Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people of all races, colors, and creeds are crowded into the brightly lit auditorium. Seating room sold out within minutes. Many in the audience were greatful to get standing room admission.
Slowly and without fanfare Louis walks up from
Backstage. He is shrouded in robes, notunlike those of a priest or druid, but textured with African patterns woven in to the fabric.
>Good evening, we are gathered here tonight for a celebration
The crowd listens intently. No one dares interrupt Louis while he is speaking.
>These electric lights, tools of the white man
With a wave of his hand darkness sweeps the theatre, as though he was some sort of stand-up Dumbledore extinguishing the street lights with his deluminator. Not even the stage remains lit.
>Tonight we use our tools the way Mother Nature intended when she first put people onto the great continent of Africa many thousands of years ago.
A soft rhythm of Congo drum beats is heard. A flickering flame appears beside Louis, illuminating not one but many figures on stage. Some with the same outline of robes. Some seemingly completely nude.
>Come with me and cast off the shackles of the white colonial oppressor. Embrace the culture of your ancestors, give in to your tribal instincts.
A few of the white patrons seem to be confused. Others are joining in. Some of the black theatre goers appear to have brought their own personal drums. The fire grows larger every second.
>For too long the races of men have been separated. When they do come together they remain segregated like water and oil. Tonight this shall cease to be. Let the drumbeats be the detergent for the mixture of races. Oil and water shall be one.
The rhythm gets louder, the fPost too long. Click here to view the full text.