Archives for April 2023

the author’s mother

(Left) Photo courtesy of Kemi Role; (Right) Photo by Nirav Patel
[ID: (Left) A Black woman is smiling with hands raised above her head and wearing an emerald green turtleneck and blue jeans. She is in an apartment living room. (Right) A Black woman is smiling wearing a metallic orange gele and bright blue top and skirt wrap adorned with gold leaves. She is outside in a backyard surrounded by performers in a Nigerian wedding ceremony.]

 

dear Mum,

the tv is on, endlessly buzzing about the furious snowstorm barreling onto roofs

in this overheated Atlanta apartment you remain mostly on the sofa, swaddled by that hulking heather gray blanket

bones still frail subtly masked by your emerald sweater that hangs a little too loosely across your neck

your frame so small, past near death but the whisper of death still lingering.

it’s the third day of this christmastime visit

three families gather

California, Georgia, Tennessee, but Nigeria binds us.

the togetherness seems to power your limbs or maybe it’s that damn P-Square song that stays on repeat

and then there you are in the midst of a rowdy circle of mostly twenty-somethings

that sweet sly smile as you laugh dropping low to the ground

Momz to the ground tho?

there’s a little bit of victory i see.

 

dear Mum,

you say these neighbors are going to KNOW where I’m from today with a pleased defiance

this backyard of immigrant dreams

speaker blasting Ebenezer Obey Iyanla Lágbájá and on

once again you’re encircled

the alaga, the drummers, friends in bright blue purple aso-ebi

the brightness stamping the backyard walls weaving around your rose bushes.

you dance the decades and decades in this country

dressing your children in an inconspicuous corner of Murtala Muhammed to flee and to arrive

everything remembered as labored breaths swallow your delight.

 

oh but dear Mum,

you in the most common of rooms

home shopping network humming as backdrop, the warm light overheard peering into the circular glass top of the dining room table

that sony tabletop black CD boombox nearby ready to host this dance party of one

and today it’s PM Dawn and then it’s Janet and then it’s more Janet

then that specific Fela album and then it’s your beloved P-Square.

sometimes i wander into the kitchen, drawn by the echo of your faded pink indoor slippers, glance at the forgotten stew simmering on the stove and look over to you

your eyes closed, wrists swinging extended above your head

shoulders laughing half turn to meet my gaze

beams of sweat resting on your folded upper lip, you point your hands to steal my heart

then turn back to that dancing, to that joy

uninterrupted refuge.

 

– Kemi Role

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This article appeared in the Spring 2023 issue of In Dance.

[ID: Kiazi Malonga & Muisi-kongo Malonga sit at a dining room table facing the camera. Kiazi wears a jacket and flowy orange pants. He leans forward in his seat to rest his forearms on his legs. Muisi-kongo is behind Kiazi and wears an orange dress. She holds a smiling portrait of their father, Malonga Casquelourd.]

 

Photography by Sasha Kelley
Creative Director: Nkeiruka Oruche

To see the full range of images, view the article as PDF.

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“Is this Ms. Malonga? Oh my God. I Love her. I will be in her dance class Saturday.” This is the hairdresser E’s response, during our correspondence in my efforts to book a potential stylist for Muisi-kongo’s hair in preparation for our photoshoot for this issue.

When I share this with Muisi-kongo, even over voice notes, I can feel her squeamishness. Through her “you shouldn’t have told me that,” I can tell that she’s struggling with the challenges of being a person in the public eye.

“You just have to accept that people will see you as royalty, even if you don’t think that’s what you’re trying to do,” I offer her.

I’m always tickled when I get to witness these sides of Ms. Malonga, the one not in class teaching, the one not on stage performing. The side of her that shows she’s not quite sure it’s nice to know that goddesses use the toilet, and have insecurities.

Yet, I totally understand where E is coming from. I too have had many “Omg, is this The Muisi-kongo Malonga?” Even as I’m texting her. Even as we slowly build a friendship and comradeship that’s been a long time coming.

It’s an early Sunday morning, in an East Oakland home. Furniture has been rearranged for the photoshoot with siblings Muisi-kongo and Kiazi, children of the late renowned Malonga Casquelord, and their children Matsoua and Siama. Muisi-kongo barrels in with piles and piles of items, followed by her eight-year old son Matsoua. “Sorry I’m late, you know I had to get all this stuff you asked for.” I nod in response, and carry on with placing outfits on a clothing rack.

Not long after this initial exchange, as she walks back into the room, she pauses mid stride, “Ohhh, I see what you did. You told me a time two hours earlier than the real arrival time. Ah I see you. You already knew who you were dealing with.” This is the kick off to Muisi-kongo’s hilarity throughout the session, as we dress her, oil her up, do her make up, we witness multiple sides of Ms. Malonga, from the sage introspect to the class clown.

As we go through the suitcases and baskets of fabrics and artifacts that Muisi-kongo brought, I’m struck by how much of a keeper she is. An archive of her family and culture. I feel as though I’m witnessing layers and layers of family story, traditions, that one couldn’t begin to unravel in one sitting. I feel lucky to handle her ancestor bottles. Through these it’s apparent that Muisi-kongo is deeply connected, and guided by those rich in cultural traditions, and that she can be that also for her communities.

Kiazi shows up about half an hour later, his daughter Siama in the crook of one arm, and bags of what I can tell are all the items for a toddler on his other arm. “I brought a couple of items that are in the car, do you need me to bring them out?”

I let him know that I need him to first try on the options I’ve selected for him. I have to admit there’s apprehension in my style direction.

“Want me to try this on?… Oh is this vintage?… Alright alright I see you!!”

Buoyed by his first response, I continue. I hand him flowy orange-orange satin trousers, and pointy cheetah print shoes, and whisper ‘Sapeur’ under my breath, hoping to conjure understanding of where I’m going with this.

“Oh is this, what we doing? Alright come on then!”

I relax. My work is going to be easier than I imagined.

Although Kiazi, with his easy-going disposition, and Muisi-kongo with her undercover humor, are charming, the real stars of the show are the children. Siama, a strikingly verbal and fully engaged two-year old with firm boundaries, and an ability to clearly articulate her needs, and Matsoua, a friendly, curious, easy-going, and theatrical 8-year old.

