SayAfrica!: Memories of an African Childhood: Girls’ Dance Night

I was startled from my slumber by light drizzles. I must have slept for a whole day. Ouch! I am hungry. Where am I? Oh my, you mean I have been sleeping here all alone? Thank heavens, when did John Boss join me? Faithful dog, he could not leave his pal alone!

Standing, stretching and yawning followed. My shadow was long, it must have been around 4 PM or so. But this is the season of joie de vivre and nobody cares about time. No cattle to herd, no water to fetch no school to think of, life is an endless dolce far niente!

Plodding back to the party house, I noted that I was not the only one who had succumbed to the beckoning winks of sweet sleep. Half the people were in various stages of sleeping. A few were coiled in the armchairs, with saliva drooling from their mouths. Some were snoring like dogs about to bite each other. Others were dreaming, I think of eating, going by the way they chewed and swallowed in their sleep. The remaining half is the beer diehards and acolytes of the holy drink. An old man, Kipchekek, was squinted swigging from a straw that never left his mouth. His face assumed a depression on his cheeks; I feared his squint and depression would be permanent. The rest were slugging from tins, Mr. Sirma’s moustache had trapped some dregs to assume a white color. You should have seen the drunkards laugh; (which was too often) their teeth were plastered invisible with white dregs of beer. Thank God kissing was nonexistent then, I would have pitied their wives no end.

Music was in the normal volume even though our venerable DJ was half asleep, half awake. A boy and a gal competed on the dance floor even though all they did was salute with the right hand on the forehead as the left hand held the stomach. It was like they wanted to communicate in a subtle way that their heads were throbbing and not forgetting a bad case of stomach upset. They were dancing anyway.

Ouch, I am so famished! I dashed to the kitchen and was served with ugali and beef stew. If I had stayed for a minute longer, I would have died. James’s mom told me to trace my friend Kipsang and my brothers after eating my full.

Sporadic ululations of ariri riiiiiiiiiiiiii! kongoi James here and there. Mr. Sirma is ululating too, coiled in his seat, head dropped to his shoulder, eyes closed. I wondered whether he was dreaming or it was a deliberate act. All the same he mumbled aririri riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! Kongoi James!

Empty beer pots were sprawled outside in the shade, no wonder everybody was out of their senses. A dutiful looking group of girls are washing dishes. I pitied them though they seemed to enjoy what they were doing. There is something with girls, whenever they do anything, they make it seem effortless and delightful. I have never quite understood how somebody could enjoy working.

I caught up with my brothers and Kipsang in the maize store, dead asleep. I gave them each a poke on the ribs. They persisted on sleeping, I insisted on rousing them. They woke up with a personal style each. One just stretched, another farted while the other did both. They all had bloodshot eyes.

It was time to get moving again. Thanks to the drizzles, we would have been late for the girls’ dance night, now just an hour away.

It will be a busy night unlike the previous night. Girls dances are full of action unlike their male counterparts whose difference with the rest of the crowd was Korosiot tightly clutched on the chest sans movement. With girls it was music, song and dance. Pageantry, dance and a fashion show all at once, indeed, pomp and glamour was the axiom.

Our first job was to make a quick itinerary. First stop: Kap Pewa. Chemolel, Kipsang ex-lover was the initiate and from the rehearsal reviews, was tipped to be the best dancer in the entire Rotik village .Besides; it was my school desk-mate Chesiliot’s home. The second port of call would be Kap Jonathan where Memo, Kipsang’s cousin was an initiate. They are our close family friends too. Third home would be Arap Korir, Chebet and Cherono, identical twins were the other big attraction of the night. After that we go to the next village of Takitech where all the initiates would meet for the final dance of the night.

The plastic watch in my brother’s wrist reads 5.30 PM.

When you descend the path that passes through Juliana’s house and ascend to the hillock by Obot Samwel’s house and take the road by momonik trees, over the white shiny stones, and cross the road that connects to Kissii, you arrive at Kap Pewa.

Kap Pewa’s large grass-thatched mud house stands on a level dug-out red earth ground but from the road where we approached it, is a sloping high ground. When you sit down on the green grass, you would see all the actions in the compound without the risk of anybody seated in front obstructing you. It was like a stadium though it was hardly planned to be so.

When we got there, we found a few women and children already seated on the terraces. We secured a place in front and sat waiting for the action to start. We could not afford to wait!

Chemolel, the initiate is standing in the centre of the arena, near mabwaita, having her final touches done. Not touches of make-up or coiffure, no, the regalia that was the dancing costumes. Chemolel was too cute for any make-up and initiates shave off all hairs before initiation. (All hairs except eye lashes and eye brows!) I could hardly recognize her, save for the brown color of her ears and thighs. ( Kipsang was more acquainted with her thighs more than me and he went on to describe to me in finer details how the thighs looked at the intersection above).

On her wrists, hang two black whisks (ngotinik) made from the tails of wildebeests. On her shoulders were suspended hairy furs (koroitik) made from colobus monkey skins. She was wearing a very skimpy trouser tied round with a blue cloth. On her bum hang loose a beaded skin with shiny decorations (ng’oisit). Like a tail, though very broad. On both thighs were mounted a bunch of metal jingles (kipkururoik) and a single jingle on each ankle. She wore a shiny shirt with green sashes across her bosom (botisiot). On her face was a mask made of ivory (keldet). On her head was a blue cloth head gear (chepkulet) with support inside to stand leaning backwards. It was mounted a small blinking torch bulb that swung whenever she moved her head.

A whistle (sirimbit) and a flute (kondia) hang suspended from her neck on strings. A white hanky was pinned to her shirt by the boobs. She wore blue rubber shoes and spotless white socks. Chemolel simply looked piquant!

We just sat there staring at her.

She blew her whistle and jumped about, just a taste of what to come. The crowd was agog. Her escort, a younger girl (non-initiate who accompanied her on the dance) stepped on the arena, whistle in mouth, and dared her for a dance. They sized each other like two fighting cocks, dancing around each other. The crowd cheered. People nudged each other and started talking about her delectable dance moves.

Whoa! Whoa! They were just testing the costumes. The man responsible for dressing her (in most cases a man who will eventually marry her) ushered her to stop and made a few adjustments. Assured that all was working, he gave her the go-ahead to do the dance proper.

By mabwaita, where a fire was lit as usual, the initiate made a few rounds of dancing. All was quiet except the music made from her jingles, jumping and the whistle. Her steps were bewitching. Music in the house was stopped. Men and women streamed out, holding tins of beers. All were excited. They danced around Chemolel saying: “sing baby sing!”

It is getting dark. The monkeys in the hill of Arap Sigei are yapping kiauu! In quick succession. The echoes reverberate all over the ridge. I imagined they were cheering the dance too and felt sad that nightfall will cut them off the action. The crowd is numbering close to two hundred people now, all are seated.

Her companion steps into the arena. A dance of leaping and claapping thighs ensues. No singing yet. It is like a mime with a whistle and the thud thud of steps as accompaniment. They dance round Chemolel’s mom, around her dad and finally round the shrine.

It is some minutes past 7 PM. The monkeys are quiet in the hill. I am grateful to be human!

A brief consultation between the initiate and her companion. (Unlike boys, girls have a dance routine that took months of rehearsing. They also learn old songs as well compose their own.) After consultation, they blew whistles and danced to different directions, they then danced round in a circle making to catch each other yet evading contact whenever they got close. They then danced back to the center where Chemolel pelts out the classic song ‘sarah sarah’:

Initiate: Sarah Sarah oh Sarah non chebo Mosoin oh Sarah (Sarah oh Sarah the daughter of Mosoin)