On Being Part of Something Bigger

There was laughter and screaming, the type that implied happiness not pain or sadness. Pain and sadness were far away. To my left, my sister, best friend and life companion was dancing with such abandon that I could never bring myself to understand. Right in front of me was my aunt. She had a protruding belly and dreads. She too danced in a similar care free manner as my sister. By my right was Vicky, my oldest sibling and the strongest of three of us. She was dancing with such happiness. She’d occasionally stop and scream “komolè” and at that point we’d all, with such accurate coordination, go down, our behinds almost reaching the floor. Once, my mum screamed when she saw me do it; she underestimates my ability to dance because of my size, which, funny enough has never weighed me down from taking part in some physical activities like dancing. She (mother) was behind me dancing as well but with that tinge seriousness that never left her face. I think it has to do with being the oldest child. My mum is the oldest sibling out of ten kids, well, nine since they lost one sibling when I was either two or three years old.

It was a pretty dark night, the moon was not up. Just a bunch of stars that were hard to see, thanks to the mango trees hovering above us as we danced. I was still able to notice that there were more stars than I usually saw in Abuja at night. Weird? Anyway. I was happy; no reason not to be. All the people I love were in one place (save my dad who was away) and we were there to celebrate our aunt, the wisest of all my mum’s siblings (shhh, that’s what I think). A live band was performing one gospel song after the other. They’d play the tune to a song, and the dancers who were now sprawled around them would sing the song. Although the band played good music, I yearned for traditional music. You know, local drums and songs sung in my native language. I didn’t know how to dance like the traditional dancers from my place but I was willing to learn and thankfully, my aunts were willing to teach my sisters and me.

We kept dancing, cheerfully, to the instruments of the live band. I was still anxious for some traditional music but before it came, I satisfied my love for good music and dance by indulging in the wonderful melodies the live band played. It was good to forget - even for a little while - the things (it’s actually A thing, who am I kidding?) that bothered me all through the past week. I cherished the moment I was in, took it in with every single fiber of my being. I danced, indeed like no one was watching.  Well, more like my troubles were falling off with every move of my arms, my legs and my rear. I shook my head as it crossed my mind how sad I was when the trip to the village was mentioned. How could I have objected this? I was having the best time. The short trip, to the birth place of my mum was much needed. It served as a form of release therapy that I didn’t even know I needed.

The first chapter of Alice Walker’s The Same River Twice was my companion on the drive down. Reading it was perhaps the beginning of what became a therapeutic process that culminated shortly before I fell asleep that night. I love Walker. Her writing speaks to me; it calms me. I wish it wouldn’t sound a bit exaggerated, but I feel myself becoming a better person just by reading her books. The chapter of The Same River Twice surely sparked something within me. I liked the feelings that came over me that evening, I did.

We took a break from dancing to go into what was now a very crowded house. It was amazing to see so many people around a house that was usually as quiet as a burial ground. As soon as we settled into white plastic chairs, the gospel musicians stopped playing. Almost as if they took a cue from us to go on a break as well. Not long after we sat, we heard songs in our native language coming from the front yard of my maternal grandparents’ home. This made me even happier.

As we walked out to join the traditional performers, I couldn’t shake the feeling that perched in a corner of my mind, the issue which I was burdened with all week was waiting for an appropriate moment to resurface. I shook it off. We got to the front yard and already there was a circle of people singing and dancing, and within the space the circle created were the men responsible; the drummers. We quickly joined the circle and began to ambaya with the rest of the people. Ambaya was an easy dance and not hard to master at all. There wasn’t a lot of technique to it. One basically had to coordinate the hands and legs to move to the rhythm of the drums. Since my sisters and I couldn’t sing the songs, we just danced round like everyone else did, leaning backward or forward once in a while to whisper something to the sibling behind or in front.

After an hour and thirty minutes or what seemed like it, the drummers stopped for their alcohol fix. Where I’m from, some drummers can refuse to perform at an event if there won’t be any alcohol at served. Thankfully, there was enough alcohol for them that night. While they drank, my mum and aunts sat beneath a mango tree that was so close to where we had just finished dancing. They talked and laughed and jokingly jeered at our dance skills. Soon enough the drummers returned for the second round, with a different rhythm that required one of the hardest moves yet.

One had to be light on their feet to be able to dance dueemba. It was for that reason that I received so many compliments while dancing dueemba. It was a hard one to do. You had to stomp your feet on the ground while bending and coordinating your hands and your back to move to the rhythm of the drums.  Even I didn’t know I could do it until we joined the circle after the drummers had returned and started playing. At this time my mum and aunts didn’t dance anymore, they sat and watched. I was beaming with so much pride. I had never felt so much a part of my people as I did that night. This was part two of my therapeutic process. The feeling that I belonged to something greater than myself was reaffirmed. With the reaffirmation came questions (damn my curiosity!) but I didn’t bother with those questions that night.

We danced till about eleven thirty. At that point I gave in to my exhaustion and dragged myself to bed, leaving my mum and her sisters still watching people dance. There were no thoughts of impending issues on my mind when I laid down that night. There was a sense of pride that emanated from knowing that I wasn’t so cut off from my people as I had thought. With it came peace expressed through a smile no one saw. Then there was exhaustion which I willingly allowed to overcome me, leading to a deep and dreamless sleep.

Girls need to start looking for guys who have goals, ambitions, and an education because 10 years from now “swag” isn’t going to pay the bills.

daradarapattycakes:

excuse-my-charisma:

forever reblogging.

YES!!

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