The Busy Bustle of Burgeoning Bellies…and how they get down

In Malawi, when women are pregnant they tie the 2 meters of cloth they usually wear around their waist, right above their belly. For the first month or so I suppose it hides their burgeoning belly, but soon their overly patterned and bright cloth seems to just promote the fact that a small Malawian is on its way.

There are a few women who work at my Tea Room who have these bright bellies that seem quite securely tied to the rest of them. They busily bustle around helping to form the atmosphere of women working and cooking tea I have come to love and expect from our odd white washed room and collection of dishes. The atmosphere created from women consistently making fun of me as I sit throwing out pieces of Tumbuka among mismatched furniture and the stoves out back that I like to think of as our justice creators as they burn a little less firewood.

Anyway, the other day I was sitting at one of the mismatched tables constructing an epic to-do list drinking tea that was basically hot milk powder and sugar when I spotted a woman who I didn’t know was pregnant sporting a belly. Not just a belly, but a bright patterned one with her cloth tied neatly under her chest indicting in case there was confusion that ‘no, she did not just have a big breakfast, but in fact was with child.’ Or was she? The other women were all coming in for a meeting and everyone was pointing at her and laughing and I just kept staring thinking that her unborn child sort of looked like a purse and was this the cause of their laughter?

And then of course she in fact pulled out a purse. Mystery solved. Time to join in on the fun. I promptly stuffed my dress with a curtain and started adjusting it to look realistic, a task I am actually getting better at as I long more for a baby and enjoy reactions from my fellow peers as I quickly become pseudo-pregnant. This pseudo-pregnancy caused quite a stir as cloth was tied around me, the women chuckling and giggling as my stomach was adorned with purplish swirls of designs that reminded me of peacocks. But it wasn’t enough to have a belly to strut. As for many events in Malawi, this one would not be complete without a dance. So the dancing began.

Often when I am really tired and sort of burnt out I get oddly energized, that type of energy that borders on hysteria, however, also prompts the sway and movement of hips. So sway they did and though I tried to restrict arm movement for aesthetic purposes, the arms were up in the air and the belly moved by the dance. I thought it slightly unfair how they made me dance to the floor when I after all was with child, but that didn’t seem a valid excuse and both fake soon-to-be-mothers moved to the ground with appropriate ass shakes as we both danced fake-belly to fake-belly and the hips, up and down back and forth.

And then it went a little too far. The women were thinking this was absolutely hilarious so I decided it was time to give birth to my curtain baby whom I carefully cradled in my arms. Soon the purse baby was brought into the world as well and both were cradled and rocked with a consistent hip sway. My dance partner then whipped out her breast to nurse her purse which was apparently hungry. All eyes turned to me. I backed up dropped my child and started the blush I knew would be handy when they asked me to just pop out my boob. They started saying the word for breast in Tumbuka and pointing to theirs as if I didn’t understand and once I understood of course I would just take it out and nurse a curtain. No. Two women even went as far to bring out their nursing equipment, but not I. I giggled, blushed, and told them no, grabbed my cloth tied it in the fashion of the dancing-single un-pregnant girl I actually am, and started dancing again.

I thought that was that, and it was in terms of flashing co-workers, however the next day I helped organize a counseling training for girls that I was not planning on attending. But they called me up and told me I had to come and say a few words. So I did and asked the girls if they had any questions or whatnot for me. The room was sort of quiet but all the girls were looking at me and one of them said something to the instructor and I caught the words of ‘jo’ and ‘dance.’ The instructor looked down at the table, laughed, and said, “they want to see you dance.” Oh. A few words eh? I told them I didn’t hear the music. The instructor turned on the radio of her phone but it was too soft. So I told them to sing, Shakira, is in fact what I suggested. And they did, a room filled of 101 girls newly counseled in topic of healthy relationships, HIV/AIDS, and empowerment were singing ‘Waka Waka’ and I was dancing. It was then that I realized that this song is not best when sung by Shakira, or played at a football match, or sung by anyone else, but in fact best when sung without beats or instruments, but by a 101 Malawian, African young women while the awkward white girl, not needed for the training, dances at the front. Only then I feel, can people really know that ‘It’s time for Africa.’