The Writers' Circle

As we lay together in the dark the night was filled by the sound of drums, frogs and beetles.
'Those are not war drums, are they?' Simon asked.
'No, that is the background music of my childhood,' I told him. 'Africans dance and drum and play music all the time. It's comforting in a way. It means we're not alone out here. There are others, probably as afraid of the dark as we are. They'll have a huge fire burning and they'll take turns dancing and showing off.'
'Were you afraid often, Poppet?'
'All the time,' I told him.
'Would you be too afraid to go and watch the dancing now?'
I had to think about that for a long time. I had been taught that black people, apart from the few who worked in our house and on our land, were the enemy; dangerous beyond belief. Especially during the war I was told not to trust anyone with a black skin. But the thought of joining the dancers burnt inside me and I felt my feet itching to meet the beat. It was a wild thought. To sneak down to the compound in the dark and watch or even join in. I remembered that day so long ago when I'd gone to the Independence celebrations in Harare and felt like a child of Africa.
'Let's go!' I told him. 'Wear those Timberland boots to protect your ankles from snakes and put on your thick combats.
I searched through the kitchen drawers for a torch but the only one I found had no batteries and seemed very old. We left the house by the back door and looked across the yard, lit up by ghostly moonlight. A large white shape flapped past us, swooped to the ground and flew off with a mouse clutched tightly in its talons. Simon held my hand and we walked down the driveway to the security gates. 
'Look!' Simon pointed urgently to the sky.
'What?' I asked expecting an attack or at least a bat.
'The stars! They're incredible! I never knew there were so many. They're enormous and so bright! My God! Who would've thought?'
The stars were bright and undisturbed by cloud or pollution, they shone like diamonds held up to the light. The sky was a deep royal blue and clusters of stars were spilt across it like milk. Simon was entranced and he stood there with his face turned upwards like a child. 
'It's beautiful!' he whispered.
The gates weren't locked and I thought of that night. The night that I'd made this trip with William and the body of a young black boy with a wound to his heart. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by the place, by the possibilities of the night and by the feeling that I was so fragile, so vulnerable and so small out here in the bush. Simon sensed it and held my hand tighter.
'Come on. I've brought my camera so we can get some pictures of the dancers,' he said.
The darkness was a palpable thing all around us. It screeched and tickled and brushed against my face and all the nameless horrors of Africa stalked me as I ventured onwards, a prey animal in the night. I was determined to go on and to hide my fear. The dirt track was full of rocks and hidden snares for our feet and we stumbled and fell but each time we helped each other up and kept following  the sound of the drums.
We reached the edges of the compound and the sound of drumming was loud and persistent. The smell of the wood fire was strong and we could hear the crackle and see the sparks flying up against the sky. 
'What scares you the most in Africa, Poppet?' Simon asked in the darkness behind the huts.
'The people,' I breathed. 'It's the people. I can cope with anything else.'
'Let's have a look at these people then,' he said and strode forward between the huts.
In the clearing created by the huts the fire danced and burned, spitting and hissing like a dragon. The dust from the dancers' naked feet flew up in a cloud as they slapped the hard ground and stirred up the dead embers of older fires. There were five young men with spears in their hands who shook and twisted and leapt into the air to the beat of the drums. Their naked chests glistened with sweat and they frowned with concentration, slashing the air with their spears and banging their hands against their thighs. 
It was a thrilling sight and Simon took his camera out. I held his hand down. I knew a climax was coming and we shouldn't disturb them with a flash.
The hard bodies of the men became a blur and their beads rattled and shook in unison. They lifted their legs and stamped them to the ground, over and over, getting faster and faster, grunting and panting as they danced. Suddenly, the drums reached a frenzied pitch and the dancers threw themselves wildly into the air and collapsed on the ground.
The drums slowed and five young women with bare breasts filed into the clearing, singing in low voices and moving their hips back and forth to the beat. They were dressed in simple leather skirts and beads and moved gracefully around the fire. One of them saw us standing with our backs against a hut and her face registered her surprise but she carried on swaying and gyrating in time. She smiled and I wondered what that smile meant.
When the women had finished we stepped forward into the firelight. I heard a sharp intake of breath and then there was silence. An old man stepped forward and I realised it was Zachariah. He was thin and stooped and his skin hung on his face. His hair was grizzled and grey and he leant upon a stick.
'Motohuma,' he said. 'You are welcome.'
Instantly I broke out in a sweat, thinking of his dead son but he was smiling and offering Simon his hand. 
'You have returned, Motohuma,' Zachariah said. 'It is because your father has died.'
'Yes, 'I answered him and offered him my hand.' My friend, Simon would like to take some pictures of the dancing, please.'
Zachariah spoke in Mashona to the drummer who was throwing back a mug of a beer. 
'Would you like some beer?' Zachariah asked us. 'The drummer wants to take a break but he says he will play again soon. Come and sit here by me. I must talk to you about my son.'
My heart missed a beat but I sat beside him. An old withered and wrinkled woman brought us traditional beer in a large pot. She dipped a calabash into the pot and poured it out into wooden mugs for us. The crowd stood around us and I heard murmurs of,' Motohuma' over and over.
'Woman,' he said in Mashona. 'Go and fetch Bulala!'
Bulala! The baby that I'd rescued from dehydration and malnutrition so many years ago. If he spoke of his dead son-the one who stole William's motorbike and broke into the farmhouse I would have fled, I think.
The old woman returned leading one of the dancers by the hand. He was a young man of eighteen or nineteen and he stood tall, glistening in the firelight, smiling at his father.
'This is my boy but also your boy,' said Zachariah. 'He is the one who should have died but did not because you saved him. He's a very good boy. He attends the mission school and he's going to study to be a doctor. I'm very proud of him. You are his mother. You should greet him.'
The boy bent one knee and cupped his hands together in front of him, 'Motohuma,' he said. 'Long life!'
I did the same and stared at him in wonderment. He gripped my hand in the traditional double handshake of Africa and then greeted Simon the same way. His white teeth shone brightly in his black face and he grinned and grinned at both of us until Zachariah waved him away.
'Go and dance for your mother, boy. She is waiting, ' he said.
I looked around me and saw curious but friendly faces staring at us out of the darkness, lit by the warm glow of the firelight. Someone found us a stool and we sat low on the ground with our beer before us and soaked up the atmosphere. I recognised Edgar and greeted him. There was Moses and some of the picannins that I'd played with and who were now men and women. Why had I never done this before? Why had I always been so afraid?
Simon was happily photographing dancers and faces. Women brought their babies out of the huts and held them up for him to photograph. He was scratching his legs and fiddling with the camera and laughing and smiling. Some lean, hungry looking dogs sniffed at the pots boiling on the fire and small children ran and shouted between them, in and out of the firelight. 
The dancers danced again and once again I was thrilled by the sight and the sound of the mighty heart of Africa beating before me. Once again I felt like a child of Africa.
'When is the funeral of your father?' Zachariah asked me. 
I told him that we would try to arrange it for the day after next and he nodded. He would be there he said. 
We were offered tin plates of meat stew with sadza on the side and I showed Simon how to ball the sadza between his fingers and dip it into the stew. It was delicious and hearty and my head began to swim with the effects of the beer and the lack of sleep. I leaned on Simon's shoulder and looked up at the perfect African sky, wondering if I had ever felt so complete.