Siama immediately owns the space, and in response, Kiazi is on full papa duty. Making sure to follow through with the details; snacks, activities, ensuring that the furniture doesn’t crash into her. He’s speaking to her in Lari, and she’s responding with understanding.

I crouch down and face her to talk her through the day. “We’re going to do hair, get dressed, and take some photos.” She stares back at me, as though trying to figure out if I’m someone she should trust. Fair enough. To break the ice, I say “alright let’s take a selfie.” This seems to do the trick. “Here’s your dress, your shoes, and your purse.” The purse is the final piece of the puzzle for her to be convinced, and accept me.

“I took the screen away, there are other kids here, he can connect with them instead.” Kiazi mutters to his older sibling. She responds with an almost imperceptible nod. Matsoua, the subject of the commentary, is delightful in front of the camera, hardly needing any prompts to activate exciting poses, and faces.

“I think she’s pooped.” Muisi-kongo picks up her niece and beelines to the bathroom to change her diaper.

And on it goes.

Between fitting clothes, acclimating to the bodies in the space, and caring for the children, it takes us a few hours to get rolling. But after a few warm up shots, they begin to loosen up. Things go up a notch when the sounds of Koffi Olomide’s ‘Effrakata’ coming out of the speakers, hits its climax. The Malongas dip, drop, and sway with the ease and nuance of true children of the soil.

Muisi-kongo Malonga and Kiazi Malonga are the children of Malonga Casquelourd, a world-renowned Congolese dancer, drummer and choreographer who built an exceptional legacy in the traditional arts in the US, and spent half his life activating Congolese culture at the Alice Arts Center (now named after him), in Oakland, California. Malonga developed a following at an early age as a dancer for Community Fetes, a network of indigenous cultural centers near Brazzaville, in the Congo Republic, where he grew up. He was a principal dancer with the National Congolese Dance Company, toured Africa, Europe and the United States. In 1972 he went to New York, and was a co-founder of Tanawa, the first central African dance company in the US. Malonga moved to Oakland in the mid-1970s, and joined CitiCenter Dance Theater to teach Congolese dance and drum classes. From there, he created his own dance troupe, Fua Dia Congo. In this interview we hear from his first two children.

Muisi-kongo Malonga is a dancer and culture bearer dedicated to preserving culture and cultivating the healing power of African arts traditions. As Artistic Director of Fua Dia Congo, Muisi-kongo continues the pioneering cultural preservation work begun in 1977 by her parents. She founded BottleTree Culture, a grassroots arts organization to reanimate the presence of African cultural arts in her native East Palo Alto. Her current projects include Congo Danced A Nairobi Blues, a site-specific dance-theater production and Lufuki!, an international dance collaboration.

Kiazi, a child protégé of his late father, who performed with his father’s Fua Dia Congo Performing Arts Company from age of 6, became a lead performer, then Musical Director. He currently teaches drumming, and released his debut album, Tembo Kia Ngoma in March of 2021.

The interview session with Kiazi and Muisi-kongo is mostly a listening session. I’m a co-passenger on a train overhearing close friends talk. I don’t even need to ask leading questions. For the most part, I insert myself to ask qualifying questions, or to expand on something I heard. Like a friend who’s come to visit, sitting with siblings trading jabs at each other, except, this time it’s anecdotes and lessons. Their father Malonga Casquelord is the enduring focal point. He is responsible for world building. He is the keeper of home. As a friend, I can’t share everything that I’ve heard, but I’m certainly happy to have been invited in.

 

Who makes up the Malonga family?

Muisi-kongo: Our Parents, Malonga Casquelourd; Dr. Faye McNair-Knox; Norma Jean Ishman-Brown; Cynthia Phillips. Their Children, Muisi-kongo Malonga; Kiazi Malonga; Lungusu Malonga; Boueta-Mbongo Malonga, and their Grandchildren: Malonga Matsoua Hemil Koub; Ma’Syiah Malonga-May; Siama Mpandu Malonga; Ynez Nzolani Malonga.

On Origin

Kiazi: We are Kongo people who originated from [the area that is] modern-day Angola, northern Angola. Kongo dia Ntotela or “The Kongo Kingdom” included Angola, parts of Congo-Brazzaville, and Congo-Kinshasa.

Muisi-kongo: Boko district. Southern part of what is now the Republic of Congo. Before that our origins are in Mbanza Kongo in modern-day Angola. Our names are like a road map. Our dad always said that, you know, he gave us our names so that we wouldn’t get lost. I’m the first. Muisi-kongo, which means ‘one from the Kongo’, then Kiazi is number two, the village that we come from. Lungusu is named after our great-grandfather. And lastly, Boueta-Mbongo is named after a prominent revolutionary figure in Congolese history who fought fiercely against colonialism.

On Parents

Kiazi: [Our Father] had a whole military background prior to coming to this country. When the Congo got its independence in 1960, he was in his early teens and already very active politically. We have pictures of him with Mao Tse Tung, as part of a delegation of young leaders sent by the Congolese government to China for special training. A lot of those people in the pictures were either killed or are in exile.

Muisi-kongo: He did not get his American citizenship until 2002 (after September 11). I don’t know how interested he was in being an American citizen. I wonder if he was holding on to a dream of returning, but finally accepted that his family, community and life were here.

Kiazi: Yeah, he had his green card. But in terms of giving up the Congolese passport, he wasn’t. He was real ‘African Bushman’ *chuckle*.

Muisi-kongo: My mom is Dr. Faye McNair-Knox. Her mother, Sarah Lee Williams McNair was from Augusta, GA and her father, Rev. Elisha Bonaparte McNair was from Bassfield, Mississippi. I think both of our moms’ families have roots in Mississippi before migrating West. My mom was a preacher’s kid. She was a brilliant scholar who studied and taught at Stanford, a super revolutionary, Pan-Africanist. We attended African-centered schools and grew up in the same CME church she grew up in, where she served as musical director. We attended family reunions every two years and she was the director for the big family choir. My mom passed on September 12, 2018.

