forgetting and remembering

i've been concerned that i might be forgetting africa. that i've put it and my memories into a safe place in my brain that i can't seem to access very often. maybe i have fully immersed myself in american living again? i can see how many people can do a year and then come home and live as though they never left. sometimes i wonder if it was all a dream because things here are so different, so contradictory to my last year of living. how do i keep the memories present with me as i live in a new world? i'm not sure how to manage that.

i was remembering when i was teaching naomi how to sing, "hood rat, hood rat, hoochie mamma" and i smiled...its funny

i laugh as i remember given singing my chimegemege song with her hand grabbing her crotch like some gangster...they assumed i taught her that one, but i assuredly did not!

i remember what it meant to be a woman there, the lack of opportunity, choices, and freedom.

i laugh when i remember sneaking out (only for me it didn't seem like sneaking out as I was living alone) and walking through the night air with the huge moon hanging above us girls as we nervously made the trek to the house of dancing. a friend was getting married and still participated in traditional wedding practices. i felt uncomfortable as i sat on the wet grass in front of the house, the deep sound of frogs croaking in the background, a woman beside me in squat position dipping a freshly killed chicken into a pot of hot water and pulling out the feathers. i can still smell the scent of blood. it was hot and rich, i felt like puking. maybe this would be a good time to return to vegetarianism. the women watched my expressions as the chicken was plucked and portioned, they laughed at my discomfort. they were preparing a meal for the grooms family, the girl had to prove she knew how to cook.
when it was time we took off our shoes and went into the small house. everything that once was in the house as a furnishing was now in the front yard to make room for the woman who were to sit on the floor in typical l-shaped fashion. i sat and watched the women, drinking their maheu, a form of home fermented beer that was cheap and toxic. the big obnoxious woman with a red face stained from her skin lightening cream sat next to me. rather, she sat on top of me, wanting to be close to the only mzungu around. the stench of her made me sick, alcohol seeped from her pores. i wanted to leave but was excited to see the rituals. besides, the women were expecting me to dance.
the house was full of women, all expectant, all with small wads of kwacha stuffed into the chitenge. three women entered the room and sat in the only chairs. they positioned their drums firmly between their legs and began to beat the rhythm into the air. the women began to ululate and wave their arms. we all wanted to get started and were instantly excited when we saw the human snake of three women crawling on their hands and knees, heat to butt, draped with a cloth, making their way into the room. others moved out of the way to accommodate the snake as it slowly and intentionally made its way to the side of the room, swaying to the sound of the beat.
the mother of the bride kneeled in front of the ladies who were now sitting up against the wall, only her daughter now covered as the other two, her aunties sat beside her, fully nude from the waist up. the drumming began again and the mother began to dance before her daughter. to my american eyes it was exotic, inappropriate almost, but she was teaching her daughter the ways of a woman. the mother slowly unveiled her daughter to the crowd, bare breasted and head hung low out of respect, she was presented.
the dancing continued and the bride seemingly forgotten. she kept her head low as the elder woman began to dance, one to three at a time in the middle of the room they displayed their craft of movement as others stuffed kwacha into the dancer's waist wrap.
i wanted to pay attention and see everything but was crushed by the weight of the red-faced lady and disgusted by her proximity mixed with her scent. i needed to get out of the house, i needed to go home. the women drank more, laughed louder, and my heart hurt for the emptiness. i crawled out the front door only to be told i must dance.
so i did. i danced, and made money, and moved to the beat of those drums as they called out. i kept my eyes on pragcidence, my friend and teacher, she knew the moves, just follow after me, she said. and i did, feeling like beyonce had nothing on us. we danced for the bride, showing honor to the mother, to the elders, to our tribes. her being the bemba, mine being the mzungu's.