He reached out and touched me,
his cold hand snapping on my wrist
as he asked me to dance to that riddim…
I told him to get checked for anemia
on account of his cold, cold hands…
He tried to have a conversation
as I tried to wind and chakacha to
Mr Vegas and Beenie Man and Tanya…
His breath reeked of onions and cumin and
when he asked me why I wanted to solo-dance…
I told him I enjoyed my personal space,
especially when popping, locking and dropping it…
He looked wounded when I refused to reggae waltz
with him and his folded over capri pants…
I could’ve said I spoke no English,
but with those lights flashing in my eyes,
he could’ve countered with lines
in Patois, Yoruba, French, Swahili…
He could’ve been from anywhere,
so I settled for the truth
and my truth pissed him off.
His onion-cumin breath fanned my face,
and he wondered aloud why I came out
to a dance club in the first place…to dance alone?
I told him the truth then…
a night at the ER and a week from hell,
all I wanted was a night of dance and no ‘game’…
He turned away in anger and I yelled at him loudly
to go get checked for anemia…his iron must be low.
He never looked back.