Kiazi: My mother is Norma Jean Ishman-Brown. She was one of three, all girls. She was a middle child, and the only one that had children. She was an engineer who graduated from Stanford with a degree in Human Biology. The only connection I had to her side were her two sisters and her parents. My grandfather is from Mississippi, and my grandmother, Texas, Arkansas. They moved to Southern California, then Vegas, then back to Southern California. I was pretty close to that side of the family until my mom passed on November 21, 1998.

On Growing Up

Kiazi: [I grew up in] East Palo Alto. We have different moms, and spent weekends and vacations [together]. We have a very intricate family web. We took trips together. We have a lot of the same memories and experiences even though it wasn’t a 24/7 situation.

Muisi-kongo: I grew up between East Palo Alto and Oakland. I have two older sisters, Halili and RaShida from my mom’s first marriage. I spent a couple of years, from [age] 7 to 9 in France living with our dad’s younger sister. A strategy to make sure we were linked to our family and had a common language to communicate with. My mom was a military brat similar to our dad. Okay. Our dad’s father was part of an African infantry unit known as ‘Les tirailleurs Sénégalais’ in World War II. I lived in a few different places. My mom was a scholar…a college professor and linguist, but she kept up the pattern of frequent movement from her upbringing in a military family throughout her academic career. A couple of years in Virginia, in Miami, in New Jersey. I was with her for some of that. Other times, I would come back to Oakland to live with our dad. Even though we were splitting our time between our moms’ households and his, it’s not disjointed in my mind.

Kiazi: We used to call on the phone, and after the first six months, she had a French accent. It was hella funny.

Muisi-kongo: People!! Immersion! I grew up doing a lot of musical stuff. My mom, my two older sisters, and I would perform during Kwanzaa, songs by Sweet Honey in the Rock and other revolutionary Black things. I spent a lot of that time lip syncing because it was terrifying to be up there singing. People still come up to me, making fun of me about lip syncing.

Kiazi: I lived with my mom, and my two younger sisters. I have another younger sister from my mother’s marriage. We lived in East Menlo Park. I played a lot of basketball. I performed with Pops. But, he would always make sure that the arts weren’t impacting school. My mother passed at 16, then I moved up to Oakland full time and was commuting (to school), until I graduated.

On life with Malonga

Muisi-kongo: A message we always heard from my father is, there’s no such thing as a half sibling. There’s no confusion around the fact that we’re siblings. We grew up in different households partially as an extension of each other. But in the mind, he’s not my half brother because that’s not a thing. That’s not how we grew up. That’s not like the mindset that we were given.

Kiazi: Pops used to have us at the [Diata Diata] rehearsals on Sundays. I’m like, dude, can I just go home? When I was younger, I used to hate to be the token African boy that would drum at Black History Month in school. I’m trying to play ball, you know? As I got older, reflecting on the fact that I come from parents who saw the importance of being rooted in art. Pops would always tell us to always master and learn your art because it will take you places and put you in rooms with people who otherwise you wouldn’t be connected with, and if you need them, you have a plethora of a community that you can lean into.

Muisi-kongo: Our dad cooked a lot. People are always coming over. People were always living with us. We’d get home from rehearsal and people would come over and we had dinner at like midnight. You’d go to bed, get woken up at 1:00 in the morning to get up and come eat because rehearsal ended at 11.

Kiazi: Let me jump in right here. So they get woken up to eat but I got woken up to make the fufu before y’all got there.

Muisi-kongo: The dance was the central activity, really. But community was also an activity. We do this thing together, and it creates this energy beyond the dance and drumming. It wasn’t always people that were involved in the dance. He was a magnet for people in general.

Kiazi: He was super good at building people. I didn’t get this from him because sometimes I get tired of being around people, but he never did. Our house was open. Just community always. He was super instrumental in building a community based in that culture and bringing a lot of artists to grow the culture here, even people who were not Congolese, who were not artists, he [got] them involved, to learn something in the arts, to be able to increase how the art was being presented. We have several aunties and uncles who were teachers, dancers, drummers, singers, artists, musicians. A number of people outside of him and our greater family circle who were involved in arts and influence and guide our artistic journey.

Muisi-kongo: The movement and the energy around what we were doing, what we grew up in, was so strong that our friends ended up becoming a part of what we were doing. The friends that we grew up with, became family and were also involved in the art form. That avenue served multiple purposes. I probably started actually liking dance for myself around 12, where it no longer felt like a chore. You couldn’t just not participate. When I didn’t want to dance, I drummed a little bit with Diata Diata. But it was clear, I had to do something. [My father] would push but with limits. You weren’t just gonna sit with your arms folded and not be a part of what was happening. When he started the youth company, Ballet Kizingu, and got our peers involved, that’s when I felt myself blossom. I had spent most of my apprenticeship learning alongside adults. When we got together with our peers, that unlocked the joy.

On Going to the Congo

Muisi-kongo: 1988. [We were] very excited.

Kiazi: We definitely were. Lungusu cried for a good period of time. Boueta wasn’t born yet. Muisi and I just hung out on the plane and acted like we were getting drunk off of soda. Fall asleep, wake up, order all-you-can-drink soda. Up until that point, and even after, people would communicate via letter, but Pops would buy the boom boxes and sit down and talk and have us tell messages to our grandparents and all of the family there. They would do the same. He would send those tapes. Kind of like long voice notes. So coming into that trip, even though I was six, she was seven, we had a really good sense of who our family was. We had a lot of stories about our grandparents and uncles. When we saw people, it was like, “remember this story?” That’s him. Remember this one? Boom, that’s him. The one who got the whoopin’ when he was 40. That’s him.

Kiazi: [The next time I went was] 2006. I would have gone earlier. I was pushing him to go. When our grandfather passed in 2001, I was pushing to go and he was like, no, stay in school. Then I got into an overseas program in Tanzania. All right, I got my money. I’m going to Congo after. I’m buying my ticket. If you want to come with me, you can come. Fast forward, the accident happened. We all didn’t actually make it back as a collective until 2006.

Muisi-kongo: He went in ‘83, in ‘88. He went to bury our grandfather in 2001. He wasn’t able to go when our grandmother passed in ‘98.

Kiazi: There was a civil war.

On Cultural Identity & Connection

Kiazi: I got a lot of questions around being of African descent here in America. You might come to school in something that’s a little different, an African print shirt. So I got teased a lot at first. In third grade I went to public school and [kids] made a story up about me being a young African boy prodigy who would go around the world giving speeches.

