Mouaye means something like luck in Baoule. I haven't gotten the details (is it more of a Chinese curse kind of luck? Random chance? Good wishes or a desperate plea?.....There are so many interpretations of 'luck.')
It also happens to be the name of the dance troupe I am currently studying with. I've only gone to a few rehearsals, but it appears promising. Everyone has been so welcoming to me that I am simultaneously treading on fragile ground (why is everyone so overwhelmingly friendly?) and awed with a sense of homecoming (memories of la guinee!)
I am relieved and grateful to have found a home among artists again. The practice stage is achingly similar to Tarmac, where the neighbors formed an impromtu audience. The drum has a way of calling in the children who perform acrobatics on the small tiled side area. They slide across with their smooth soled shoes wrapped around their hands and somersault the length of the stoop. There is always a group gathered together imitating the steps and getting in their own practice session.
By the entrance way, other passersby gather. Women holding babies, secondary students wearing school uniforms and backpacks, and random guys from the street step in to get a glimpse of show. Music is powerful and just as it brings us all together, it has the ability to send me off to my memories. Their version of Sinte sent me time traveling back to NY days with Pam and Mimo, my first teachers.
I'm studying a little bit of drum, a little bit of dance and a lot of technique on perfecting my stage presence. I have been forever faced with the challenge of solo dancing and it looks like this is finally the time to conquer that beast.
Along with my memories of Guinea, comes that same familiar sense of wanting to capture everything with image and poetry. I want to paint the lead dancer, with her impish smile and extra long eyelashes. I try hard to memorize her bone structure without staring too obviously. I imagine the brush strokes of her hair and the smoothness of her neck. She exudes that energy I can only describe as African....an energy that is slow, hot and sultry as she lounges around the studio waiting for practice to begin. It is an energy that transforms in an instant to vibrant, light and inviting the moment she begins to dance. There is poetry in her interactions with the drummers, the other dancers, the audience. I am torn between wanting to step into the shadows and follow the muse and wanting to jump on stage and become part of the inspiration.
One of the male dancers reminds me of a friend from waaaay back. The first few classes were hard to make the separation. One half of my mind kept insisting it was him while the side of reason kept reminding me I was in a different place and time and it could not be him, or his little brother or cousin or anyone else I know.
Since we have danced together a few times now, his features have become more a representation of his own personality and less of my memories (it helps that he hasn't broken out into sabar, that might make it impossible for my rational mind to remain in control. Two dopplegangers if ever they existed.) He has the energy of youth with an always present smile and beautiful dreads. When he coaches me, he is the one to give the most advice about my stage presence. "Eyes up, big smile, and dance with your head. Throw your hair around," he advises. I just laugh at him. It is easy to dance and smile with this kind of encouragement.
I feel wonderful dancing again. It is like new life. When we leave, we travel together down the dirt pathway, over half-formed walls, through a dusty soccer pitch, past old men carving masks and a group of women frying plantains. Children run in groups, jumping, skipping, singing. Many of them had spent time watching the rehearsal and are still filled with the energy of the drums. It is glorious to feel at home again. A little bit of luck for me.
