It is difficult to write tonight. All day I'd had ideas about writing some teacher talk things. Sometimes I wonder what the purpose of this blog is, and I think, it was to write about teaching here. But of course its about living here too. And, because I can't do anything simply, its about the complexities of one life in Africa.
Then I went to Jacques' show. I am reminded that there is no such thing as one life. All lives are connected, through intention or not. I was prepared for the show,as much as one can be: la violence fait a la femme. The dance was definately in the same style as the previous. I kept thinking of painting and how there would be an artist's signature through figure and form. It was there in style and music, in the way modern and traditional dance fused and interchanged. The dance was just as powerful, sometimes uncomfortable, overtly sexual. At times the dance was satirical but I wondered how the audience could laugh when I had tears in my eyes. The techno-pop background music varied between traditional Congolese drumming and a beautiful African song evoking freedom and hope. That is the melody that brought me to tears. It transported me back to another Africa, my first Africa. And I realize that I miss that time immensely. I was a different person then and I can feel the age in me now.
As America rejoices a new president, I seem to be caught up in a cycle of loss. In one small moment, I heard Barack refer to those in the forgotten corners of the world, and I felt seen. But I awoke to find Rock Star missing the next day. "It's kind of sad," Mohamed repeated all through breakfast. "Baby junior must be sad, too." It is strange how much I miss walking out onto the back porch to catch a quick glimpse of his (or her) activities.
It is lonely here and after the dance I felt the energy of people all around me. I felt the person that I used to be and remembered how she would have stayed and soaked it in, savoring the richness of the art. There is something unexplainable about watching social commentary expressed this way, hearing the audience reaction as they recognize mockery and anguish. There is something profound about watching it with the Congolese, the artists. They are not the Africans of CNN.
There the tragedy is sterile, dramatized and impersonal. Another African mishap. Here, it becomes so much more. A people awakening to their future and claiming their past.
The show took place in a small outdoor courtyard, cement stage covered with a tin roof. The audience sat in plastic chairs under a slight drizzle. There was electric and amplification. There was even some attempt at stage lighting. In this world, its quite a success. I am struck by the image of someone just beginning, working on a dream. Doing something.
It brings me back to why I am here, what am I doing? And how I so wish to be doing.
It is difficult to have patience, an essential component to life in Africa. I am pushed to paint, through my limited resources and large silent house.
Maybe tomorrow I can write of teacher things. Tonight, I can see only the dance. I can feel how it touched my soul, and try to face the piece of myself that knows what really happened on stage. The rest, for now I can only witness.