Muisi-kongo: There were a lot of different ways that he tried to connect us to our actual family in addition to how the arts connected us to the fact that we were from Congo and that was ingrained.

Kiazi: My heart is in Congo. It’s where I identify, where I feel as a person, my healing, my growth, the way I look at spirituality is through that lens. I’m pretty solid on who I am in my Congolese identity. Knowing the arts and the culture helps me understand myself and my people better. This is who I am. This is where my family is from. This is why things are this way. You can look at yourself and understand your journey a little bit better.

Muisi-kongo: Traditional music and dance. Yeah, it’s a ritual, it’s an activity, it’s a skill. Most of all, it’s a portal. We can get into the politics of do you have to be born somewhere, to be ‘of’ somewhere? I wasn’t born in the Congo, but what’s very real is blood memory. What’s very real is that these are spiritual practices. So you absolutely tap into an ancient knowing that connects you to God and spirit and to all those who came before. I absolutely believe that being a practitioner of these traditions gives you that gateway that you can plug into at any given point. I’m very much a Congolese African American. Yet, all roads lead back to the same place. I was born and raised in the U.S. I’m deeply rooted. I’m connected. And I have different ways that I can tap into that connection. The dance is a very potent way where I can have this direct conversation, not contingent upon birthplace but rather birthright.

Kiazi: Not everybody from back home is super duper into traditional beliefs, or the traditional art forms. A lot of folks will even be so much more into Western ways, whether it’s worship music to the point where they know shit about stuff that’s going on here that you don’t even know because you’re just like, I’m not following it like that. I think being outside of the country is definitely a way to stay connected. It’s easy to lose your identity in a place where it’s like putting a drop of sugar in a huge thing of coffee. You won’t taste the sweetness. If you don’t hold on to the little you got you can get lost in the sauce.

On life ‘after’ Malonga. Hopes, Dreams, Regrets

Kiazi: Pops was the glue that connected everybody. With his transition shit shifts. We are evolving and finding new ways to connect as we grow. With me being a new dad, and Muisi with Matsoua, we’re connecting on parenting. We are seeing each other as adults, siblings, artists and parents. The artistic connection is always there. But as we walk into this new phase of our lives, there are new branches growing on this tree and we have to be mindful of how to tend them together.

Muisi-kongo: The hope is always to be able to pass these traditions on. Trying to balance the roles of parent and cultural caretaker, amongst other things, makes me reflect on how effective our dad was in everything that he was holding.

Kiazi: For Siama, I follow Pop’s perspective. I want her to find something that she’s super passionate about from an academic standpoint and then dedicate her life to that. She already likes to dance, so hopefully I’m jumpstarting and continue to pour into that. I wanted to be able to look at my daughter and be like, yeah, she’s doing her thing. I want to give them the gift of knowledge of self and culture.

Muisi-kongo: My desire at this stage is to center our efforts in passing the torch to our replacements. For my own son, nieces, nephews, and our community children. I want to see with my own eyes these traditions in the hands of those trusted and trained to carry them forward. I want to see the impact they will have on the world.

Kiazi: I try not to regret. I like to think before I move. But, people passing, you can’t really control that. So there’s a sense of dang, I wish they could be here because, this little one, she’s pretty groovy.

Muisi-kongo: I really wish my parents were here to see their extension. I would’ve loved to witness their relationships with their grandchildren as they grow. My mom passed away when Matsoua was about 4. I keep his memory of her fresh by talking about her often. I also tell him stories about his Nka nka (grandpa). There will always be a longing for their physical presence, but they are present in other ways.

On Home

Kiazi: Congo for me is home because Pops raised us always saying, this is not your home. You have a huge family. We have land. Referencing this far off place that he eventually took us. Our mamas were African American and they found home in the culture. That’s why I can identify with Congo being home.

Muisi-kongo: Home for me is in my body first. Wherever I go, I am already there. Home is also where my Ancestors have put down roots…East Palo Alto, Oakland, Bassfield, Augusta and the Congo.

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This article appeared in the Spring 2023 issue of In Dance.

Photo courtesy of Historia Negra de Cuba’s Archive
[ID: Cuban Carnival Street Scene circa 1907. A group of performers pose in colorful costumes on a sunny day in Cuba during the carnival.]

 

It was a sunny Havana afternoon when the Conga was born. The Orishas came down from the heavens and gifted it to us, mortals, so we could learn to be free. Historians say that the colonizers gave the enslaved a day off to parade throughout the city and that’s how the Conga came to be. I don’t believe them. The Conga’s too sacred for such origin story.

The Conga is widely known as Cuban carnival music. ¡Un, dos, tres, pa’llá! ¡Un, dos, tres, pa’cá! That’s how you dance it. One, two, three, to the left! One, two, three, to the right! The swag comes from within. The lead singer guides the crowd improvising call and response verses. The drummers beat at their own rhythm as the neighborhood follows them dancing its worries away.

Because my family lived in the back of the solar, our rundown government subsidized dwelling, we couldn’t always hear the Boom-boom-boom Tom-tom-tom. There was just almost never a moment of stillness in that place. Always some stray dog barking, some novela playing on the radio, some neighbors gossiping. Until everyone’s breathing would slow down as if they were looking to synchronize with the next door neighbor. Inhaling excitement, exhaling [as loud their lungs allowed] Hurry up, the Conga’s coming! Not a single soul would stay inside.

Siento un bombo mamita, me está llamando / I hear a bombo mommy, it’s calling me

During colonial times, the enslaved and free Negroes could go out and have a fun day. But be careful, they will start demanding freedom if you let them. The police were always there. Watching us.

When Cuba became an independent nation in 1902, politicians rushed to use the Conga for their politicking. Some in favor, some against it. What’s more dangerous than joyful Negroes singing out loud our deepest truths? Always using poignant street jargon, the Conga thrived in a spontaneity that’s never not political. That’s why dictator Gerardo Machado banned the Conga in the 1930s. Dictator-to-be Fulgencio Batista lifted the ban in 1937 and the Conga flourished as a performing art. From the hood to the world!

