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“Shall we all come into your car, Obi? It’s a long time since I had a chauffeur.”
“Yes, let’s all go together. Although it’s going to be difficult after the dance to take Bisi home, then Clara, then you. But it doesn’t matter.”
“No. I had better bring my car,” said Christopher. Then he whispered something into Obi’s ear to the effect that he wasn’t actually thinking of taking Bisi back that night, which was rather obvious.
“What are you whispering to him?” asked Clara.
“For men only,” said Christopher.
There was very little parking space at the Imperial and many cars were already there. After a little to-ing and fro-ing Obi finally squeezed in between two other cars, directed by half a dozen half-clad little urchins who were standing around.
“Na me go look your car for you,” chorused three of them at once.
“O.K., make you look am well,” said Obi to none in particular. “Lock up your side,” he said quietly to Clara.
“I go look am well, sir,” said one of the boys, stepping across Obi’s path so that he would remark him well as the right person to receive a threepence “dash” at the end of the dance. In principle Obi never gave anything to these juvenile delinquents. But it would be bad policy to tell them so now and then leave your car at their mercy.
Christopher and Bisi were already waiting for them at the gate. The place was not as crowded as they thought it might be. In fact the dance floor was practically empty, but that was because the band was playing a waltz. Christopher found a table and two chairs and the two girls sat.
“You are not going to stand all night,” said Clara. “Tell one of the stewards to get you chairs.”
“Never mind,” said Christopher. “We’ll soon get chairs.”
He had hardly completed this sentence when the band struck up a high-life. In under thirty seconds the dance floor was invaded. Those who were caught with a glass of beer in midair either put it down again or quickly swallowed its contents. Unfinished cigarettes were, according to the status of the smoker, either thrown on the floor and stepped on or carefully put out, to be continued later.
Christopher moved past three or four tables in front and grabbed two chairs that had just been vacated.
“Mean old thing!” said Obi as he took one. Bisi was wriggling in her chair and singing with the soloist.
Nylon dress is a lovely dress,
Nylon dress is a country dress.
If you want to make your baby happy
Nylon is good for her.
“We are wasting a good dance,” said Obi.
“Why not go and dance with Bisi? Clara and I can watch the chairs.”
“Shall we?” Obi said, standing. Bisi was already up with a faraway look in her eyes.
If you want to make your baby happy
Go to the shop and get a doz’n of nylon.
She will know nobody but you alone
Nylon is good for her.
The next dance was again a high-life. In fact most of the dances were high-lifes. Occasionally a waltz or a blues was played so that the dancers could relax and drink their beer, or smoke. Christopher and Clara danced next while Obi and Bisi kept an eye on their chairs. But soon it was only Obi; someone had asked Bisi to dance.
There were as many ways of dancing the high-life as there were people on the floor. But, broadly speaking, three main patterns could be discerned. There were four or five Europeans whose dancing reminded one of the early motion pictures. They moved like triangles in an alien dance that was ordained for circles. There were others who made very little real movement. They held their women close, breast to breast and groin to groin, so that the dance could flow uninterrupted from one to the other and back again. The last group were the ecstatic ones. They danced apart, spinning, swaying, or doing intricate syncopations with their feet and waist. They were the good servants who had found perfect freedom. The vocalist drew the microphone up to his lips to sing “Gentleman Bobby.”
I was playing moi guitar jeje,
A lady gave me a kiss.
