When MJ met MC.

I had the distinct honor of presiding over my first high school dance this past weekend. Evan, like me a bit burnt out from a particularly rough two weeks of mismanagement and incompetence at work, had gone to Butare to visit John, our traveling partner from southern Africa. The Anti-AIDS club had arranged to use the dining hall for a series of performances, skits, and dancing sometime last week, but it was continuously rescheduled. Finally, Saturday night was a go ahead, and I was responsible for providing the supervision.

To my surprise and utter dismay, the students had actually decided to just dance, and perform not drama about AIDS education. They had already set up the dining hall with AV equipment and rearranged the benches and tables so I gave, assuring the Anti-AIDS group president that the shindig would last no longer than 10:00PM.

At first, students stood ringed around the enclosed area created by upturned tables used to contain the sound a bit and protect the windows. The girls especially, who trickled in slowly, just watched with bemused or ambivalent expressions. Small groups of boys jittered furiously, kicking, stomping, and sliding their sandal-clad feet, rhythmically twisting their shoulders and hips. However, with the lights on, most students seemed (unsurprisingly, I guess) unwilling to brave the “dance floor.” What’s more, the boys and girls were decidedly separated, boys to my right, girls to my left. It was just like those dreadfully awkward high school dances of yesteryear.

Eventually I caved on the lights. The bright fluorescent bulbs can be shut off piecemeal in the dining hall, so I allowed the students to leave the lights off in the third where they danced while the remaining two thirds stayed garishly lit. Within twenty minutes many more students were gyrating, swaying, and vibrating to the ubiquitously bad Rwandan hip-hop blaring out of overburdened speakers. Their dance style is distinctive, some silly hybrid of Michael Jackson, MC Hammer, and the Twist, but they are good nonetheless. In fact, really good. Hell, at least they’re exercising, I thought. And I was amused.

The night turned out to be good fun despite the chaperoning bit. A former student who now works as a lab assistant turned up to help supervise, along with Claude, the night watchman. Predictably the students bemoaned the admittedly early end time (although I had given them four extra songs past our agreed stop time!), and I could understand their displeasure. The students are so cooped up at school with little to entertain themselves. Dancing is a great reprieve for them from an otherwise stressful experience. I imagine that’s why we have the alcohol problems we do amongst some of our older students (who, were they not students, could drink freely outside of school as many are of legal age).

While I was sad to cut off the music, I knew if I didn’t put my foot down it would be a slippery slope. Some of the students will take all they can get and more if you let them. Plus I was famished having not eaten dinner. With dancing finished, the students trouped off to do god only knows what. With their energy levels spiked, I just hoped they wouldn’t break anything too big!