Growing up in 1990s Cuba, with the anxiety and desperation living in dictatorship during a crisis, the Conga somehow managed to feed our souls. It made us defiant. We got sassy and provocative. Even when the times changed, the police stayed. With a baton in their hands and a whip in their minds. The Conga and the police. Inseparable.

Tumba la caña, anda ligero, mira que viene el mayoral sonando el cuero. / Cut down the sugar cane, keep it cool, watch out the overseer is coming cracking the whip.

I dance to the Conga from my living room these days. Sometimes hoping to hear some shout Hurry up, the Conga’s coming! Freedom’s coming. So don’t just come over here to shake your body, baby, do the Conga. Let us treasure this Cuban Negro polyrhythmic communal love language. This might be our last utopian space of ultimate freedom.

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This article appeared in the Spring 2023 issue of In Dance.

Photo courtesy of Eman Desouky
[ID: Black and white image of DJ Emancipation standing against a wooden gate, holding a cigar in her right hand with puffs of smoke that magically seem to come out of her eyes and her mouth. She is dressed in a black suit jacket, with a thick gold watch and gold chains with pendants as accessories.]

 

 

Listen to the stirrings of your copper brown skin, the greatest gift of the Egyptian sun, the creator of all life. The focus of your deep eyes, molten and luscious. The rhythm of your heartbeat, strong and deep, as it drums your life’s beautiful song. Can you hear it?  Do you know what language that is? We have been waking up to this melody for centuries.

These are songs of re-membering*^[1]. Of re-awakening. Let us re-member together:

Listen: “Hanina” – Jasmon feat. Mohammed Mounir

 

NUT^[2], oh holy one. Goddess of the sky.

You guided our people across the Mediterranean sea. The currents carried us to the West. Propelled by the winds of thunderstorms and Sahara dust*^[3] across the Atlantic, to places where they spoke different languages, but were mirror images of us. You remind us of the songs we sang when we landed and were greeted with care by the peoples of those lands.

On our journey back home we anchored off the Western edge of our continent before making our way into the Mediterranean. We remember the pain You held bearing witness to the creaking ships that reeked of terror. A strange language not of this land echoed. Black bodies imprisoned, shackled, enslaved. Our fear floated into the heavens and You wept. Your tears falling through the skies, across the land, beating down against our skin. We sang songs of grief, drummed rhythms of courage as we watched our kin being forced onto the ships. We sang and sang. Together we opened our mouths as your name screamed through our throats, tossing our bodies to the sand, undulating, throwing dark tresses side to side through the air with our heads bent until our voices, raspy and pregnant with sadness, faded with the ships into the depths of the wailing Atlantic.

We look into each other’s eyes and see the edges of NUT’s majesty: Altair, Pleiades, Alawaid, Andromeda, Kaitos. This is the map home. Oh Nut, sacred sky mother, You help us re-member that our ancestors created the universe. Reflections of us, returned whole. Now as we toss our bodies to the sand, throwing our dark tresses side to side through the air, it is in reverence of You. And it is in reverence of us.

 

Listen: “Alf Leila Wa Leila” – Om Kalsoum

 

Oh Isis^[4], divine Mother. They stole your name like they stole our ancestors from their tombs, stole our belongings, stole our lands. They took us from Your womb, oh holy One. They took us from ourselves when they said we were too ugly, too dark, too Black. They turned our sacred into a joke. Dis-membered. Severed our continent despite centuries of graceful crossings through/above/below the Sahara by our kin. Are our dead lost and wandering because of the theft of our resting places? Will our ancestors know who we are? Will they find us?

But as we are bent in grief, singing songs to the winds that carry our prayers on the Nile, we are no longer afraid. We dance with warm sand between our toes as we touch our foreheads to the fertile soil of the delta smelling like tears and blood, in reverence to You, divine Mother. Your magic is like a balm, oh Isis, healing the wounds of grief with each prayer of re-membrance, each moment we invoke the song of our people that tell stories of the majesty of who we are and where we come from. The balm that stitches us back to ourselves, whole. In the practice of being beyond space and time, moving our bodies together, you remind us that our lives are not scarce, they are Infinite.

 

Listen: clip from Latcho Drom

 

Oh Sekhmet^[5], holiest of warriors!

They saw our eyes, red from the tears we shed when they built the dam that flooded our ancestral lands. The Nile floods filled our sacred temples. Our homes were destroyed. Our culture epicenters washed away into the sea. They uprooted us, but didn’t know our roots have survived for eons, nourished and healed by those very same waters. They tried to drown us but they didn’t know we were descendants of Nubia’s Nile warriors. The Undrowned. Healing the earth. Rising eternal from the waters like the sacred blue lotus. Our Nubian songs filling the skies with our undying love for the land.

They called you bloodthirsty but they do not know you. What they thought was blood in your eyes was really magic. Your rage is misunderstood. Our power frightens them. It roars across the lands in prayer, returning to us tenfold, filling us with your fierce love, as our undulating arms echo the soft hills and valleys of Nubia, and the soft tongue of our Nubian song. We re-member you. We re-member us.

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^[1] This act of “re-membering” is inspired by the work of Layla K. Feghali of River Rose Re-membrance, who says that we re-member in order to heal the “culture of severance” that characterizes our contemporary world, a transformation of personal, ancestral, communal, and ecological traumas and violations towards a more life-affirming and dignified reality.

^[2] Goddess of the heavens, creator of the world, in Egyptian mythology

^[3] The Sahara Dust is a natural phenomenon where sand from the Sahara was blown by a storm across the Atlantic, to the lands of Borinquen, now known as Puerto Rico.  I imagine these storms (which continue to this day) carried my ancestors, in partnership with the Phoenecians, across the Atlantic regularly way before Columbus was even an idea in the cosmos.

^[4] The mother of us all in Egyptian mythology

^[5] Lion goddess, fierce warrior spirit in Egyptian Mythology

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This article appeared in the Spring 2023 issue of In Dance.

Illustration by Bruna Borges
[ID: Illustration with a black background. There is a symbolic representation of the afterlife/ancestors in white, followed by a child playing a drum in orange, then a kid dancing, followed by an adult and then an ancient dancing, followed by the afterlife representation.]

