New Thing #18 – Take an African dance class

When I began this project back in January, I secretly knew that I would end up trying a whole variety of weird, wonderful and often quite painful new things. One place I never thought I’d find myself though was in a community centre in Finsbury Park surrounded by 15 energetic women, stamping my bare feet and singing loud harmonies. This was my first ever African dance class.

Justine, an old uni flatmate and a good friend of mine, suggested a while back that I join her at a her weekly dance class as a New Thing. Out of hand I dismissed the idea as back-up with only the vaguest intention of ever giving it a go. However as the weeks have progressed I’ve come to realise that the beauty of 52NT lies in its seductive ability to attempt the unusual, embrace the uncomfortable and charge head long into the down right embarrassing.

After last week’s epic high of having my portrait painted, I was keen to maintain the momentum I’d fostered and as I was going through my notebook (yes, I keep a 52NT notebook. Don’t judge me) I came across Jus’ suggestion. In a heady moment of bravado, I sent the text saying I’d like to join her at the next class. Even as I pressed send I was regretting my decision but that regret turned to dread moments later as the text came in: “Am so excited. You will love it! They don’t get many boys. Do you have any African clothes…?” I was committed now and, apparently, in desperate need of a costume.

The problem is, you see, like many British men I only dance under three strict circumstances:

-  As a child, with an auntie, a grandma or, on special occasions, a cousin at a wedding.
-  When I have consumed enough beer to make me think that I can dance like Cuban man with a snake in his pants.
-  When I think my Cuban man dance will make girls want to sleep with me.

At all other times, I either avoid dancing completely or do the bog standard shoe-gazing, foot tapping, arm-in-the-air dance popularised by the great Indie bands of the 90s. So the prospect of walking into a strange room (north of the river, no less) full of women and dancing without a drop of alcohol or sniff of sexuality in the air literally made me feel a bit sick with worry.

Vicky is the one on the left.

We turned up slightly late (sans costume thankfully) and managed to gate-crash the warm up session run by the unbelievably energetic Vicky, our teacher. Vicky, I’m reliably informed, used to be part of the “Adzido Pan African Dance Ensemble” which sounds fantastic. She was extremely welcoming and motioned for me to join the group in the warm-up. I got a few curious glances (but one was from another chap – YES!) but on the whole the atmosphere was overwhelmingly warm, friendly and non-judgemental.

Which was just as well as I was dressed in grey joggers, old white T-Shirt and was sweating within minutes. And I don’t mean light perspiration, I mean full on soaked clothing and drenched undercarriage sweating. Vicky had us doing all sorts of traditional dances, from the butt-wiggling struts in a circle through to galloping, arm-waving moves that seemed to use every muscle in your body. We did chants, harmonies, group dances, practices in the mirror – the whole lot. I very quickly gave up worrying about what I looked like and instead concentrated on not only getting my rhythm right (almost impossible for a lanky white man) but also learning the moves at the same time. It was, by some distance, the most physical thing I have done in years.

The most demanding part for me personally though was not the dance’s themselves, but the horrific realisation towards the end that we were about to “go solo”. Vicky had us all in a large circle and instructed the drummers to maintain a hypnotising, rhythmical beat. Then, one by agonising one, we made our way to the centre of the circle to freestyle dance of our own accord. If there was an activity that summed up the seven circles of hell for me it would be being forced to freestyle dance in front of a group of girls.

One by one my fellow dancers stepped up and produced what looked like to me award-winning routines, both in time and visually impressive. For a brief second I thought I’d got away with it and was busy mopping my brow when I realised that Vicky was dancing in front of me and I was being led into the circle. Dread turned to fear turned to panic. But then, in a rare moment of clarity, I realised that this moment really encapsulated the whole ethos of 52 New Things. It wasn’t there to make my life easy and coax me into a familiar life, it was there to challenge and push me into doing new things, even if that meant putting myself into awkward situations like doing an awkward white man’s dance in front of a room full of Amazonian females.

So I did something I have never, ever done before. I freestyled. I’m told it was an unusual medley of flailing limbs, badly performed routines from earlier in the evening and, bizarrely, a grand finale of kneeling jazzy hands and was carried back to my place in the circle on a wave of applause feeling invigorated, excited and above all, happy.

This New Thing was, by some distance, the most challenging one for me personally to date, even more so than Curry Hell. Not only physically (and by god I ache today) but also mentally. But I cannot express enough the pure enjoyment and fun that African dance offers. It is part work-out, part dance, part singing. It is a medley of experiences and a rush of addictive musical rapture. I urge you all to give it a go, even just once. No one will laugh at you, least of all me.

Vicky runs classes for the bargain price of £5 every Monday night near Manor House tube. Give her a bell on 07939377222 or drop her a line at blemasisters09@yahoo.co.uk for more information. Do it. Your life will be better for it.

Don't tell me karate has no place in African dance.

(Sorry for the quality of the pictures. It wasn’t appropriate to take them during the class and the ones after weren’t hugely successful.)