Uhuru Street by M. G. Vassanji

excesses their closeness with the four band members.
    Yasmin was at the far end of the dance floor with her girlfriends. Three of them occupied the table with the only chairs available, Yasmin and the other two stood around. Occasionally she would look up to take in the dance scene, the band, the modish girls, hoping to catch a vacated chair she could bring over. The band was loud, the room hot and stuffy, and the men were drenched with sweat and the girls fanning themselves with handkerchiefs or anything else they could find. A well-dressed black man, somewhat odd in a grey suit, his necktie rakishly loosened, emerged from the throng of dancing couples and went up to her requesting the dance. She went.
    Of all the girls here, why me? I don’t
want
to dance. I can’t dance.
From the centre of the dance floor where he’d taken her she threw a longing glance at her gang chatting away in the distance.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he smiled, ‘I took you away from your friends …’
    ‘It’s okay … only for a few minutes –’ she began and blushed, realising that unwittingly she’d agreed. After all it’s an honour, she thought. He’s a professor.
    It was a dance that did not require closeness or touching – and she was grateful for that mercy.
    ‘Daniel Akoto. That’s my name.’
    ‘I know … I’m Yasmin Rajan.’
    It’s all so unnecessary. I’m not the type. He should have tried one of those cheeky ones dancing barefoot. Now
that
would have drawn some fun.
    She looked at her partner. He was graceful, much more – she was certain – than she.
    She was a head shorter than him. Her long hair was combed back straight and supported with a red band, in the manner favoured by schoolgirls, and she wore a simple dress. This was the middle of her second year at the University.
    ‘Good music,’ he said.
    ‘Yes, isn’t it? I know the lead guitarist …’
    ‘But too western, don’t you think?’
    ‘I don’t know …’
    She felt oppressed by the ordeal, and the heat, and the smoke, the vapours of sweat, beer and perfume. There was the little worry too – why had he picked her and would he pursue her. He was looking at her. He was offended by her attitude and going on about Asians.
    ‘… truly colonised … mesmerised … more so than the African I dare say.’
    She didn’t reply, trying her best to give a semblance of grace to her movements – feeling guilty, wholly inadequate and terribly embarrassed.
    Just when she thought the rest of the dance would proceed smoothly – the music was steady and there was a kind of lull in the noise level – the leader of the band let out a whoop from the stage. There were whoops of rejoinder, followed by renewed energy on the dance floor. Akoto shook his head, and Yasmin watched him with dread.
    ‘Look at that. Beatniks. Simply aping the Europeans … not a gesture you’ll find original. Your kinsmen, I presume?’
    She forced a smile.
I hope he doesn’t raise a scene.
    ‘There are African bands too, you know,’ she said.
    ‘But the
beat
, my dear, the
music.
Now take that song. Rolling Stones. What do you call
Indian
in that … for instance?’ he persisted. ‘Perhaps I’m missing something.’
    Oh why doesn’t he stop, for God’s sake.
    ‘What do you mean we’re colonised?’ she said exasperated. ‘Of course we have our own culture. Come to our functions and see. We have centuries-old traditions …’
    She had stopped dancing and there were tears in her eyes. She felt trapped and under attack in the middle of the couple of hundred people twisting and shaking around her. She could feel curious eyes burning upon her, watching her embarrassment.
    She left Akoto in the middle of the dance floor and walked stiffly to her friends.

    The next day she waited for the axe to fall. A call to the Vice Chancellor’s office, a reprimand for publicly insulting a distinguished professor, a visitor from another African country. Perhaps she would just be