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Just as the music and the dancing reach a sweating fever pitch, the DJ announces a Tarab tune. Tarab is the music of Zanzibar - a wailing vocal over a beat that is curiously Arabic and African at the same time, and traditionally only danced by females.
The lads on the dancefloor converge on the hapless man, shouting and waving their fists in outrage whilst still moving compulsively to the beat. The MC is unmoved, breaking into English to emphasise his point. 'Ladies only pleeease… LADIES ONLY!' The ladies appear, shyly at first but then with increasing confidence as the beat picks up. A stately conga formation begins to wind its way around the dance floor, the girls' eyes, covered in picco and rendered drooping and sloe-like by infusions of nutmeg juice, glinting under their demure headscarves. The ladies hold up thousand-shilling notes above their heads as they sway along together, a symbol of their families' wealth and prestige.
The boys, however, are not to be dismissed that easily. They take to the floor, t-shirts draped over their heads to imitate the girls' kangas, Rizla packets held aloft in place of money, wiggling their rears and rolling their eyes as their conga picks up a giggling victim and tries to hustle her off the dance floor. Helpless with laughter, I'm rolling around the floor when I feel a little hand tugging at mine and a 12 year old voice whispering 'Dance, lady, dance!'. I look up at his face, and recognise Hisdori's cousin, one of the mini drag queens from the village this morning. Who am I to refuse? Copyright © Gemma Pitcher 2004 | 
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