In the countryside some 30 miles outside Dakar, Senegal’s bustling capital, melodic twangs rise up the white walls of Keur Moussa monastery. They slip out through the latticework near the roof – lyrical melodies filled out by warm bass notes. 

Koras – the harplike instruments the monks are playing inside – have been used across centuries, by everyone from West Africa’s pre-colonial singing historians to modern jazz and rock groups today. 

But the kora was little known in Senegal outside of the minority Mandinka ethnic group before the monks of Keur Moussa Abbey started using it. In the 1960s, they embraced the instrument, morphing their Gregorian chants into songlike prayers accompanied by the kora.

The kora fundamentally changed the monks’ worship. But the monks also transformed the kora, modernizing its tuning pegs and spreading its international popularity.

“It was work – it didn’t just happen,” says Brother Marie Firmin Wade, who builds koras at the monastery workshop.

Congregant Hélène Ngom, walking out of a recent Sunday mass, says, “It’s an instrument that when you listen to it, it takes you. When I listen to the kora, I rise, divinely. It brings me closer to God.”

Morning sun filters into the monastery church as the melodic twang of two harplike instruments – known as koras – fills the air, combining with the voices of two dozen singing monks. The music rises up the white walls and out through the latticework near the roof – lyrical, looping melodies filled out by warm bass notes.

The kora has been used across centuries by everyone from West Africa’s pre-colonial singing historians to modern jazz and rock groups today. 

But the kora was little known in Senegal outside of the minority Mandinka ethnic group before the monks of Keur Moussa Abbey started using it. In the 1960s, when the Roman Catholic Church was modernizing and just after Senegal had shaken off French colonial rule, the monks of Keur Moussa embraced the instrument, morphing their Gregorian chants into songlike prayers accompanied by the kora.

“It was work – it didn’t just happen,” says Brother Marie Firmin Wade, who builds koras. “That’s what has created all the liturgical richness of Keur Moussa. Because Keur Moussa has taken a bit from everywhere.” 

Congregant Hélène Ngom, walking out of a recent Sunday mass, says, “It’s an instrument that when you listen to it, it takes you. When I listen to the kora, I rise, divinely. It brings me closer to God.”