The other day, I resumed my aerobics classes. It had been a while since I stepped in the aerobics hall where aged men and woman are seen stretching and squeaking as they try to touch their toes.

The coach is merciless and that is why he approaches a tired looking Mama and orders her to workout 50 sit-ups.

Oh! What fun this can be! Especially when yours truly ends up fighting for the nice positions where optical nutrition is at its best!
 
Anyways, when I went back for the aerobics, I realized that the coach had introduced new strokes in the name of exercising.

He had actually introduced Congolese music so that the members of the club could dance vigorously for many minutes as the sweat poured down their aching bodies.

The way these patrons were dancing reminded me of a certain party that Aggrey and I attended at Afande Niko’s home in Gisenyi during the mid 90s.

I mean, the way people reacted to Kofi Olomide’s songs was quite incredible! The dancing strokes would have put the best Karate expert to real shame.

It all began when Aggrey and I received an invitation card. It came from Afande Niko. It was not announcing wedding tolls for Afande Niko.

Instead, it was announcing the birth of a bouncing baby boy. We were therefore invited for the ceremony referred to as "Kwita iziina”.

Basically, it was a chance for family and friends to gather and give the seven-day-old baby a name.

So, Aggrey and I hit the road all the way to Gisenyi which is now the present Rubavu. Afande Niko was there to receive us.

His smile told it all. There was a party awaiting us at this Gisenyi Mansion. The garden was well decorated and plastic chairs were scattered everywhere.

This was a private function and therefore booze could be tolerated. Flashy cars were already pulling up at the gate as guests arrived for this very important "Mihango”.

What was supposed to be a "baby-naming” ceremony, turned out to be a full blast party. Crates of beers and sodas were unleashed. Guests drank and ate like there was no tomorrow.

The naming process lasted 5 minutes only, before the baby was whisked away to his private room. The rest of the time was meant for celebrations.

Indeed, it was a chance for Rwandans to drink beers on a cool Friday evening.

Close to midnight, the music became louder. Couples took to the grass and started to shake their bones. Occasionally, slow jams were played.

Couples squeezed tight as the cold breeze from the lake Kivu swept across. The ground was already littered by hundreds of empty beer bottles.

The D.J was from across the boarder. That is why he chose to warm the area by playing Kwasa kwasa and pesa pesa.

But it was another great popular hit that really got the crowd to their feet. The song was none other than Ndombolo ya solo!

When the D.J played this particular song, all guests leapt from their chairs and moved in for the kill. They danced in a manner that would put the best aerobics coach in a shock.

It was like a combination of boxing and karate kicking. In the process, several kicks and fists criss-crossed, flooring a number of drunken visitors.

As the kicling and boxing entered its highest gear yet, Aggrey and I decided to quietly creep away for safety, and straight to our bug infested lodge.
 
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