It was my reluctance
that first attracted their glance.

It was my reluctance that first attracted their glance

One eye.
Two eyes.
Then twenty.

Questions travelled round the village square
without needing an ambulance.

“Will she not dance?”

I heard them.

I pretended not to.

I studied the ground
with unnecessary importance,
as though somewhere between my left foot
and the red earth
lay the secret route of avoidance.

I did not want to dance.

No.

My body and dancing
had maintained a respectable distance.

We had an understanding.
A peaceful alliance.
I would not disturb dance,
and dance would not disturb my existence.

But that day,
the drums had other plans.

Gangan spoke.

Dundun answered.

The shekere shook itself
with disturbing exuberance.

And every beat seemed to call my name
with increasing resonance.

Still,
I sat.

With defiance.

With resistance.

With the stubborn countenance
of a woman whose chair
had suddenly become an inheritance.

I prayed for glue.

Not ordinary glue.

Industrial glue.

Divine glue.

Anything with enough substance
to keep my backside
in permanent adherence.

But my chair betrayed our alliance.

Someone shouted,

“Dance!”

Another shouted,

“Dance!”

And suddenly the whole square
was chanting with one accordance.

I looked left.

No clearance.

I looked right.

No clearance.

Behind me,
children.

Before me,
elders.

Around me,
spectators arranged in frightening abundance.

There was no escape.

No disappearance.

No deliverance.

So I stood.

Well…

I attempted a stance.

My knees immediately filed a grievance.

My ankles requested assistance.

My waist declared its noncompliance.

And my two feet,
after years of peaceful coexistence,
suddenly developed a serious imbalance.

The earth, bear me witness.

My right foot moved forward.

My left foot questioned the relevance.

I pulled it along.

It came with reluctance.

One step.

Pause.

Another step.

Pause.

At that point,
I was not dancing.

I was approaching dance
from a very safe distance.

Then the drummer saw me.

Ah!

He changed the rhythm.

Gbam!

My shoulder jumped.

Gbedu!

The other shoulder answered.

I told both of them
to maintain compliance.

They refused.

My neck joined
without prior clearance.

My head tilted left.

Tilted right.

My wrapper swayed
with suspicious elegance.

And somewhere between
embarrassment
and endurance,

my waist moved.

Just once.

I froze.

The crowd screamed.

I looked behind me
to confirm the cause
of their sudden exuberance.

Nobody.

They were screaming for me.

Me?

I tried the waist again.

Left.

Right.

Left.

A tiny bend.

A careful rise.

My feet began to discover
something that looked suspiciously like balance.

Heel.

Toe.

Step.

Return.

Heel.

Toe.

Step.

Advance.

My hands,
which had been hanging beside me
like innocent witnesses,
suddenly entered the performance.

One rose.

The other followed.

My fingers opened.

My wrists rolled.

My elbows bent
with unexpected elegance.

And then…

I forgot my reluctance.

The drum entered my feet.

The rhythm entered my waist.

The song entered my shoulders.

And my body,
that same body that had threatened rebellion,
formed an unexpected alliance.

I bent low.

Rose slowly.

Stamped once.

Twice.

Turned.

Stopped.

Then turned again
with considerably more confidence.

My wrapper followed me in a circle.

My beads bounced against my neck.

Dust rose beneath my feet
like the earth itself
had joined the performance.

The women screamed.

The children clapped.

The elders nodded
with approving countenance.

And my heart?

That traitor.

That same heart
that had been pounding from fear
was now racing with exuberance.

I could hear my tissues celebrating.

My ligaments shouting,

“AT LAST!”

My bones had abandoned resistance.

My knees had withdrawn their grievance.

My ankles no longer needed assistance.

Even my waist,
once committed to strict governance,
was moving with reckless flamboyance.

So I danced.

Not beautifully.

Let us not exaggerate my brilliance.

But I danced.

I danced past the staring.

Past the laughter.

Past my fear of appearance.

Past my carefully rehearsed avoidance.

I danced until embarrassment
lost its importance.

Until fear surrendered its dominance.

Until the woman who had begged for glue
was now refusing to return to her chair.

And perhaps
that was the lesson hidden
in the village square that evening:

Sometimes,

between reluctance
and acceptance,

between resistance
and radiance,

between “I cannot”
and one trembling stance,

life gives you
one ridiculous, terrifying, beautiful

chance.

And all it asks…

is that you

dance.

© Ifedolapo Ogunniyi (2026)