The Contemporary Dance Movement in Africa

As a child growing up in Nigeria, I loved to dance. There was never really any technique to my moves. Yes, I was vaguely aware of dance fads, yet after watching my elder brother spend endless hours mastering break dance routines; I realized I lacked the stamina to keep up with fads. Dance, in my mind was supposed to be effortless and spontaneous, inspired by something within that needed, no, begged to be communicated through the body. If communication meant my body jerked and wound itself into a frenzy until release was granted, well, so be it. Sometimes my hips simply led the way, while other times my feet demanded obedience. Either way I just let the dance over take me. Living and dancing in the US demanded something else of me. In college, amongst my multicultural group of friends, dance became an art of seduction. No longer was moving a freeing activity for me, rather it devolved into performance, coy attempts at catching another’s eye or an effort to validate my racial and ethnic identity. After all, as the only African in my crew I had a reputation to uphold. I started dancing to show I was Black or African enough. Well, supposedly, all Black folks, Africans in particular, dance the same way. We are booty-bumping, rump-shaking, pelvic thrusting, and hip gyrating people, right? On good days, when I had the routine down pat, White people would look at me sweating it out on the dance floor and marvel. “Teach me that African move,” they often pleaded and then proceeded to mimic something they saw on National Geographic. On bad days, when I dared to move differently, people (even Black folks) would sneer, and surreptitiously move away, as if fleeing the scene of a crime. I started to feel like the best and safest places to dance were my living room floor (no cover and the DJ always plays what I like),.

Recently, while on a trip to Chicago I was fortunate enough to see Movement (R)Evolution Africa: a story of an art form in four acts, a documentary featuring nine African choreographers analyzing the deeply imaginative and diverse contemporary dance movement on the continent. As listed on the film’s website, featured artists include “Company Kongo Ba Téria (Burkina Faso), Faustin Linyekula and Studios Kabako (Democratic Republic of Congo), Company Rary (Madagascar), Sello Pesa (South Africa), Company TchéTché (Côte d'Ivoire), Company Raiz di Polon (Cape Verde), Company Jant Bi (Senegal) and Kota Yamazaki (Japan), Nora Chipaumire (Zimbabwe), Jawole Willa Jo Zollar and members of Urban Bush Women (USA).”

What struck me was the level of ingenuity evident in all the pieces featured. The choreography was like nothing I had ever seen. Clearly, here were Africans also bursting free of stifling stereotypes about dance and expression, and on a quest to tell our stories through dance, while critiquing racist expectations and perceptions of how African bodies move. As much as these artists honor dance traditions and legacies, they are also intent on essentially making something new out of the old. “As African dancers I think we have the common things in terms of showing people that we’re not only doing the old tribal dances but we’re also doing things that are affecting us in this present moment,” explains Sello Pesa. Pesa is the creator of “Break Shadow”, a type of choreography that incorporates lighting, and adds an eerie and surreal effect to the movements. “Try to understand what [contemporary African dance] is,” Beatrice Kombe, a choreographer from Cote D’Ivoire, and cofounder of Company TchéTché, urges. “Don’t say ‘ah this is African dance.’ No. It’s not ‘African dance.’ It’s a new expression.” Her piece, Geeme, depicts the dual roles African women are supposed to occupy, as both mother and warrior. In a particularly poignant moment during Geeme, two muscular women stand side by side on a bare stage. Light shines on them from above, casting a glow on their caramel (one), and dark chocolate tones (the other). They are clad in black and the clothing clings, emphasizing their toned stature. One’s hair is woven into multi-colored braids, blond and several hues of brown. She clasps her palms and holds them out in front of her. Her palms become a mirror that she brings close to her face. She stares and suddenly becomes aware of herself. Her partner forms her own mirror and leans into her palms, surprise registers on her face. The pantomime goes on for a bit, until one breaks it by flaying her arms in the air. The other follows suit and together they glide into a synchronized swaying movement, taking with them the knowledge gleaned from the previous pas-de-deux.

It comes as no surprise that, like Geeme, most of the other choreography weave in narratives highlighting the beauty and ugliness of African life. Young Africans today are essentially “product of disillusionment”, one of the choreographers argues. Unlike our parents who were either active, or swept up, in the revolutionary struggles of the 1960s and ‘70s, this current generation of Africans has witnessed the emergence of the African “big man”, i.e. the former freedom fighter now turned greedy and power drunk politician. Zimbabwean born Nora Chipaumire, a self-exiled NYC-based dancer/performer, proclaims, “I’m a child of struggle!” She explains that for too long Africans have been defined by outsiders, therefore the contemporary dance movement is an opportunity for Africans to (re)discover ourselves and create art that speaks to who we truly are, adding, “I’m African, regardless of whether my pieces are abstract or not abstract, whether they use percussion or not.”

Societal problems, such as genocide, were recurrent themes. “The [Rwandan] genocide was happening during the World Cup and so no one knew what was happening,” laments Germaine Acogny, the famed Senegalese choreographer and powerhouse behind Fagaala. Her dance piece examines the fickleness of human emotions, and shows how quickly emotions change, transforming people into monsters capable of immense brutality. During Fagaala, in a flash, one of the performers turns into a lecherous fiend, violently raping an unseen woman. He bares his teeth, flicks his tongue in and out of his mouth, and wears a vile expression on his face. In the blink of an eye he has lost any semblance of humanity.

Similarly, Faustin Linyekula’s Triptych Untied, explores the aftermath of civil war in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), where over three million people died. Linyekula still struggles to feel connected to DRC, a site of enormous pain. He wonders how Africans can foster connections that go beyond shared nationality or ethnicity, but are instead founded on a shared desire to heal. “Perhaps my body is my only country,” he says resignedly.

Movement (R)Evolution Africa, produced by filmmakers Joan Frosch and Alla Kovgan, complicates western notions of African dance. It is full of creative and politically astute performers, who urge us to abandon stereotypes of how Black bodies move. Besides the percussion-fueled and highly energetic movements, African dance is also serene and statuesque, full of poses that transcend description and time. Our movements are fast and slow. We ‘bend down low’ to touch the earth, yet we also glide up to kiss the sky.

Film’s website - http://www.movementrevolutionafrica.com/