In fact, e don really happen! Now I know exactly why dancing as a pastime has never really appealed to me. I also now know why my choice of music revolves predominantly around songs and singers (whose songs) you needn’t necessarily dance to – songs which at their most demanding, only require a shake of the head, some clapping, whistling and sing-along. I have just discovered that my largely stonecold general lack of jig in response to any piece of music that involves a shake of the backside is tied to something else other than the fact that the music may not be appealing enough for me to respond to. My utter lack of partying or clubbing spirit has often baffled even me, and now I realise that my near-complete aversion to owambe has a more genetic origin than me being a plain social misfit (for want of a better phrase).
Truth is that somehow I was never designed by nature to dance, but just to shake my head, hum a few lyrics, clap and …well, that is it where music is concerned. What I am saying is that perhaps nature never designed me in the mould of the Nigerian brand of the Peugeot, to weather the mountain-high road bumps and valley deep potholes and so on that adapting to different beats and rhythm of music is. I was fitted out more like a Bentley or any other make of such cars not suitable for driving on Nigerian roads, just for roads in a place like London where it can zap around – no potholes, no bumps.
What am I harping on about? For a while now, I have been feeling like an alien wherever songs by today’s music acts, particularly my Naija brethren, are being played (my opinion about music being fairly well documented in this other piece). Perhaps for the purpose of proving my street credibility or just plain being led by a lonely impulse of delight, I decided, in spite of my heavy feet and reluctant waist, to weigh how much behind the times I have grown musically. So I went to a CD stand where I got a couple of CD compilations of some of today’s rave-of-the-moment songs by Nigerian musical acts.
The result of that purchase is that I have been up since 3am today and I have been unable to go back to sleep, not because I don’t want to but because I can’t. After the three hours of manic, adrenaline-inspired, unabashed act of self-deception and indulgence I got involved in last night, all in the name of dancing, I have been reduced to a creaky-boned shadow of my usually sprightly early morning self. Through several hours last night I jigged, swaggered-and-gingered, danced the sangolo, did the galala, did the alanta, twisted, swirled, twirled, swerved, bounced, swung, clapped, jumped, bumped-and-grinded, all to sounds which before last night I had only ever whistled or nodded to. My energetic display and the deftness of some of the moves I managed to put together wowed even me, and an onlooker would have been tempted to believe that I was either drug-fueled, Holy Spirit-controlled or even both. Such was the high energy and abandon of my solo show as I locked myself away in a room (pretending to be) dancing to the likes of P-square, Wande Coal, Timaya, Terry G, Nico Gravity, Bracket, J Martins and so on.
At the end of it all, sweat-drenched-and-sweat-scented, I felt like a bird – fit and strong, ready to fly. I took a cool bath and then hit the sack about 30 minutes later and slept until about 3am when I got up to use the bathroom. But I only got up with a heavy head, creaking joints and searing pains all over the body. And now I have moved from a sweat-scented solo performer to a sorry owner of a Robb-scented rickety body. Even my cousin cannot show enough sympathy for my self-induced plight as I have reduced the poor boy to my masseur-cum-therapist-cum-personal minder with a bottle of Robb by the side.
Make no mistake though, my current raggedy physical state has nothing to do with me being too lazy. Hey, we are talking here about the same Jibril who can play volleyball for hours on end, kick a soccer ball around all day long, trek longer distances than the Biblical Israelites or historical Boers of South Africa, and for those who know me more, the Jibril who can also … ok that’s enough now. Simply put, as I sit (more like lay) here barely able to punch the keys on my laptop and wondering which one out of a physiotherapist, homeopath, orthopedic surgeon I should invite first, I have definitely learnt one life-changing lesson: There is a limit to adventure, and some experiments are simply not to be attempted if you are not genetically wired to conduct them.
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