As I am sipping my drink in an outdoor café in the center of Zagreb, I am watching a young man play a large drum. Turned upside down, his hat is lying on the pavement in front of him. About fifty paces away from me, I can see him quite well. In his mid-twenties, he is pretty good at what he does. His hands fly up and down with obvious skill. There is a touch of elegance in his performance, too. High and deep tones alternate all the time. But there is an obvious flaw in all he does: the drum goes quiet every now and then. Large as it happens to be, it also lacks punch. There is no throb. There is hardly any rhythm, either. The young man’s performance is for the eyes only. From where I am sitting, I cannot tell where he comes from, but I would bet that he is from the Mediterranean coast. Northern Mediterranean, I must add. Drums are entirely foreign to him, that is. They are just instruments, like any other. And they are played for fun only. Having watched the young man long enough, I get up from my table. I cannot stand the mismatch between what I see and what I hear any longer. The African in me wins at last.