Poetry by Oana Maroti
Seagulls fly overhead, and a gentle breeze blows.
On the ground, my phone plays the rhythmic, continuous sound of kora, specifically to tickle the brainwaves of my friends who face racist and dangerous backlash daily.
The instrumental dreamy sound blends with The Prodigy albums, my usual soundtrack when someone close to me is being mistreated or attacked.
The moves shift from lovely ferric instrumentals to electronic rhythm adaptation, and the extra energy disappears through dancing.
None of us is violent.
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