 

Africans don’t need anyone to define us. Our cultures are the fabric of our skin, our blood flow, our heart beat. By the age of 3, an African child can move aptly to African rhythms. “Who taught them?” No one. It’s in us.

When I was 5, I followed my mother to a burial of a prominent Chief in my village in Amichi. It felt like a Carnival. Many dances, rituals, and masquerades were on display, but one engulfed me in its spirit. Egwu Amara. As the dancers emerged with energy and grace, my mother was stunned as to how, without much effort, I joined them, copying every move to the letter. My ability to execute the movement, despite my young age, meant that people sprayed me lots of money to show appreciation. At the climax of the performance, three performers in costumes depicting mermaids danced onto the stage with pythons curled around their waists. I got terrified and ran to my mother to seek refuge. Clutched to my mother’s thighs, I watched, entranced as the performer conveyed tenderness, majesty and many other emotions hard to describe.

Thinking back to this moment, I can’t help but think about dance as not just a discipline and form of entertainment but of who we are as people. Traditionally, for us, dance is embedded in every aspect of our culture; spiritual, occupational, rites of passage, communal, and yes also entertainment.

If we lose our dances. We lose our culture. We lose our traditions. We lose ourselves.

Traditionally, Igbo communities have dance practices that guide essentially every aspect of life, and it is critical that we preserve them.

For spiritual health, we have practices such as Ese music and dance from Mbaise, Imo State used to bid farewell to an accomplished and of-age (70+ years) person who has died to the realm of the ancestors. Or Egwu Amara, by the riverine (River Niger) communities in Anambra and Delta state, used to venerate water deities, and portray their agency over territorial waters and underwater life.

As an occupational practice, we witness friends and family coming together in solidarity and support during farming season. They sing and till soil in the rhythm of the music. Which makes farm work less tedious, and more fun. They chant songs with their names to motivate and boost morale and mock those lagging behind. In turn, some of our Igbo dances exist as depictions of our occupational activities like farming, fishing, wine tapping, hunting, as reminders or our roots.

During marriage rites, and initiation into stages or sectors of society, dances like Nkwa Umuagbogho and Ikorodo serve as tools to engage attendants while also providing an avenue to expose people of marital age to potential suitors.

Okanga, from Enugu state and Ikpirikpi Ogu aka Ohafia War Dance serve as tools for communication in communities, passing down messages, historical information, and words of wisdom to those who witness. Okanga, a dance specifically for accomplished men, have dancers use body movements to depict to the audience how many cows or horses they have killed, as these animals are seen as highly valuable. In Ikpirikpi Ogu from Abia state, the dancers are seen carrying human heads (props) on their heads to show victory over their enemy. Additionally, some Igbo traditional musical instruments, like Ekwe, Ogene, and Oja are used to communicate to the community in the cases of danger, death, emergency, or celebration.

Atilogu/Atilogwu and Ogene are Igbo folkloric dances that have roots in traditional forms, but emerge primarily for entertainment. Atilogu, a high-energy and acrobatic form is experienced at burials, New Yam festivals, coronations, weddings, carnivals and any event that calls for sideshows and attractions.

Africans are rich in tradition, and we have so much already available to us. My Igbo people, our culture is gradually eroding, and unless intentional and deliberate measures are taken to preserve our beautiful and dynamic traditions, we will go extinct.

I have started my own work towards the goal of replanting our traditional dances, and thus practices. I formed Okachamma Dance Troupe International, a dance performance group that explores many forms of dances not just from Igbo communities but from other Nigerian cultures, to preserve our cultural dances and pass the knowledge to the next generations. Okachamma shares histories, artifacts, and practices in conventional schools, community arenas, and the public sphere.

Because if we lose our dance, we lose ourselves, and I will do anything for that 5-year old child, clutching his mothers thighs, entranced and engulfed, feeling the pride and certainty of his culture.

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This article appeared in the Spring 2023 issue of In Dance.

[ID: Naomi Gedo Diouf surrounded by her children and grandchildren. She is holding a photo of her husband, ancestor Papa Zakarya Diouf.]

 

Photography by Aneesah Dryver
Creative Director: Nkeiruka Oruche

To see the full range of images, view the article as a PDF.

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It’s 8:37 am on a Saturday in March, at the home of the Diouf family. Mama Naomi is up in her chambers, doing her best to stay out of the way as our shoot team has descended on her bedroom, with lights, plugs, clothes, makeup and bodies in every corner, trying to do everything. Many of the other rooms of the house are filled with people, of various ages, looking through piles of clothes, sipping from a disposable hot drink cup, rolling around under blankets, peeking into a bathroom mirror, or walking around with a cell phone lodged between their ear and shoulders.

‘Everyone’ is here. Mama Naomi Gedo Johnson-Diouf, her children, Esailama, Sakeenah, Madiou, Ibrahima, and Fatou Kine, and her grandchildren, Makai 16, TAKH 10, Maya 6, Kayden 4 and Demarcus 4. Papa Zakarya Diouf, who began his ancestorship journey on October 9, 2021, is also here, in spirit, in photos, and on a piece of mail with his name boldly written in all caps, that catches my eye. I imagine this is him reminding me that I need to style him too.

“Ahhhhhh!” It’s Ibrahima, responding to his older sister Esailama’s pounce on him, that makes them topple onto their mother’s bed. Esailama clutches on to him, and smothers him with hugs and kisses. When she’s finally satisfied that she’s imparted enough, for the moment, she releases him. I see my opening to ask for her to meet with me, so that we can make some decisions about her outfits for the shoot.

Our 6-person photoshoot team arrived before 7am today to kick things off, and although seemingly under control, it’s not just a regular Saturday. It’s arguably the busiest weekend in this family’s schedule. Aside from the full family photoshoot, it’s also the weekend of their dance company Diamano Coura’s annual Collage des Cultures Africaines, a multi-day conference of dance and drum workshops, performances, and activities with local and international guest artists alike.

Still, I don’t think I’ve taken in the enormity of the situation, but it wasn’t lost on me that this was exactly what I was curious to discover. To the rest of the Bay Area dance community, there was a conference happening, which meant attending classes and connecting with other African dance lovers. But here I was in their home, watching Esailama ask her family for their coffee orders, letting her mother know that her preferred tea order was not available by delivery app, while also toggling between phone calls, troubleshooting lodging and accommodation mishaps associated with the conference.

