Today I danced. I danced all my troubles away, theoretically at least. It’s not that I don’t like dancing but I’m more of the private dance shows. Not the kind you used to pay for while playing Grand Theft Auto, I’m talking of the kind that happens when you’re alone in the shower. Most if not all of these performances are five star, at least that’s what happens when you get to be your own examiner.
For the first time in a very long time, I felt alive. In my euphoria, I was lost. Everything seemed to slow down simultaneously with the feeling of never wanting that specific moment to end. I let the music flow through me, instantly becoming a bystander in my own story. I surrendered control to the music and just like water with every curve of the bottle, I became as it was.
“That’s why my heart be de sing like duduke, duduke…” went the song and so did my heart. As the cigarette slowly burned down my long fingers while I danced, I knew my lungs would be the end of me. Lung cancer had decided to best me and claim my soul. Death was however not a current predicament, I had to live first.
You learn to appreciate the morning breeze that mostly retires us for that extra five minutes in bed. A definite death timeline plants the seeds of ignorance. You care less whether Mama Mboga gets upset when I show up to buy groceries, cigarette in hand. Her “I told you so” stares being totally warranted. A product of my own doing. Aren’t we all?
The music comes to a slowdown and everyone is pairing. Hand to waist body moving in sync with the trumpet. That’s my cue. I sit and watch as the lovebirds take center stage in tandem. The night is approaching its climax and the alcohol is hitting all the soft spots. Time for the crescendo.