They sing, dance and go into frantic ululations, in praise of the god of the nation. Religious songs converted to the political realm. And I say to myself, 'We love to sing, we love to dance, we love to worship.'
Sing, dance, cry, worship. Africa is the centre of dance. Work is dance, death is dance, marriage is dance, birth is dance. I always wonder where we would be without dance. Now, power is dance. Unfortunately, the dancers are the women, gratefully singing praise to their 'husbands'.
It was like that in the old days, when rocks could move, when animals could talk and engage you in a serious argument about the ways of the world. Then, the women sang praise songs to their husbands returning from the hunt.
Thank you, my fathers
You who refused to die
You the river that never dries
The slippery fish hard to catch
Only caught by the rich who can afford hooks
You the river, meeting place of maidens.
That was one of the praise poems in the diet of my upbringing. The praise singer was my mother, my aunt, my niece, not my father or my uncle. Then, should I become head of state, what right have I to refuse to be worshipped, in song, dance, dress and ululations? Fortunately, I don't ever want to be head of state: politics is not my realm. ["Song, Dance, and Politics," Shebeen Tales: Messages from Harare, London: Serif and Harare: Baobab Books, 1997, 36]
