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.

Dancing & Diving

At first glance, my two topics don't seem to have much in common. The events and even the main characters of each story are as different as I am from the citizens of my host country. But after some reflection, I've come to see the similarities between the two situations.

The first involves a concert at my favorite place, L'Halle de Gombe. They guys were psyched about seeing one of their favorite Guineen reggae stars. Elie Kamano was singing along with a Congolese singer- well, they shared the stage and at this point I can't really recall them singing a song together, but they did trade off the spotlight to each other. The music was quite lively from Elie and he had a clear message. Revolution. Apparently Elie is also know as "the general" and he made some jokes about out ranking his father, a bona-fide member of the Guineen military. But the jokes came later, in more private circumstances. On stage, he sang beautifully about the need for African consciousness and action. He said things many Congolese would be scared to say in public. In fact, while the audience clapped and screamed appreciation, very few were moved to dance.

Ousmane couldn't contain himself and made his way to the stage area within minutes. He was clearly caught up in reminiscence for his home country and over the top about hearing his language bursting from the speakers. He lost himself in wild dance movements and enthusiastic air guitar (complete with empty plastic soda bottle reminding me of the time we went to see Staff Bindi Billi.) Souleymane joined him within minutes also lost in his own reverie. Both of them were clearly in tune with the singer's message and punctuated each verse with a raised, pumping fist. Viva la revolution.

Kazadi couldn't resist joining his brothers up front for some all out dance expression, but he made sure to keep his back to the cameras. After the first few songs he moved his show off to the side and even to the back by the bleachers. "Too much filming," he told me as he continued to sway and sing and shout out encouragement. He also expressed disappointment in the lyrics by the woman singer. Apparently her message was shrouded in vague questions and disguised as a love song. "What kind of message is that?" His eyes filled with dismay.  Later discussion revealed even more facts. No Congolese could actually get away with singing those words in public, and in fact, Elie has had a bit of a hard time singing those words in his own country. It seemed pure poetry to me to have him here singing on behalf of the Congolese and only fitting that other Africans would travel to Conakry to express what they could not on their own land. I was reminded of this story where

"Young people in the eastern city of Goma took to the streets after popular folk musician Fabrice Mumpfiritsa was kidnapped after he refused to sing songs supporting Kabila. He was found three days later, legs and eyes bound and so badly beaten he had to be hospitalized."

 Ousmane and Kazadi spent a lot of backstage time with the group and eventually Elie and his crew were invited to our house for dinner the next night. I admired Elie for his persistence and dedication in spreading his message to other African countries (apparently DRC was one of 17 African countries on his tour) but remained caught in the idea of the power behind art. And the struggles of the Congolese to such an extent that they refused to dance.

I came to see it as desperation. Which is the connection to my next story of the diving boys. It may have been on our way to the concert or another trip altogether (there have been several occurrences) when we first encountered the diving boys. They have replaced my little guys that used to sit along the median that divides the boulevard. I still recognize two of them, and they do know me. They are the two that hold their arms out trying to keep the others at a "polite" distance from the car as they ask for money.

"Mama American," they always begin while trying to hold off the pack. It's not an easy task but they do seem to have some control. Just as they seem to realize I am more likely to give over a few francs when I feel like it is my own decision and not by cohersion.  Of course, there are often too many to hand out to individually and I am usually left imploring them to share. If they could find a way to live on the streets together, it would result in so much more. But that's a deep philosophy for kids who are just living minute by minute. They've developed a better tactic.

Diving in front of the car. The strategy is to crouch low in front of the wheel or even right in the middle of the car so the driver is unsure if it is safe to move forward. Cars behind don't really care for this strategy and begin honking, shouting and driving around. It definitely puts a damper on the giving spirit. But it is a sign of the level of their desperation. And so it is I came to conclude that the silent, sitting Congolese out for an evening on the town to listen to some reggae were not actually so far removed from the street kids of Kinshasa willing to do anything to gain a little bit of nothing.

Elie at our house