Does God approve of �dirty� dancing in church?

Keletso Thobega | Wednesday April 23, 2014 15:01

Some folk are convinced that I would do well with being a habitual church-goer, be “born again” or even marry a pastor and be Mma moruti. Ha, Imagine! Not one to argue with folk who claim to know me better than I know myself I always accept invitations. One of the few reasons I go to church is that I enjoy singing. Although a shower singer, I’m not shy to belt out in tune and tackle a hymn. So I took up yet another invitation and on a Sunday morning when I would normally be reading newspapers or jamming to my Stimela collection in between the infamous ‘I quit drinking’ pep talk while I nurse a horrible hangover, I joined the holy masses in praising the Lord. It was packed.

After the touching sermon which echoed the importance of involving God in your life, the music started to boom as praise singing began. As if on cue the congregants and choir members began to sing in unison, hands raised and the loud voices shrilling across the hall. After the first two songs, the music became more upbeat and lured on by the pastor who jumped and shook; the congregants went wild with excitement and began to dance harder. At the age I am at, I can’t dance to save my life. I used to be an excellent dancer and was known to be a party starter with my acrobatic moves but that was a few years ago before I lost gravity and everything started going south.

 So there I was in my too high heels, quietly negotiating with the pinch in my toes to disappear for a few minutes until I could sit down. And all of a sudden the man besides me started going into a trance, gyrating and shouting. He wiggled this way and that, went up and down and at one point had his back in the air, with his coat flying from his body, his hands askew and his face contorted into an odd expression with his eyes widened and mouth hanging agape as he stepped forth and back, up and down, this side and forth again. He shook and jumped as if he had ants in his pants. He suddenly threw a Dr Malinga kick and twirled, did the mighty kick again and twirled again.

I was enveloped in fright as I ducked slightly, fearing that his kick and goboza shoe might land on my forehead. Mind you his shoe was as long as a loaf of bread. I wear a mere size four; my foot can fit twice into his. The thought of that shoe hitting me got me nervous. If he erroneously kicked me, chances are I would fall, what with me in my uncomfortable high heels; and looking at the strength of his kicks which would put an ostriches’ to shame! If I fell down, the assumption would be that I had spirits. That would not only appease my dear friend who would be convinced that “ke mo sokolotse” but the other congregants would whisper and gossip that I have devil spirits blah blah. The pastor would also use this as an opportune time to lay his hands on my fragile head and shout ‘Fire’ and cast out the “demons”. This would be unpleasant because by then my head would be throbbing from the kick. With the jiving man still at it with his kicks and wiggles, I shifted slowly to the side and planned my escape. I shoved past the worshippers who were dancing and singing, and tottered out of the hall. I didn’t want to leave as a casualty case...no!

As I hurried out to the back, seeing all the dance moves that belong in seedy nightclubs clubs and bars; what with the get-downs, chicken-flapping styles, kwasa-kwasa like moves and mosakaso, I couldn’t help but wonder if God really appreciates this over-the-top kind of praise where waists are shaken, kicks are thrown in the air and sometimes even crotches are humped in the air. Phew!