A moment ago, we danced to Lucky Dube's song, "I'm a Prisoner."

Now we shake our heads and touch our hearts as we dance to the Soweto song. We only know a little about Soweto. For all we know, it could be a market the size of Katito. But we know that the people of Soweto once suffered so much that a reggae singer sang about their plight. Of course, we don't know the song word for word, but we have ears. We have hearts, too. A man needs those two to know that another man suffers out there.

"Say no to apartheid," we chorus along. "Say no!"

In front of us, there's a dais. It's not raised like most daises, but VIPs are seated on it, which qualifies it as a dais. In a night disco such as this one, the DJ is a VIP, as are the organizers, without whom we couldn't have been here dancing. We couldn't have been here singing "Apartheid," something the Soweto people are being told to reject. Something we vaguely know about.

On the sides of the dais, kerosene lamps hang, brightening the inside of the tent, but not so much that our cheerful faces are visible. Not so much, either, that the VIPs could see our dust-coated legs on the dais. So we're dancing silhouettes. The loudspeakers mounted around the tent deafen the night, drowning our jubilant shouts.

To our surprise, the the Soweto song stops: the DJ must've pressed a button marked STOP on his big radio. But why has he stopped the Soweto song? To get an answer or answers, we shout insults and curses. A few of us stop near the dais, jabbing threatening fingers at the VIPs.

From outside the tent, comes a threat: "If you know what's good for you, bring back Soweto!"

'Don't make me come inside there!' shouts another voice.

Then a man stands up from his chair. He's the organizer, one of the VIPs. We see him stand on the edge of the dais, holding the microphone in his hand like he's about to bite into it. He dresses for the cold in a black buttoned-up coat, boots, and a stocking cap, like many of us.

"Announcement, announcement," the man says into the microphone.

"Stop wasting time!" Disgruntled voices break out among us.

"Those outside the tent, please come inside!" The man shouts.

"They can't afford the girls!" Some of us shout to explain why many of us are still outside the tent.

The man motions us with his hand to calm down, but we don't. Voices in our midst shout, "The girls are too expensive!"

Of course, the girls are always expensive. Even long before Jesus was born, a dance with a girl would cost an arm.

"Okay!" the man says, swaying his hand to calm us. "The price has just gone down. How about that? "

We don't know how far down the price has gone, so we make

More noise.

"Listen, my brothers. We're here to condole with the family of our deceased brother. So--"

Some of us cry, as though death has robbed us again, and others shout, demanding the return of Soweto.

"Now get the girl of your choice for only three shillings!" The man shouts into his microphone.

That's good, but not good.

"One shilling!" screams pierce the darkness. Those outside the tent lend their voices.

"That's not happening. Not under my watch!" The man barks into the microphone.

"One shilling!" we counter.

"Even your own grandmother can't be that cheap!" The man's voice shakes with anger.

"One shilling!" We chant. "One shilling!"

The man, as does everyone else, knows we're rowdy. He also knows we have weapons inside our coats: machetes,pocket knives, and rungus. Some of us are drunk. This the man on the dais knows. He also knows we'd attend a night disco as if going to war. Finally, he concedes and gives the DJ the go-ahead.

The Soweto song resumes. To commemorate the plight of the Soweto people, a plight we barely understand, some of us raise our heads as if beseeching God. Others shake their heads mournfully, and others stand as they wait for the beats to kick in.

We chorus, "Soweto... hah... say no to Apartheid." Say no...!"

And finally, the beats of the music join us, making us jump, raise our hands, sway, and feel good about living.

Now we croon, "Dududududu!" mimicking the beats. Now we aren't ourselves.

The reggae man who sang Soweto, whoever he's, if he shows up now, if he were on the dais singing into his microphone as he played the guitar, if all the VIPs were part of his band and were busy each with an instrument, we could've given him anything and everything he's ever needed. Even if he ever wanted to become a god, we could have kneeled and worshipped him.

Not long after, a tax collector comes with a bowl in his hand. He dances as he shakes the bowl at each of us. He is making inroads through us. Some of us willingly drop one shilling into the bowl. Some refuse to part with their hard-earned coins for a while. Others abandon the girls and take their brothers for a dance. Others are still outside the tent because the girls are always expensive.

Overhead, the sky is dark and scattered with beautiful stars.