April 10, 2005

Last night was a sambar. A dance party, in short. A large circle formed with two gas lamps at the one end of the open space. Asta, Thioye’s last wife—the big boned beauty with the smoker’s voice, killer smile and charismatic kids—presided over the affair. She essentially played ring leader, patrolling the edge of the circle, pulling various women and children in, telling me where and how to sit, crouching at the side of the fray before leaping in to luma luma (getting on all fours and shaking one’s derriere in the air) or mixing it up with some of her schnazzy mbalaxah moves. My little sisters insisted on bringing a chair just for me. Though they piled on my lap, occasionally pulling me in to prance about the circle. Kicking my legs in the air, making frantic motions with my arms, and spinning in circles. I don’t think I’ve had such fun in a long time.