By Richard Wright
Excerpted from his book Black Power.
I pushed forward in the dark, down lanes of women sitting besides
their boxes, their faces lit by flickering candles. As I stayed on I
heard the sound of drums. Yes; I'd find them... Guided by the
throbbing vibrations, I went forward until I came to a vast concrete
enclosure. The drums were beating behind that high wall... Could I get
in? I went around the wall until I came to a narrow opening.
Discreetly, I peered through and saw, far back in the compound, a
group of people dancing to drums; kerosene lanterns lit up the
tableau. Ought I go in? They were black and so was I. But my clothes
were different from theirs; they would know me for a stranger.
"What do you want?"
"Nothing," I said, smiling at him. "What' s going on in there?"
"You 're a stranger, aren't you?"
"Yes; I'm an American."
"Come on in," he said.
I followed him in, noticing as I passed a row of dim-lit rooms that in
some rooms only men were seated and in others only women.... We came
to a swirling knot of men and women; they were dancing in a wide
circle, barefooted, shuffling to the demoniacal beat of the drums
which were being pounded by a group of men near the wall. The ground
was wet from the recent rain and their bare feet slapped and caressed
the earth.
"Why are they dancing?" I asked the young man.
"A girl has just died," he told me.
There was no sadness or joy on their faces; they struck me as being
people who had to go through with something and they were doing their
job. Indeed, most of the faces seemed kind of absentminded. Now and
then some man or woman would leave the ring and dance alone in the
center. They danced not with their legs or arms, but with their entire
bodies, moving slowly, undulating their abdomens, their eyes holding a
faraway look.
"Why are they dancing?" I asked again, recalling that I'd asked, the
same question before, but feeling that I hadn't had an answer.
"A young girl has just died, you see," he said.
I still didn't know why they were dancing and I wanted to him a third
time. An old man came to me and shook my hand, then offered me a
chair. I sat and stared. The lanterns cast black shadows on the wet
ground as the men and women moved slowly to the beat of the drums,
their hands outstretched, their fingers trembling. Why are they
dancing ...? It was like watching something transpire in a dream.
Still another young man came and joined the two who now flanked my
chair. They mumbled something together and then the young man who had
brought me in stooped and whispered:
"You'd better go now, sat."
I rose and shook hands with them, then walked slowly over the wet
earth, avoiding the rain puddles. Why are they dancing…? And their
dancing was almost identical with the movements of the High Life
dancing that I'd seen in the outdoor dance hall.... At the entrance I
paused and looked back; I was surprised to see that the young man had
discreetly followed me.
"You say that a young girl has died?" "Yes, sar."
"And that's why they are dancing?" "Yes, sar."
I shook his hand and walked into the damp streets, my eyes aware of
the flickering candles that stretched to both sides of me. Jesus
Christ, I mumbled. I turned and retraced my steps and stood again in
the entrance to the compound and saw that the men and women were now
holding hands as they circled round and round. The young man stood
watching me....
"Good night!" I called to him.
"Good night, sar!" he answered.
I walked briskly and determinedly off, looking over my shoulder and
keeping in the line of my vision that dance; I stared at the circling
men and women until I could see them no more. The women had been
holding their hands joined together above the heads of the men, and
the men, as though they had been playing London Bridge Is Falling
Down, were filing with slow dignity through the handmade arches. The
feet of the dancers had barely lifted from the ground as they
shuffled; their bodies had made sharp angles as they moved and I had
been surprised to see that they were moving much quicker than I had
thought; they had given me the impression of moving slowly, lazily,
but, at that distance, there was a kind of concentrated tension in
their gyrations, yet they were utterly relaxed. I had been looking
backward as I walked and then the young man pulled the wooden gate
shut and it was gone forever... I had understood nothing. I was black
and they were black, but my blackness did not help me.
Excerpted from the book "Black Power," © 1954 by Richard Wright. Used
with permission of John Hawkins & Associates
Black Power by Richard Wright
http://www.harpercollins.com/books/Black-Power-Richard-Wright/?isbn=9780061449451
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