When you see the crow's feet forming on the edge of Gogo's eyes, you will know it is almost time. You will be sitting around the fire, one tipsy Uncle or another telling a story. An orchestra of crickets punctuate the half truths, lending them a gravity that will evaporate in tomorrow's tropical heat. Someone will start humming under their breath, one of those tip-of-the-tongue melodies that matches the arrhythmic beat of your heart and seeps into your bone marrow until it is indistinguishable from the soundtrack of your life: the wordless screams of trillions of bacterial colonies. Gradually Uncle's booming voice begins to fade, rising to a desperate pitch, unable to drown out the low pitched humming.
Maybe Gogo will stand up first, maybe not; increasingly she prefers to savour the undercurrent of vague discomfort. Perhaps it will be you to rise first and slink away from the wide-eyed stares with shame because you do not know the steps. Take heart—no one does.
There is no form but there are rules: a) Such dances cannot be taught, b) Coyness has no value around the bonfire, but neither does brash showomanship, c) You must be completely free: abandon all sense of self or the universe, your great loves and petty hatreds, the leaden weight of other people's expectations, even the bonds that hold your atoms together, d) Your clumsy attempts will be of no consequence: you were already judged; you were found wanting; you were forgiven, and forgotten, e) There is nothing to be lost, thus, everything shall be gained.
In the period between commencement and comprehension you will feel like a fool. The rivulets of sweat snaking their way down your neck and leaving rich deposits of salt on your back almost sober you up. Real life will trickle past the humming: you will wonder what can possibly be achieved by a dance; whether you left the gas cooker on; if the blank foolscaps lying on your desk amid aggressively chewed pencils can be filled with 3,500 words thirty minutes before the deadline. The perennial shaking will start again as anxiety embraces you with the familiarity of a long-term stalker turned lover. The urge will return, the longing to fold into yourself in delicate origami patterns, neat and clinical and unreal, so the dirty outside world can never touch the fragile core hidden within. It may last a few minutes, or if you let it, your entire lifetime.
Unsurprisingly it will be Auntie who saves you. Not always-smells-like-wali-wa-mnazi Auntie, the other one. The one who lends you her leso in church when your dress is three fingers above the knee, forcing “Asante Auntie” and “I must have forgotten mine at home” through your gritted teeth. The one who loudly speculates that your knotted dreadlocks must mean you have joined a gang and the extra long rainbow braids before that a sign of loose morals. The one who ululates the loudest at your high school graduation and furtively hands your parents a fat cheque—more money than they have ever seen in their lives—“to take our daughter to a university huko majuu, you know she has always been my favourite!” The one who will firmly grip your shoulders, allowing you to lean on her seemingly bottomless reserves of strength and faith and love, if only for a few minutes.
One day it will be you, sitting around a fire, no heat penetrating your leathery skin, none required because the comical fumbles of vaguely familiar great-great-grandchildren keep you warm.
