Scores of time have drifted away and I'm still here wondering, pondering on why I'm here. I stare with a bland look at my audience as they watch me, judge me and expect me to do it all. Have I done enough?
Do I do so much more or am I wasting my time. I tilt my waist to the side and scrunch my tummy inwards. The tension I inflict in my tense spread out palm ensures it's stagnant and then I inhale. The capacity of my lungs to collect oxygen all at once stimulates me. And then I launch downwards into an invisible Lagoon and start my Bata dance. Twisting and slamming my bare feet into a hollow wooden stage, my waist did not betray me and the dance thrilled my audience.
''Mo ti de', I declare beating my chest and launching downwards and swaying to a melodious echoing rythm that refreshes my smile with every beat. I am intoxicated by my indigenous music, my very own Yoruba sound. I am home.
