Shall we dance...

I’ve never been much of a fan of dancing.
I still remember why.

It was my fifth birthday.
My mum, as most parents would do, had decided that it was a perfect excuse to throw a party. I failed to see the point. Why spend so much on a party inviting adults who I really didn’t like, and a bunch of people from my school (most of whom I also didn’t really like) when the same amount would have got me a brand new Atari 64 game console.
Grownups.
Sometimes they can’t see the obvious.

The chicken was being fried in the kitchen. The female adults where hanging around the kitchen. The male adults where hanging behind the female adults.
Your basic typical food chain.
I and my sister went to hangout on the balcony and stare out at the world whilst praying feverishly that we never became annoying number calling adults.

Eventually the party started.
It started out okay.
I got a couple of gifts from people. Most of whom I didn’t know.
My second best gift was a scrabble board.
I still own it and most of the tiles are worn out with age and use. My first was my cumulative cash donation by everyone. I had a thousand naira, three hundred and twenty six Naira fifty kobo. My mum smiled when she took it from me promising to keep it for me.
Right!

It only got bad when my mum decided that I should dance.
You’re the birthday boy. Everyone is here to see you. Come on darling. Dance for us.
Everyone agreed that this was a lovely idea and all together they formed a circle around me.
I was five and in high spirits. That meant I was stupid enough to actually listen to them. When the circle was formed, midst clapping and people shouting in the background, I started dancing.

I’d just seen the Michael Jackson moonwalk a week before and I had known instinctively that I could do that move. I decided to start with that. Warm the crowd up a bit. I took a step back in what was to be the opening sequence and fell flat on my face. Everyone giggled. Not to worry I told myself. Since I was on the floor I would just do the worm. So I tried to do the worm. It didn’t work very well because I heard my Aunt ask my mum nervously.” Is he convulsing?”

My mum rushed to me and dragged me to my feet.
“I’m fine mum.” I said laughing. “I was just dancing.”
“That was dancing?” my mum asked with a horrified look on er face,
“Yes “
She nodded her head nervously and asked me to sit down.
Somewhere in the background my sister seized the moment to stick her hand into my uncut cake and eat a piece.

The next day at school I was the laughing stock of the entire school. Those who had come for my party quickly related tales of my dancing exploits to the rest. Everywhere I went I would see people doing funny moves that looked a lot like nothing I had done.
“You’re a terribly dancer.” A boy was stupid enough to tell me.
I kicked him in the gonads!

Later that evening as I stood in the bathroom about to have my bath I pondered on what I had been told during the day.

1) 1) It was terrible to kick a boy in his gonads.

2) 2) I was a terrible dancer.

Off the two, only the former bothered me. I looked at the bathroom floor.
The problem with my rendition of the Michael Jackson moonwalk I reasoned was that the ground hadn’t been slippery enough. I bet Michael had loads and loads of oil on the stage when he did his. What I needed was lubrication. I looked on the bathroom shelf and spotted my mum’s shampoo.

In five minutes I had covered most of the bathroom floor with the gooey pink sweet smelling gunk.
That ought to do it. I reasoned.
I stood at one end and took a step back. Hello Micheal. I think I spun five times in the air before I landed with a loud thud on the floor.

“Carlang dearie. Are you okay?“ My mum asked as she ran into the bathroom.
“I’m fine mum. I think I hurt myself.”
“My shampoo!!” She screamed in anger. “What did you do you stupid boy.”
SO now I was stupid. Five seconds ago I was dearie. The inconsistencies of adults.
She looked at me in anger. I knew that look.
“I’m already in pain mum. You don’t need to punish me.” I told her calmly.
It didn't help.

That pretty much was it. After that I stopped dancing.
Dancing was ridiculous I told myself. Playing scrabble was so much cooler.
I went through primary school resolute in my decision.
Fortunately some boy threw a party where his dog went wild and bit some students. Everyone forgot about my party after that. By the time I got to secondary school Mc Hammer was king of the world. Everyone was trying to show that they were “Too legit to quit”. I held my opinions to myself. During social events as my friends jumped into the dancehall to make perfect assses of themselves I would stand by a corner and watch with amusement.

I don’t dance. I told everyone that asked me. I had a hundred intelligent reasons why I shouldn’t. By the time I got to the thirtieth they usually left me alone.

Apart from a spell when my Grandma begged me to dance for her and I complied I didn’t do much dancing. My mum chastised me afterwards. She said she had never seen her mum laugh so much and if I killed her with mirth she would seize my Nintendo system.
I didnt dance after that.
Secondary school went by pretty quickly
And then universities came.

Every time I went to a party there was always some girl asking me to dance with her. My hundred reasons didn’t make much sense all of a sudden.
Here was a beautiful girl. Lovely hips. Eyes to die for. She’s asking me to dance.
What’s my excuse?
Wit? Stuff it Oscar Wilde

But I couldn’t.
I couldn’t risk falling on the floor again. My girlfriend didn’t get it. Once she took me to a night club. Got me really drunk in the hope that alcohol would loosen my inhibitions and get my feet swaying.
Well. I did get swaying but there was nothing artistic or rhythmical about it
Plus midst all the smoke I suffered my worst asthma attack ever.
I stayed away from the clubs after that.

And then this year came.

No one was calling me again,I had perfected the Gonads kicking trick, But everyone was insistent on one thing. I had to throw a party. Everyone felt that a number like that 07 07 07? Was too good a number to waste. I had to throw a party .It was just too monumental to pass by.
I agreed with them.
After a quick perusal of my bank account I decided that yes. I could throw a party after all. Why not.
After all I hadn’t had a party since my mum stole my money and sister punched my cake..
Maybe this time it would turn out better.
So I listened to everyone
I listened to me.
I didn't listen to my account statement.I threw the party.

It started out slow.
I threw the party outdoors. The skies were clear. We had installed lights.The music was blaring and I was standing at the edge of what had become a dance hall.
Suddenly a girl grabbed my hands and pulled me in. I started protesting and laughing at the same time. I said five funny things at once.Automatic damage control.
She ignored me and put her hands around my neck. One step. Two step. I fumbled a bit and protested. She ignored me.
She peristed..
and then…
I was dancing.

What happened the next five hours was simple.
I danced my head off.
i think i danced with every single girl that came for the party. My feets just kept moving.
The punch helped.

In the end , it really isn’t difficult this dancing thing. You just move your body to the music. One two...there you go.
I had fun.

So now I don’t hate dancing. In fact…I seem to spend half my time dancing theses days. I dance when there’s no music. I dance when there; music. Years of suppressed Terpsichore (that's my word for the day. I'm supposed to use it at least once.) suddenly let loose.
I’m dancing. Dancing dancing.

It took a while but I'm finally here. I don’t hate dancing now, I’m going clubbing tonight. True I’m hardly the worlds greatest dancer. I probably never will be. But I’ve found out that you really don’t need the Michael Jackson moonwalk to impress a girl.
Besides…the moon walk takes you away from the girl, which is such a waste of time (and space and girl )if you want my humbled amateur opinion.

My days are more fun now. I’m dancing again.
This would have been a story with a perfectly happy ending except for one slight thing.

I stopped dancing when I was five.
Two weeks before I stopped bedwetting.
Now I’m dancing.

The bedwetting thing…
It isn’t going to come back is it?