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Published: March 20th 2006
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The crowds continued to thicken on the day of our arrival in Oporoza. We felt welcomed, and may I add slightly overwhelmed. The festivals were abundant and the attention we received was immense. We were Kings and Queens, white stones upon a shore of black sand. More simply, we were a group of American and Nigerian delegates come to a small riverine village within the Niger Delta of Nigeria. We were there to help build a library and understand the issues they, and the whole region, faced.
But for our arrival, it was purely entertainment. Dancing, singing, receptions, more culture, more displays, the masquerades and the handshakes. And don’t forget the introductions and the photographs requested. Evening emerged as the highlight when to our surprise, it became our turn. It was our turn for the Africa within us to awake.
Personally, I pulled and extracted the Blackman from within me. The women of our delegation did the same, but I was found to be the sole male representative. Juddy Ogunniran, a Nigerian delegate of Lagos, couldn't believe I was actually white. A "reverse Oreo" she called me, an expression heard in the boy's room of my youth.
"An
The Lesson
Vero Smooth and me smiling, moving, learning oyibo that can dance," she cried. "You ain't white honey! You're all African in there."
In a way, I could agree, but only briefly. When we gathered in a circle, with the drums and their beat, I called on myself to join the all female movement. Instantly, the rhythm, the energy, the Africa of the experience—deep in the Delta within the accompaniment of the Ijaws and other tribes—knocked me clean of past distinctions. I was no longer white but black, African black from the Creeks of Nigeria. Captivated, I was swept away by her step and her primitive pulse.
I followed the natural movement of the women; my eyes on their bodies, their hips. In whole, we were led by Vero Smooth, the local ace. She kept her waist bent, back straight, and shoulders and head swaying with minutely timed steps. It was a dance like tap, African tap—the origins of the roots—stomping the dry earth with rapidity. Drums reverberated, inebriated with Africa. Cries wailed with joy, and the humor of these
oyibos; we were white people dancing their dance to the rhythm of their Africa. The Global Citizen Journey delegation of women--Susan, Barbara, Tammi, Kendra, Juddy, and
Leslye--imitated this unique style.
But as I recall, the hips were key. Four locals within the radius showed us the elegance of this movement. They were smooth, like Vero, and each had his/her own style, and likewise we as delegates had ours. I was sure to shake mine, but more like a rectangle attempting to curve. Laughter arose, but I kept going. I tried again, letting loose. Again, more laughter than usual, and I took it.
I took the energy in as fuel, trying again, continuing with persistence from a place within. Laughter transformed into cries and claps, including more laughter while the drums' beats pulsed through my neck. A gourd began to rattle with pomposity. Heat began to rise. The African sunk within the earth. That was it.
In the middle of the circle, we formed two facing lines. In turn, we dueled with our opposite partners, and together in succinct order, we stepped with a primal pace toward one another. We met, still moving, shaking, dancing and stepping as though on hot coals, and then turned to face the same direction, moving parallel through the ring.
First, for a lesson to smite, I paired
with Ms. Smooth. At the start, my imitation was weak, very weak—weak compared to her gracefulness. But then I remembered; the gourd, the drums, the Africa. Feet soon followed, and subsequently a ripple of energy emerged from the earth, ascending up the legs, to the hips, waist, shoulders, arms and head.
We finished together, timed, working the crowd. I felt the act of ceremony, one that as an American I had never truly felt. The ritual; a cultural performance of primitive eras set on friendly competition. But this was only the lesson, Vero Smooth an impeccable teacher. The test came steadily as the rhythms increased and my conscience fell into the beats of an ancient past.
Rounds of challengers passed. Susan caught the African groove. Barbara accelerated with nimbleness in speed. And Kendra brought her own dance floor, creating a fusion of moves, which alighted the surrounding wall of black faces with the fiery shouts of encouragement. It all proceeded faster, with more intensity. More hollering, more laughter, more turns as we moved through the line, captivated with rhythm. They fluxed down deep within our souls, setting free a pulse within the atmospheric tempo. Soon, my challenger arose.
Letting Loose
Effects, the cause, what Africa and her groove can do for those who will it. Barbara, likewise, finds herself at home. From out of nowhere a tribal wrap was tied round my waist and I was in. Movement lost its reservedness and before me was no longer the nurturing, forgiving teacher of Vero Smooth, but a man, a young African man, black with muscle and the designs of tribal color. The crowd roared with anticipation. My heart beat with fear. But then, that Africa hit as the claps propounded to a sense of surrender. It engulfed the air I breathed.
Africa. Africa everywhere. Stepping, shouting, clapping, singing and laughing. It filled my bones and entranced my muscles with its musical notes. I danced Africa, not imitating her, but
being her, like the women of both village and delegation. And here before me, my partner proceeded with skill, increasing the pace of humanity's flow—the communal climax; a hunt, its ritual, the bush with spear, machete, and cicatrices.
Barefoot, naked of my fear, my heart overcame the covers of darkness and beat faster, and faster. Excitement, faces burning, my legs melted with his in the tropics of the Creeks, yet we kept stepping, spinning round one another, moving with freedom and chasing for survival. I left behind my current past
At Home
Juddy of the Nigerian delegation showed us, and all we could do was hope. and moved with depth into the heart of Africa, into Nigeria, into the village of Oporoza and the Ijaw of its culture. There was no silence, only the roar of the beats within and beyond the center.
Back and forth, we imitated one another, testing our endurance in the heat. We drew off on our own tangents, and then reemerged like blind men, each with our own patterns, though each connected to the same source of origin. Mine—slower, wider. His—swift, taller and higher. Our wraps skirted with insane curtsy.
In the end we met at last, acknowledging the dual with the friendly hugs of rounding laughter. They arose all around, including the shouts and cries, the screams and claps. No space to fill. No silence to absolve. Africa's beats prevailed.
Exotic, rare and primal in the survival among a jungle of instinct. The brief encounter with that Africa, where mind, body, and soul surrendered to its original nature, was enlivening. Together, breathing the air, with all the dancers and the whole of the village present, I shared the openness of this vast land, the raw meat of the kill. It was exotic; it was energetically erotic. Passion
fueled with sweat, the strain of an intense output reaching the limits of man.
In the late evening, I took the stage once more. It was short, exhaustive. My energy waned amongst the stamina of Africa and her expanse.
Following the close of the event, showered in my own perspired exertion, a friend came stepped in front of me. He was a young boy, given the Christian name “Gift”, and to me he presented the gift of reality. Although I felt one with Africa, immersed within the rhythm of its atmosphere, Gift stretched long his hand. I took it appreciatively, and he smiled and spoke, "Cam? Cam? At least you tried, Cam. You tried."
It was white as white, his message plain and simple.
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Sandy Hilton
non-member comment
Color is a perception
Cam - good to see a positive image after your nigeria blog. that was scary and the mom in me can't help but be afraid for you! The opportunity to dance with Africa is beyond wonderful. Oreo - what an interesting perception. We are what color we are and can only be what we are inside by our experiences.I am not sure why the outside ends up being such a big deal. stay well stay safe stay wide eyed! love ya!