While it seemed too busy for a photoshoot, it was also the opportunity to be able to have all the family back home in one place.

As I tinkered with furniture pieces and picture frames, selecting outfits, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like with Papa Zak in person. I knew him as my instructor of West African Dances at Laney College, before I dropped out because ‘life’ got busy. In that time, I was struck by his precision in the craft, and commitment to education and higher learning.

I had to stop myself from spending time staring at photos all around the house. Because even if all I wanted to do was sit around and sip tea drinks, and ask more questions like if “Fatou Kine is the Kim K of the family then what is everybody else?”

“Nkei come and tie me Nigerian gele.” Mama Naomi called from the room. It was action time.

Dr. Zakarya Sao Diouf and Naomi Gedo Diouf are culture bearers and artists from Senegal and Liberia, respectively, who have contributed to the practice and performance of West African dance, drum, and culture in African diasporic communities for more than four decades. Before immigrating to the U.S. in 1969, he led the Mali Dance Ensemble and served as artistic director of Les Ballet Africaines of Guinea and National Ballet of Senegal. In 1969, Zakarya joined the faculty of Southern Illinois University and was invited to dance with the dancer and choreographer Katherine Dunham.

Naomi Gedo Diouf grew up in Liberia and danced at Kendeja Cultural Center of the Liberian National Troupe and with prominent dancers and musicians from other West African nations. She came to Los Angeles as a high school student as a member of the Youth for Understanding Exchange Program and later returned to the U.S. for university. In 1979, she met Zakarya who asked her to join his new dance company.

 

Introduce your family to us.

Mama Naomi: Naomi Gedo Johnson-Diouf and Zakarya Sao Diouf (Ancestor). Children, Ousmane Diouf (Senegal), Adjie Diouf (Senegal), Esailama G. Diouf-Henry, Sakeenah McCullough Diouf, Madiou S. Diouf (Son #1 in the US), Ibrahima O. Diouf (Youngest son in US), and Fatou Kine M. Diouf (daughter in Atlanta).

The Grandchildren, Makai 16, TAKH 10, Maya 6, Kayden 4, and Demarcus 4.

Go back, where did it all start?

Esailama: Papa Zak & Mama Naomi met on the dance floor…

Okay, before that, who are your people? Where are you from?

Ibrahima: My people are Senegalese, but me and my siblings came up with the name Senegaberian. We put it in that direction mainly because, your father first and then your mom. My dad’s from Senegal. My mom’s from Liberia. Our people come from Medina. My dad is Serrer, from Kaolack, where he was born and then he traveled over to his family in Medina.

Esailama: On the Liberian side, we come from Lafayette Couya Johnson and Naomi Goede Johnson. Mama Naomi is named after her mother and both of those people were born in Cape Palmas, Liberia. That is where both father and mother of Mama Naomi come from. L Couya was an orphan raised by his uncle in Monrovia, the nation’s capital, where Mama Naomi was born. There are about 18 documented ethnic groups in Liberia. Ours is Grebo. They were known to be warriors who held heavy resistance in times of enslavement.

What was home like for you growing up?

Mama Naomi: My dance started in the home arena, in my father’s house, (although) in my immediate family who dances on this performance level. My father had this grand celebration that the president of Liberia (at the time) attended. And normally in our tradition when you have these, there is traditional dance. For Grebo people, for the men it’s the Doglor and for women it’s the Boyeh. When you’re honoring a big person, you have to do these dances. That was my history. My first love with traditional dance. That was the marker.

Sakeenah: For San Diego life, our day to day was typical. Kids went to school in the morning. We had dance class one night a week like on Wednesday nights or Thursday nights. That night was usually an eat-out night. We had our responsibilities, we had chores. Our parents were very particular on our homework. No matter what they had going on, they took time out to make sure that our homework was done, and we were on top of our things. Mommy really trained us up, on domestication. We knew how to do laundry, sort clothes, and cut chicken.

Esailama: What she forgot to say is that, we were living with the majority of the Liberian National Culture Troupe. There were about 15 people in a 2-bedroom apartment in La Jolla (San Diego). My mom was finishing her bachelor’s in computer science engineering. During that time, a lot of music and dance took place in the house. There’s a history of West African dance in the United States. A lot of the people who have companies now were one large company performing in the San Diego Zoo or EPCOT Center and living together in one house talking about sewing, talking about music, about dance. A lot of the stuff that my mom learned came from those environments. All they did all the time was talk about drumming and dance. Dancing in the living room, drumming in the living room, rehearsing in the living room. Singing and dancing all day, arguing, fussing, doing all that comes with a whole bunch of people in a two-bedroom house.

Sakeenah: And then the family transitioned and moved to the Bay Area.

Esailama: Only thing that changed from San Diego to the Bay Area was that the house got bigger. You still had a lot of people. There’s three waves of households. From the 1980s, up to the 2000s, the household has been a community house, where you have dancers, musicians, costume makers, and singers.

Madiou: Once we got up to the Bay Area, it got a little bit more youthful. We had a lot of young drummers too. By the time Ibrahima was born, Esailama and Sakeenah were in college, some cousins joined in with us and we were all living together, growing up together. We just always shared our parents with everybody for our whole life.

Some of you have started your own families and households. Is it like how you grew up? How is it the same or different from how you grew up?

Sakeenah: I am married. And, to have a million people in the house. There was a party at my house. Right? So I think there’s nine people in the house right now. Now who lives here? There’s four of us. But this morning, there’s nine. And I don’t think anything of it. It’s just natural. I’m accustomed to that now. My husband comes from a small nuclear family, where it was always just him, his siblings and parents. I won’t say he’s getting used to it, but he just sees it. This is just who I am. This is just how we are.

Ibrahima: I don’t have any kids. I have my goddaughter and nieces and nephews, but it’s me by myself. I’m dedicated to my work at this time.

Esalaima: Yes. There’s a lot of people who come in and out of my house and my back house is a rotating house for people to live in.

Madiou: Kinda is like that a lil’ bit not to that extreme… but in its own way.

