You will dance again. That’s what my pastor and many fellow church members have been saying to me since I returned to the church last March, all beaten down by cancer in my bone marrow. They couldn’t believe it was the same woman who only two years before had done some energetic African dance moves as Kazi, the talented Guinea-trained African-American drummer beat his huge drums. I was delighted then to have brought them to their feet as I spoke about our common African heritage which neither the slave trade nor the Atlantic ocean has swallowed up.
I told them I still get excited when I see African-Americans who still have typical African physical characteristics – dark skin, kinky hair, the broad nose and the broad backside for the women (derriere in French, okole in Hawaiian, ikebe in Nigerian parlance). I thanked the native African-Americans for the sacrifices they and their ancestors made so that we, the newbie Blacks in America can come to the U.S and get to enjoy some civil rights. They are our Josephs. The slave trade, what the enemy intended for evil, God has turned around for the good of all Blacks.
One of the reasons I like going to my current church is because it is an African-American church. My pastor and most other pastors don’t like to categorise their church by race or nationality since churches are supposed to be for all nations.
Some in my church were leery of having us celebrate Black History Month; they worried about excluding other cultures. In my speech last Sunday, I maintained that Africans are the only ones who came to this country as slaves and as a result lost much of their history. Many don’t know what African country their ancestors were taken from, let alone their family history – as do many who came from Europe and other continents where the written language was in use. To have the federal government designate a month (February) for the celebration of Black history is a small compensation that we must use to honour not only those who fought for that benefit but also those who fought to end slavery and racial segregation and later fought for civil rights for all races. Other races can join in our celebration.
Flo my friend and fellow Nigerian, pointed out that we celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day with the Irish (and Columbus Day with the Italians and other Americans, Cinco de maya with Hispanics.) They have a day each for their celebrations, we get a month – because we lost a lot more. To whom much was taken, more should be given back unto them. I longed to display my African heritage for the Black History celebration.
There was no time to prepare anything elaborate. I decided to simply play Oluchi Okeke’s CD from tape 2 and get the entire church to dance along. Elder Johnson announced that Nena would now come and dance, I got up and said: The entire church would actually be doing the dancing and Flo would do most of it.
I announced that in Africa we shower our kings with praise names and asked the churchto honor the King of kings with a lot more gusto. Kazi, the drummer reminded me about the invocation of the Holy Spirit (not ancestors) we had decided he would start with and a frenzied beating of drums commenced.
I then invited Flo to te mpete – the way women from Onitsha and other parts of old Anambra state dance. As she mpeted she called out the praise names of God, many featured in Okeke’s CD – Battle Song of Praise. I translated some to English as best I could. and added some:Ikuku amaghi onya, Ome Okachie, Ome mgboji, Onye ne me nma, the Alpha and Omega.
Florence ino kwaya. Tata bu tata, Anyi ge to chukwunna. At some point I cried out: Ukwu ruala (hips to the ground) before I could think it through; and we began to go down, knees bending – and much to my surprise, I was able to go down and rise up again. Thank God I had taken my pain meds which I hate taking. Flo was at her best, doing energetic stomps and leaping into the air.
Half the church was on their feet taking photos and hopefully videotaping our dance. Later I had them all dancing around the church. At the end of service they told me they were moved to see me dancing again, especially when I did the ukwu ruala. It was almost one year to the date I received my cancer diagnosis.
I had half-hoped the argument against celebrating an exclusive holiday would win the day so I will have another year to heal more and do a better dance. But Elder Johnson had repeated a slogan she saw on a poster: Dance through the storm.
I am happy I danced again as the church members say to me many times – before I got completely healed. To think things could have turned out differently.
Thank God we pulled it off.