From mid august:
It was Friday. It had been one of the longest weeks in my recent unreliable memory of record, and I was tired. I had spent most of the morning at the kgotla, listening to the choir perform and the lengthy process of distributing some blankets that had been donated for “destitutes” (all in Setswana, my second such meeting of the week. I think I’ll learn this language by sheer exposure despite my stubbornness and refusal to study it) which ended up being another fine lesson in those who have little making the utmost effort and putting the utmost integrity into distributing what little they have to those who need it more. I had walked into the local barbershop which is a reed walled tin roofed shack, wherein I had painstakingly attempted to explain the concept of a mohawk to the man who was clipping my hair. He claimed to understand English and I soon realized was nervous to be cutting a white woman’s hair. He was afraid to put the clippers anywhere near my scalp, and eventually I asked for the clippers, had him hold the mirror and ended up doing most of it myself. It was another example of how much I’ve let go of my own concept of the importance of hair, and the loss of my faith in the necessity of stylishness in Africa.
After failing to get the internet to work (an upsettingly common occurrence in Seronga) I gave up on everything and just started walking towards home. As I’ve mentioned it was Friday, and toward month end, which means people have been paid and have money, and thus they all want to play their music. Loudly. This is not uncommon. To my left I heard blown speakers projecting traditional music, complete with whistles in place of procussion (how this is “traditional” when the whistles sound like a combination of those cheap plastic things you get from the doctor’s office as a reward for not screaming at the top of your lungs during your shot, and have to fill with water to make work; and something from the dollar store, cracker jack box, or the like). To my right I hear some mega club remix of the “Lion Sleeps Tonight,” the irony of something like this being projected so loudly to be heard over the rumble of the generator powering the cd player (“in the village, the peaceful village”) was not lost me. Intrigued by both the hilariousness of the music and even more so by the hoards of children huddled near the opening of reeds that I assumed to be the doorway to a shebeen (traditional bar), I decided, despite my foul mood, to investigate further. I figured why not add to my shitty mood by checking out what sort of drunken debauchery these children are witnessing today (it’s completely common for children to be with their parents at these open air bars that serve “traditional beer” known as shake shake, chibuko, or as I like to think of it, “swill” and they are often ordered to play waiter or waitress to their parents by fetching them drinks.) Maybe it would be a nice opportunity to yell at someone for being an irresponsible parent. That would make me feel better…Right.
The children were everywhere, peering through the reeds, bouncing with that obscene looking hip thrusting dance to the music. They giggled and wiggled as I approached, and I craned my neck around the doorway to see what all this was about.
It was a dance class.
My bad mood immediately evaporated and I burst into a huge grin. One of the women who appeared to be teaching yelled, “Lorato, tsena,” (enter) over the thumping music. I sat down on an oil drum to watch.
A line of children and teenagers arranged by height, were dancing with choreography and steps, each different steps according to the various songs. Children that had only a few years of walking under their belts were performing relatively intricate steps at the front of the line. There was turning and direction changes, it was Texas line dancing to club tunes. It reconfirmed my notion that people in Africa are just straight born with a rhythm like no other. Everyone, it seems can naturally sing and dance.
More proof that just when I underestimate Africa, it responds by producing another amazing example of just how wrong I am…
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