I continue to practice Baba Yetu. The recording I play on repeat emphasizes the alto, leaving everyone else in the background wishing they were important. The Swahili pronunciation confounds me, with a traffic jam of consonants when my mouth aches for a vowel. To make up for it, the lyrics sweep into a half page of oos, not a hard sound in sight, with gradual elevation. Too gradual, apparently, as I find myself in someone else's lane. 

 

But I had begun to believe I was getting close. Then I tried the track that includes all four parts. 

 

The swimming pool near me has something called Adult Swim. For twenty minutes, only grown ups are allowed in the water, while children run to buy Popsicles and come back to kick at the edges with their wet feet. It is easy to glide through the water when there are no waves. But if I do not step out before the whistle blows, forty children plunge with gusto into the deep end, and I can barely stand. 

 

That is how it went with singing. 

 

This is how life works, I admit. Being cordial all by myself with no one annoying within half a mile is not what I might call a victory. The behavior only counts if I can sustain it on the side streets, at work, and with girls whose sewing machines have come unthreaded. 

 

I have time, thankfully. The notes are trying to embed their rhythm and resonance in my aging brain. So is altruism. It remains to be seen, or rather heard, whether I can stay true to the alto even with the ribbons of sopranos, tenors, basses and even instruments trying to lure me off course.