Just DO it

When he sneaked in no one knew.
His contrasting skin color drew a few glances and not more.
He sat with his girl of an equally contrasting body pigmentation from his.
Not that it mattered though because the binding relation between  them lay not in colours but In juices tucked somewhere between thighs.
Having settled in, he asked for a bottle of a cheap whisky. Even Baba Munira wouldn’t touch this drink on a good day nah. Why is this oyinbo falling
y hand  nah,? My tame and vain mutterings never went beyond my head.
He opened the drink took a few hurried gulps and got animated, almost on cue.
The stiff labia suddenly found expression and talk he did.
Only this time he no longer was merely whispering to his mismatched partner, he was literally addressing his country’s Congress. Not his alone. The whole world became his audience.
How do you restrain a man flowing in endless paroxysms of nothingness? You don’t. You  let him rant and let the music play.
So, amidst the drawl,slur and flutter of several F words, oyinbo man decided to dance whit the whiskey.
Omo, come see scatterings  of limbs, hips and arms  all flying in several directions at the same time in consonant to whatever each body part decoded was convenient. I never laughed so hard. I laughed  till my ribcage ached from my foolishness.
Foolishness because what I considered disconcordant in dance was a graceful display of body movement, of creativity, of rigorous exercise, of carriage.

Shame on you for scoffing at anyone dancing.
No dance is meaningless. Only meaningless audience abound.