01 August 2010

on the dance floor

There is a DJ in the living room, blasting West African dance music, and in the back yard little kids with their hair in poofs are being ignored and protected by every adult whose legs they dart around. I ditch my piece of birthday cake for kallah, little round fried balls of dough, and a crowd of us are handed shot glasses of some indeterminate alcohol from a bottle full of sticks. It burns as it goes down. I gasp and ask, "What WAS that?"

"Didn't you have that in Liberia?" C. asks.

"I was ten!" I said.

"I guess not, then," he said. "They say it is medicinal. It's made of vodka and some parts of trees. Well, it's supposed to be medicinal for men, actually."

"What is it for women?"

He just laughed, and T. and I looked at one another and said, "We are going to have to watch out."

Inside, we dance in an oval between the living room and the dining room, and when A. tries to turn on the airconditioner, everything electric goes off. This is the only time I dance: when the music is from somewhere in Africa. I need the strength of the beat to keep me grounded. This song is in French, and now another with bits that might be Swahili.

The truth is that I can't dance, not like these Liberians can, not like the girl now down in the center of the group. But I wouldn't give it up for anything, to be celebrating A.'s birthday and her return to Liberia, to be in this crowd. Every face looks so familiar.

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