She asked “Are you Coloured?” I said yes. “And you do Kizomba?” she probed with slight incredulity. I was like YES. People get an idea based on your appearance. Only. Prejudices are human nature and I had to look past various trivial tendencies as a Kizombie.
Kizomba is all over Europe and in Africa, it’s rapidly spreading from its roots in Angola. In Joburg, its growth is too small for my liking. It’s not exclusive to Angolans anymore.
On one Sunday I danced and talked with an American, an Angolan and a Zimbabwean all because of this sensual dance. I’ve learnt about the lives of Mozambicans, Rwandans and a Russian too.
I can’t stop, I mean I won’t stop, going to Kizomba classes and parties as it has added value to my sports-fuelled world.
Besides the beautiful women I get to dance with, there’s the camaraderie I have with an Afrikaans speaking Congolese, an Indian that talks Coloured, and that Nigerian that acts gangster. The noticeable break ups, the obvious romances and the undercover lovers that expose themselves on a weekly basis add to this colourful society. There was also a trivial argument about sensual memes I sent out but that’s none of your business – unless you want in? (in a Deadpool voice) Whatsapp me!
It all makes for an award winning daytime drama script.
My friends have this idea that I dance to get lucky. I won’t lie sometimes I do, but my intention was to end the predictability of my life. Not that it’s boring. I could write a soapie based on myself.
I do Kizomba because it presents a chance to dance with stunning ladies every week. Just see Alicia, Ayesha, Basheera, Bonolo, Busi, Carmen, Christina, Claire, Chevon, Deirdre, Delicia, Dineo, Elizabeth, Eunice, Jax, Janelle, Juliet… the list ends at Z. But I have to add Mel and Viv.
The first time I saw this dance I was like WOW, that guy, how did he do that? And how did she know? It’s rehearsed. I know. But hell yes I want in.
After my first class with BailaAfrika, I was committed. And two years later I can proudly count on one hand the amount of parties I missed. That’s too many.
The enjoyment of this music, the synergy with a stranger, the courtesy of moving WITH this fine lady. I mean, the attraction, the ease of this Kizomba is captivating.
More gentleman need to do it. The fact that a lady allows you into her space, your face millimeters from hers and your hands on her body; you reach another – needed – level of respect for women.
And this is something a few gents don’t get. It’s not an opportunity to grope. Maybe it’s a chance to ask for her number and to show your slick moves, but it is not an option to be disrespectful.
See this Kizomba is a celebration. Whether the song is about being in love or being dumped, it’s a cheerful coming together (see what I did there). It’s balm for the battered soul.
Some other ignorant notions I’ve received include: I don’t look like a dancer, and that it’s gay. The best compliment I’ve got: ‘Rooftop is not the same without you.’
So if I let the colour of my skin deter this craving, or the idea that it’s only for Angolans, or only for talented dancers, then I’d probably be at some club on weekends swaying like a wallflower, eyeing that chick, talking trash – missing out on a bevy of beauties.
That’s not me. This is Kizomba. Ladies. Let me hold you.