Around us, the dancing
continued. Pounding feet kicked up clouds of dust that in the morning we would
discover had dyed our clothes a stubborn orange. Tumani Tenda blazed with life
and rhythm and the clack of wood against wood.
I had seen her dancing before
she found me, her little legs moving fast and furious, her face a picture of
peace and ease. She was not the only infant in the village who could keep a
solid beat. Each child flowed with that natural ability. Later, while lying in
our mud huts and encased by mosquito nets, we wondered aloud together if it was
learnt or instinct.
She hardly moved in my
arms, but hers locked tight around my neck like two snakes squeezing life. She
could have only been three years old. I searched the pulsing crowd for any sign
of a distressed mother but found none. Each face was content, each body relaxed
in that familiar environment. It was infectious. I found myself swaying to the
music.
There were children
holding babies, their hands as capable as any adults. Silver bangles shone in
the moonlight; sparks flashing in a fire.
My bundle began to
wriggle in my arms and I set her down sadly, instantly missing the weight of
her despite the ache in my shoulders and arms. She was swallowed up by the
crowd but I felt no concern; this was her home, her village, her family.
I was reminded of the African
proverb that says it takes a village to raise a child. I understood it now and
enjoyed the fact that I could not locate a single, distinct mother and child
amongst the people of Tumani Tenda. Each woman was mother, sister, aunt. Each
man father, brother, uncle.
When she sought me out
a second time, and raised her arms to be lifted again, I realised she had
chosen to seek motherly comfort in me that night. To her, I was not a guest in
that place, I was a member of the village, and for one night I could have a
hand in raising her.
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