ExpaT-TalK
Our Dance Floor
A page from the diary of a party animal am at my friend’s doorstep 45 minutes late! We are going to the party together. I am already exhausted from my numerous attempts at wrapping two metres of cloth around my waist in a manner that is attractive- an incredibly tricky feat to accomplish when you have never tried it before let alone practiced it. I opted to rope in my teenage daughter who was most exasperated. She is also brutally honest – she doesn’t need encouragement to ask me in a traumatising tone what sort of bra I am wearing. Panic! None of my bras shape my bust decently and I have only one camisole that works with the wrap....I have to use it! ‘ M u m you need to try out your outfits a day before the event, I always tell you this!’
I enlisted the help of my friend - an emerging fashion designer - a clear sign that I am taking this project seriously. She too has been invited to this shindig. In a true fashion designer demeanour, she refers to the fabric as ‘dress suede’ in grey with an olive tone (it looks brown to me which will work- I simply want the fabric to pass for leather). I ring another friend to help me accessorize my
At 7:45 I pick my company up. I am expecting a slightly irritated version of my friend to greet me on the steps; instead she is all smiles and looks immaculate. I am energised instantaneously. Refraining from sharing my ordeal with her we make our way to the venue. Upon our arrival, we are met by one of the organisers, ticked off the list (like we would gate crash a charity event that we have already paid for) and allowed to walk through the avenue of petals. A lot of work has gone into creating a plush evening; the hors d’oeuvres are splendid and the energy is buzzing. It’s going well except for one thing the music. It is not
“In life, we all get onto the dance floor and pick a beat that works for us as individuals and then rhythm, joy and creativity flows.....”
This less than heart-warming experience is nothing like the bonding fantasies I had when she was born. Suitably shamed I have to agree that she is right. I try hard to look guilty and promise to take heed of her advice. The reputable annual village charity event is on and I have been invited. The theme is ‘The Roaring 20s’. The invitation clearly states ‘1920 attire’ ……but I am not persuaded to subscribe to the dress code. Capturing the Spirit of the 20’s sits well with me, it was the era when the growing independence of the American woman was accelerated
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and that is worth celebrating. However I am African so I will support the cause but retain my authenticity. In a flash of inspiration, I decide to re-create a version of what was worn in Africa in the 20s.
EXPATRIATE
outfit by finding me beads that were worn traditionally in her community. She will and does. Great, I am done gathering my what-to-wear a day early. At 6:15 pm (the day of the party) I go into the unmistakable’ womanon-a –mission mode’ and begin to prepare for the party that starts at 7:00 pm. I launch straight into it, after all it’s a water tight plan albeit in my head. Admittedly as the plan unfolds it is clear that transforming this grand idea into reality is a tad challenging. Horrifyingly there is very little time to redress the problem and honestly very little choice. Regrettably there is no contingency plan!
contemporary....duh! Nor theme my little voice says.
is
the
There is a disconnect between the music and my African rhythm and I complain to my friend the aforementioned emerging fashion designer. “I can dance to any music” she says, “I just need to find the beat and the rhythm will flow”. What a powerful statement! My perception is instantly expanded – this is true even in life. In life, we all get onto the dance floor and pick a beat that works for us as individuals and then rhythm, joy and creativity flow. My friend expresses a sense of