Esailama: I think there is a little bit of a difference. I have people who come in and out of my house. People stay here. My back house is rotating. But there’s a little bit of a shift in the sense for my parents, there was rehearsals, classes, all that stuff going on all the time. And if we wanted to be together, we’d be in a rehearsal or a class or in a show. Looking at my relationship with my son, Sakeenah with hers, and Madiou with his, our children, this generation, they’re doing their own thing very early on. We’re very careful and mindful of allowing them that space. If they don’t want to dance, they don’t have to dance. They don’t have to drum. We encourage them and hope this can be a foundation because we love it and do it. We do take them to shows and rehearsals and classes, but we make space for them to explore and be whomever they are outside of that.

How does your family background and parents as dancers influence you now?

Kine: I would say we were kind of all born into it. It was our extracurricular activity that became our passion as we got older. For me, it was a wonderful thing to be born into. Being able to first be an apprentice under my own mother. Then study under my brother. That’s how we bond. Besides dance, nursing was my calling. I could still have my nursing career and have my dancing career. I explored many different things. I did step, hip hop. I’m currently in a dance organization, House Arrest Two Championship Dance Team Inc., out of Chicago, Illinois which I joined in college at Clark Atlanta University.

Ibrahima: I was definitely born into the dance. The rhythm was in my body. I would not say I took dance seriously [until] about the age of 10 or 12. I danced with Diamano Coura West African Dance Company. I went to Berkeley High [where] my mom taught. That’s where my dance choreography journey started at Berkeley High because of the African-American studies department. My friends thought I would be this famous choreographer but it took a right turn doing drawing and design, my first passion. I still keep West African dance. I have danced with choreographer Fatima doing contemporary styles, still based around African dance. I went to school for fashion design and I have my own clothing line, Rebels of the Soil, challenging the eye of classification for men and women. Fashion and dance go hand in hand, because I first started learning how to sew garments and do things from watching my mother, her good friend uncle Nimely, and their friend who has transitioned, Papa Ibrahima Camara. I always tie my designs back to what I was born into.

Sakeenah: I was first introduced to dance at around eight. It’s in the home. It’s what we do. I won’t say that I have two left feet. I probably could have danced a little bit if I really kept up with it. I think I can claim one performance. I went off to college and then came back and we were doing big shows at the Calvin Simmons Theater and selling seats and I just jumped right in and took the hat of Ticketmaster for performances. When my dad was teaching the women’s group [I took] classes with him. But I didn’t perform. I’m in the audience, clapping my hands, and moving my body a little bit, but I’m not getting out there on the dance floor.

Madiou: I came into the picture when things were getting going in San Diego. My dad was dancing, but he was more so drumming. I went in the direction of the drumming. He kind of put that in front of me more. I wanted to dance at one point, so I dipped in it a little bit. I know how to dance because I’ve been around it, but I grew up more so drumming. At one point I focused more on sports, but I never stopped drumming. As I grew up, I’ve always been able to keep music and percussion. I went to college for audio engineering, so I can be an engineer and still create beats and record people and bring my own flavor that I’ve learned from growing up in the arts with my parents all these years.

Makai: I’m not that interested in dance, but I like watching the shows and being around it because it’s pretty cool to me. It brings people together. I think I got [music] from my father because he drums and he’s a music producer. I know a lot of rhythms.

Kine: My perspective of my parents, keeping it going to bring both their cultures to the states so people experience it. They’ve taught about four generations, from babies to adults, and it brought the culture and kept the culture going. And those people sometimes branch off and go to do their own thing and it becomes their passion.

Esailama: My mom always talks [about her and her] brother Lafayette Johnson Jr. relationship with Cuban, salsa, merengue, and cha cha cha cha dancing. At that time in their youth there was all this cross-cultural inspiration between Liberia, Senegal, Brazil, and Cuba. Festac, the 1977 festival. Those cultural exchanges and how Latin dance influenced a lot of West African cultures.

How does dancing connect you to your cultural roots & identity?

Kine: [When asked] if I identify myself as an American or an African, I always identify myself as African. Not just because my parents are from Africa, but when I go to Senegal (I haven’t been to Liberia yet), I feel like I’m home.

Esailama: I remember as a child, when my grandfather L.Kwia Johnson passed away, I was standing next to my grandmother, and I was scared but it was the most fascinating thing you could have seen. Something you will never see on a performance stage. But it took place right there in the yard of our house in Fiamah, Liberia. These people came down from the countryside. They did the Doglor to commemorate this big person in that way. We saw the same thing in Senegal when (my father) Papa Zak passed away. He was celebrated in such a moving way in Medina (Senegal), where he was raised. One final sendoff, orators [singers], the dance was there through the music and song.

When y’all are not dancing. What are y’all doing?

Kine: We go out. When we’re all in the Bay Area, we do brunch at home on Sundays and cook together. Watch our different shows together, and come up with new dance ideas or come up with new drum breaks. Go on trips, take the kids places. Bond together. Since, some of us are not with the rest, try to find that time. We talk on the phone every day. We have a sibling group chat. We are very family-oriented, so we’re going to find ways.

What does home mean to you?

Esailama: There’s a man named Baba Bill Summers, who was a very good friend of Papa’s. He said to me that the world is your house and these places that you are from are the many rooms in your house. So as we think about our house, and our house being the world, and our rooms being Senegal, Liberia, California, Atlanta, Cuba, wherever it is that we have planted seeds, those are the rooms in our house. When I think about home, I think about that. I think about my home being expansive and me having multiple rooms in that house that are various parts of the world.

Ibrahima: Love that! Love that explanation. I’m with you 100%.

Sakeenah: I was just about to say what you just said.

Kine: Mmhmm I agree.

You can’t take Esailama’s answer.

Sakeenah: I can’t take her answer, but it’s funny because we call the house that our mother dwells at as ‘The House.’ Our parents’ house. “I’m at ‘the’ house” not “I’m at my house.” That’s the phrase for home. I won’t call it the foundation because of course we’ve lived in different places, but, this was the last home that, you know, that our parents shared. 20 years. I don’t want to be cliche. Home is where the heart is. Home is where the love is. There are many aspects of what is home and what feels like home. And it’s multiple physical spaces. We all have our individual spaces and places. The space where I come in and out, it’s home for me. It’s home for my son.

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This article appeared in the Spring 2023 issue of In Dance.