In the late 70s, on a day like this, the group of our fathers would sit on the veranda in the afternoons, watching weary village beauties and their escorts walking home from two-day-long village parties and disco matangas in distant parts where their parents could not have an idea what happened.
Their clothes and shoes were borrowed. And the shoes mostly didn’t fit. Also back then, our women hadn’t learnt to format their posteriors so their bottoms swayed like locomotives. And the girls loved to tuck hankies the size of coffee table in their belts. They wore school stockings and ensured their petticoats hung a tantalizing inch or two below the hems of their dresses. It was sheer class, a spectacle to behold.
But because what happens in a banana shamba on a moonlit night in the backdrop of bewitching benga music rarely remains secret, the beauties would start throwing up a couple of months later.
One evening, before the dung hit the fan, they would drop down to the stream with a bucket (packed with their wardrobe, which wasn’t much – a dress, petticoat, a pair of nylon knickers…) and melt into thin air.
Days later, two strangers would arrive and sip water from a calabash to wet their throats. Then the elder of the two would say, “We are of this clan. We know you are searching for your lost goat. Search no more… Its leg is broken. It rests in our kraal. Search no more. We will come properly in due course… “
Not so fortunate were those who bedded abatengi – the DJs and cheerleaders. Those rogues sowed seed even on bare rock, but you could never pin them down into the slow, boring grind of a domesticated husband.
The village dance is no different from social media, where strangers meet and meat in hours.
By ABUTA OGETO
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