The African Dance Poem by Teacher Kevin

As evening approaches,
echoes of distant music rise.
Boys and girls hurry through the evening chores,
meals finished early
to make room for the disco dance—
the African dance.

Two kilometres away feels near
for boys and girls charged with eagerness
to reach the disco dance.

The night is black.
Silhouettes of stumps and trunks
appear, disappear, and reappear in the dark.
Hearts pound with fright,
but the laughter outshines the fear
and the fun that awaits
at the African dance.

At last we arrive—
a homestead fully fenced,
the rhythm tight and tense.
The show has started:
music in the air,
dust in the air.

Everything vibrates.
Beats boom.
Lights flicker—
blue and red here,
blue and green there.
Light balls spin.
Everyone blinks against the flash.

All the ladies line up,
tall and short alike.
In turn, the men tease them
with a dance—
the African dance.

Bodies shake,
muscles twitch,
sweat beads and shines.
Favourites play.
The crowd goes wild.

Amid the lights I see Tina,
not too tall, not too brown—
a shade between black and brown.
I yearn to dance with Tina.
I move closer.
I long for her dance,
her African dance.

She opens her arms in welcome
and the dance begins.
My eyes follow her waist—
it swings like a spring.
My hands find her waist,
my best melody sings.
I hold her hands,
and she spins away.
I am left in awe.

As if that is not enough,
she bends to her knees,
her back begins to ripple.
I watch, then join
the African dance.

We move left,
then right,
faces dotted with sweat,
yet none wish to rest.
Before we clasp again,
the music stops.

"Hey, Mr. DJ,
why stop the music? "
The DJ plays the next song,
but my turn is done.
I step aside
and watch them dance with Tina.
Anything else can hurt,
but not like this raw injustice
of the African dance.

By Teacher Kevin