Deadly Dance

I walked Joshua to the exit. A large group of Africans had gathered outside, their torches burning brightly. The vivid orange flames pierced the thick black sky, breaking into tiny sparks. Like fireflies, the sparks drifted to the ground, extinguished, only to give way to new ones—a mesmerising spectacle! How I had longed to witness authentic African rituals, not on a screen, but in person. Dreams come true, my dear Smith! How happy I was!

As we stepped outside, the crowd parted, clearing a path for the men in ritual costumes. Whether in a trance or under the influence of some unknown herbs, their eyes burned with intensity, their bodies taut with energy.

To the beat of the drums, their feet rhythmically pounded the ground, their bodies bending and straightening as they expressed, through dance, the age-old pain of the African people. Their hands reached skywards, towards the inky black heavens, as if drawing power from the celestial spheres. Fingers wove intricate, graceful patterns in the air, each movement emanating from the primal depths of their being. The space around them pulsed with energy and magic.

Strong, graceful, masculine bodies leapt and spun, seemingly suspended in the air. As the drumbeats quickened, the dancers grew fiercer, more dynamic. Their movements became a storm of passion and power, a battle against an unseen enemy. Each step was infused with pride, mysticism, spirituality, and raw sensuality.

As the dance drew to a close, the warriors slowed, their heavy breaths betraying their exertion, yet the fire in their eyes remained undiminished. All those fiery eyes turned to me.

"Joshua, is it just me, or are they looking at me? Smith must have invited them here—he promised me a surprise party. Perhaps we should give them some money. Oh no, my bag's empty. Where is Smith?"

I turned around. Behind me, hotel guests and members of the press had gathered. Some were snapping pictures with cameras and phones; others clumsily attempted to mimic the dancers, swaying their hips and clapping along. Smith was nowhere to be seen, likely off charming potential investors. A tale as old as time.

"Smith! Where's Smith? Someone, find him!" I shouted into the crowd. "Get him over here; he needs to see this marvellous show!"

At that moment, women dancers in vibrant traditional outfits entered the “arena.” To the hypnotic rhythm of the drums and their melodic song, they moved towards me, their gestures both inviting and commanding.

“Ma’am, stay close to me,” Joshua instructed, but it was too late.

The circle of dancers swept me away. Casting off my self-consciousness and inhibitions, and even my Jimmy Choos. I joined them, mirroring their movements. I was caught in their whirlwind, swept into a collective trance. The pounding drums drowned out all other sounds.

As the dance intensified, the circle tightened around me. My movements became restricted, but I was exhilarated, feeling one with the dancers. Sticky, sweat-drenched bodies pressed against me, twisting, enveloping me. The torchlight added to the suffocating heat. Hands, many hand tore my dress, pulling it to shreds, groping, grasping. I felt trapped, unable to breathe. Panic gripped me as I screamed, but no one seemed to hear.

“Stop! Stop! That’s enough! I’m done dancing! Let me go! Please!”

Suddenly, a siren wailed, and the crowd broke apart. A strong hand gripped my elbow, pulling me free from the suffocating circle. Smith?

The drums ceased, leaving an eerie silence. The scene transformed before my eyes. What I had thought was a gathering of dancers was in fact a group of masked demonstrators, some dressed in animal skins, others in ritual costumes and masks. Placards and banners were hoisted into the air: “Hands off Mount Simba,” “Smith Out of Africa,” “Africa for Africans.” One protester, clad in an animal skin, held a grotesque portrait of Smith as a vampire, blood dripping from his fangs.

The police struggled to hold back the crowd, which edged ever closer to the hotel’s porch. Their chants and movements grew more menacing. My mind raced. What did they want from us? What had we done to provoke them? What if they decided to storm the hotel?

Mustering my courage, I raised my arm, my torn dress barely clinging to my body, exposing far more than I realised.

“People, please! Stop!” I shouted.

The crowd’s response was a cacophony of beastly, narcotic laughter. The drums resumed, their deafening rhythm drowning my words. The vibrations seemed to penetrate my chest, my brain, my very soul, filling me with primal fear. Was this the famous voodoo? The crowd swelled, the newcomers seamlessly joining the rhythm, energised by the drumming and their shared purpose. It was clear—they were after Smith. I had to distract them. Summoning all my resolve, I stepped forward.

“Stop! Please, calm down!”

“Ma’am, they’ll tear you apart,” Joshua said, pulling me back. “Stop trying to negotiate. No one can hear you. We’re leaving now.”

Joshua pushed me inside the hotel. The iron shutters closed behind us with a heavy clang. After the chaos outside, the hotel lobby felt like an operating theatre, starkly lit and sterile. It was eerily empty; the guests had likely barricaded themselves in their rooms. In the far corner, a lone pianist played jazz with unsettling nonchalance. Truly, Kilundu was a land of contrasts.

As I struggled to adjust to my surroundings, futilely tugging at the shreds of my dress, I rasped, “Joshua, you saved my life.”

“I suppose I did,” he replied, removing his jacket and awkwardly draping it over my exposed body.

The manager appeared, his face pale and tight with worry. “Ma’am, are you hurt? This is unprecedented—Kilundu is peaceful. What can I get you?”

“Vodka,” I said, barely recognising my own voice. “Frozen.”

Joshua smiled faintly. “Only the Russians drink like that.”

“I’m not Russian,” I said, draining the glass in one gulp. “But tonight, I might as well be.”

I felt the vodka burn down my throat, chasing away the fear, turning it into something bearable. But beneath it, something remained—an unease, a question I couldn’t quite articulate.

“Joshua,” I said quietly. “What just happened?”

He looked at me, his expression grim. “Smith made enemies. You shouldn’t be here tomorrow.”

I nodded, the vodka softening the edges of his words. But I knew, even as I smiled, that I wouldn’t leave. Not yet.

The dance wasn’t over.