Dancing with Yourself

Although Kinshasa is known for its nightspots, I admit to not being well acquainted with this side of the city. But it is not completely foreign to me either. I had been feeling like I'd seen enough to think its pretty much all the same.

Last weekend, however, I had a chance to check out a new spot- well, new to me. The music was loud and the globe lights were spinning. I was immersed in visions of a similar club I'd entered and immediately turned around and left. This time I figured I'd give it a try, though any hopes of conversation seemed dashed by pulsing rhythms. I settled back, as much as one can do in a bar stool, and watched the dancers through the mist spewing from the smoke machine.

Their movements were not the crisp, clean kind I am accustomed to seeing in dance classes. They lacked energy and abandon, though one woman on the floor had an admirable style and seemed to emminate joy. The steps were slow and subtle in that way that Congolese dances sometimes have. But what struck me most was that all of the dancers were facing the wall. They were lined up on the small, wooden dance floor staring into the full length mirrors that filled one entire side of the dance area. Even the those who were clearly there with partners. They didn't look each other in the face but watched their movements and shared laughter with reflections.

Just when I thought I had finally conquered my fear of dancing in public (yes, I have danced in public!) "There is really no way I could dance with myself in public," I immediately thought. One of the ways to get over my fear of dancing in front of others is to simply forget whatever I might look like and simply try to feel the music. Ha. Try doing that when everyone is facing an imposing panel of mirrors. Mostly they were staring at themselves but occasionally having eye conversations with others as well. I laughed at bizarre-ness of it all.

Then I realized that perhaps it wasn't so odd. You would never be without a partner, dancing with yourself. You would forever be copying your own movements. Gone is the idea that you would be the only one doing that somewhat complicated and risque movement on the floor. No, you would always have a partner- whatever your dance style- the perfect cavalier, completely in sync with you, perfectly complimenting whatever you do. "Maybe there is something to it after all," I began to think, safely, singly, from my bar stool.

african dreams

What's the scariest thing you've ever seen? As a mother some of my most terrifying images are not of things that have actually happened, but of those moments of potential. That breathtaking, heart stopping moment before something happens. As of yet, luck has held us in the potential, and events have turned in such a way that we have managed to avoid calamity. But even now, more than ten years removed from some of those incidents, the imagined vision of what might have been still holds the power to quicken my pulse and cause a sharp intake of breath.

I write "as a mother" but I could easily write "as a woman." Because women are in the unfortunate position of being witness to some of the scariest things. I write that with the idea of war in my mind. I know. Men are most often the ones who go to war, who witness killings and death up close and personal. But if you have lived in the scariest things part of the world, you know what's most often horrifying doesn't come with the chaos of battle. It comes in bright sunlight, when you are least expecting it. It creeps in stealthily with a slow motion that gives you  enough time to imagine the most frightening outcome and all the ways you are powerless to stop it. The scariest things freeze you in that dream state where screams are never voiced and moving with any sense of speed or control becomes a futile effort. The scariest things leave you lingering in that haze long after the day has dawned and dreams have been put to bed.

Sometimes the scariest thing you've seen hasn't really happened. You just wait in anticipation of it. Every moment rigid, every second tense, caught in a perpetual 'flight' mode. Because everyone knows you never escape the monsters in a dream. The only thing you can do is just wake up. And if you're already awake?

Truth?

The kids are fond of posting this on FaceBook. Truth. One word- a question, an invitation. This post is often followed with what's meant to be real sentiment. A private emotion. Vulnerability. They label it truth almost as a disclaimer or warning of sorts. "Don't blame me (judge me, hate me, love me) for what I am about to say, it's just the truth."

When this post takes the form of a question it becomes an invitation not only for feedback, but a request to share your real self. Who are you? And what do you think of me? I am mid-decision about whether this is a viable way to get real feedback from your friends and acquaintances. I remain stuck in the middle because I wonder which truth the writer or the requester is referring to. The truth of this moment or the truth in place that existed before? Or perhaps it is the truth of tomorrow? I resist the urge to take part in these exchanges of truth because I doubt the existence of a real truth but see ever changing versions of a momentary reality.
 

The truth about this house? At one time it was palatial, grand, full of elite. At one time it was home to gatherings and parties of the most important, influential and prominent people in power. Move forward slightly in time and we can witness the truth of its destruction and pillage. Military and police swooped in, grabbing whatever was seen as valuable and plenty that was not. From furniture to fixtures the house was reduced to a mere shell of the opulence and beauty that had been its reality only months and weeks and days before. In the present? The house is filled with a sparse collection of renters, each in their own rooms with their own cook stoves and their own systems for washing, cleaning and preparing for the day. It is slowly being repaired, dreamed about, built up perhaps not quite to its former glory but to something respectable.

The inner foyer (yes, we'd already entered the main front door)

I imagine another truth standing beside the story of this house. And that is that its not alone. There are many of these houses, once a symbol of a burgeoning wealth destroyed by the frustrations of the common people and now cautiously being returned with hope and optimism for the future. I imagine many of these houses, standing empty, neglected and barren, their owners having fled to comfortable European safety.

Neglected swimming pool- a science experiment of its own

The truth I don't have to imagine? The homeless of Kinshasa, wandering streets in darkness and rain, searching for shelter.

View of the city from the backyard