 Mae gennym yn y gweithio. Mae'n gweithio i'r isgwyr yn y Gweithwyr. Mae'r gweithwyr yn Tansania, yn y gweithio'r gweithwyr. Zanzibar. Mae'r gweithwyr yn y drwm yn y bros. Mae'n gweithwyr i'r gweithwyr cyngor yn y gweithwyr. Mae'n gweithwyr i'r gweithwyr, gyda ffegwys. Mae'r gweithwyr i'r gweithwyr i'r gweithwyr. Mae'r gweithwyr yn ond chi therefodd. Mae'r gweithwyr i'r gweithwyr i'r drwm. Rhywbeth. Gweithwyr yn wirt. Mae'r sabeun cyfrwyr gweithwyr. Mae'n gwirio'r llant wedi'u adnodd aveig. Mae'r gwirio'r llant yn y gweithwyr. Rhywbeth, mae'n llant, ddech yn los. A'r lle'. Mae'r gweithwyr yn gweithwyr. Mae'r gweithwyr wedi'r gweithwyr. It was time to do business, like she was going to work. This is Be Kydde, virtuosa o Ftarab, legend of Onyago. Rockstar, drummer, singer of Zanzibar. Woman who at 95 has walked more miles than most of us have driven. Claimed a lineage of music rooted in the lives of the powerless, stories unfurled in language of street and market, Poetry buried in the bodies of women. I have never seen a woman ride a drum before. Like a goddess rides a tiger like creation rides the cosmos. I have never seen a woman ride a drum like this. I have never seen an artist male or female anywhere across the world. Own her instrument like it grew out of her belly, like it was welded to her thighs. Then there were the dancers. The dancers moved lazily, dropped their cell phones, shook out their kangas, gold at their ears, their necks, their wrists, gold gleamed in their mouths. The dancers slipped into motion as a bodgya slips into hot oil turns and rises to the surface, starts to sizzle. Now the dancers work their hips with a precision of balance, control, a potency of strength of muscle isolation, olympic gymnasts would envy. They thrust their succulent buttocks out with democratic large S, tease the old woman in the black buoy buoy, taunt the white boy, dreadlocked tourist who feins coolness behind his wrapper and sunglasses, while I watch his neck turn scarlet, drip with sweat. The dancers moved their hips for the waitresses at Africa House Hotel, caged in the most godawful, ugly, cheap, confining black skirts, white shirts to serve drinks to tourists in shorts and bikinis, because heaven forbid those who serve should ever feel breeze on their skins. Heaven forbid those who serve should move their hips and torso freely in clothes that flow in colours that hum. We might forget they are servants, we might see them. The dancers swivel their hips for the women those waitresses serve, waxy pale bikini clad tourists at Serena's poolside, women who check their bodies daily for criminal fat, for outlawed abundance of flesh, women of the tragic sisterhood of liposuction, surgical alteration, silent epidemic of anorexia deaths, women taught that beauty equals self-annihilation. These women who circle Bikidude as planets orbit the sun, circle-like temple snakes, sinuous panthers, the source where sound begins, they are shaking the bounty of women's bodies back into the world. Their hips and butts are saying yes. Yes to largeness that does not apologise. Yes to knowledge, power that do not disguise themselves. Yes to pleasure, claimed and vested in our mortal, beautiful bodies. I will never fear aging again, because now I have heard Bikidude belt out at 95 without a mic to back-hostained waves of sound sandpaper down to coconut fibre stronger than cables of steel. I have felt the power of this woman's neck, her shoulder muscles, surged thunder down arm to hand to drum, generate more power than 20 Lady Gaga's 50 Mick Jaggers. Take us back to the centre of fertile creation, where sound begins. I believe in Bikidude the way I don't believe in God. But if God were a 95-year-old Ebony Black Swahili woman with a mouth full of broken and missing teeth, a kigiti at her defiant all-knowing lips, a belfu cwmi note fflapping out of her neckline, hands veined like banyan trees, a drum between her legs. If God channeled irony, lust, contradiction, heartbreak, imperfection, if God flaunted her struggles like a velvet cape, rearranged the atoms of the world with the rhythm of her gut, then maybe I would believe in that God, that God who is only a name for the genius in all of us that makes us our own saviour and prophet, our own divinity. I would call the faithful to prayer, Bomba Kidude, Kidude Safi, and they would holler back, Safi, they would holler back, Safi, they would holler back, Safi, and we would all be God. Thank you.