A note in remembrance this morning of my dear djembe:

After almost a year of being valiant in the face of total crap, you, my dearest percussion instrument - made in West Africa, purchased in South Africa - have been laid to rest. I will not get rid of you, but your playing days are over.

Last summer, a flower pot fell on your head, tearing you. The very next day, however, I played you for almost 7 hours straight in a New York City Street Fair. You are one tough bastard, a tribute to African ingenuity. (If you were a Remo, you would have been done that very second.)

So, to all you who knew you, I hope they rejoice in your life. And for those who knew me previous to this year, remember with fondness the day I thought I lost you, skipped my classes, and finally had a teary-eye reunion with you in the living room of Townhouse 12. I think you were crying, too.

You were much more than a thing. You were - you are - Africa to me.

You will be missed.