, "E kaabo alaafia, Ase, Ase".

And she does not even know what it all means "Well, I saw it in my music notation book and I have been singing it for long", she says.

Tunde Dawodu cuts short my fun with an invitation to go on stage and co-MC the unfolding concert which turns out to be a fortunate move because it leads me to leggy, graceful and attractive Emma Blacker, the MC who is originally from Ghana and possesses the kind of voice that makes you want to sit down and listen to her talk for hours. We connect and, beyond the electrifying performances, she becomes my story of the day. The concert is brought to a shattering climax by Angelique Kidjo whose stagecraft is a statement in perfection. Afrikadey! still has one more event to go, the night party to end it all, where reggae giants Third World and Dibblo Dibala are billed to perform.

Due to a logistic mix up, the two acts show up late and Beautiful Nubia (my alter ego) is called up to do an impromptu acoustic session of eight songs. The scheduled artistes eventually arrive and Diblo takes over. I catch up with Glenda. She does everything to make me feel comfortable and, just as I am beginning to think here is my date for the evening, her husband walks up and introduces himself (or maybe she introduces him) Anyway, he keeps barging in anytime I am alone with his wife which starts to unnerve me. Luckily, my MC friend Emma arrives soon. We get together and she introduces her white friend, Katherine, a handsome lady with a transparent, shy smile.

Diblo is heating up the hall with his soukous and his half-naked girls are thrusting their ample hips at everyone and daring men to come on stage and do an erotic no - holds -barred dance with them.

I want to dance with Emma. Emma urges me to dance with her friend. In this tug of war, the set changes and Third World's searing rhythms itch my feet .I agree to lead this stiff white girl to the floor. I tell a joke, she laughs, I hold her close and tell her to forget everyone else, close her eyes and let the music move her. She complies meekly. We dance, we drift off into our own little island. The music stops but we are still moving. I open my eyes and look into Katherine's animated face, she is smiling. I smile too. I feel a connection, I have just found another friend. This is the summary of my one week in Calgary: connecting with people and sharing with them my love for my continent and culture.

Sunday, August 18

My departure date, but I still have some time with Dawodu who tells of how Afrikadey! evolved, "It was after we had handled this successful show for Fela, I felt that if we could accomplish a huge undertaking like Fela then we might as well start a festival which was badly needed anyway because Africa is so poorly represented and understood here"

On how artistes are selected for the festival he says, "We try to bring artistes representing all shades of African culture from as many parts of Africa as possible. We want only artistes who reflect Africa positively in their music and message, no R&B or pop, the North American audience is tired of that, when they come to our festival, they want to see and hear Africa."

Time up. I have only one hour to make my flight back to Toronto. I think there is a lot to be said for Afrikadey! 2002. It is hard for me to disregard the strong impressions made on me by white Canadians I met who clearly and seemingly sincerely wish to know more about the good aspects of African life. Born and raised in a mass-hysteric, collective-paranoiac society of panic and hypocrisy which teaches its kids only about itself and paints other cultures poorly (if at all), many of these people have come to see that there is more to Africa than what is displayed daily on their TV as a nation of beggars, corrupt, evil leaders and warring idiots. They have come to see that, beyond the erotic waist-wiggling and the passionate drumming, there is a soul, a spirituality and a heightened awareness of the universe and man's special place in it, possessed by Africans.

They are the memory I take away with me, these pale-skinned children of the Almighty flailing away at foreign drums, dancing slightly off-beat to the pulsating rhythm of an ageless, oft misrepresented continent. In Calgary, for at least one week, Africa became a desirable treasure house next door.

Greying Dawodu gets me to the airport just on time. Waiting at the lobby is my friend David with a forlorn look on his face "It was good meeting and knowing you man, gonna miss you " he says.

I'll miss you too, brother. But I have to run now, they say I am the only passenger yet to board and they won't wait any longer. I am not Michael Jackson you know…