The six days after Christmas were days of glory in Kitwe. The grand carnival of coons was the heart-beat of these days. There were six coons’ teams in Kitwe. Each tried to undo the others in uniform, dancing and singing. A team was made up of between thirty and forty men and boys. Their uniforms were of the brightest and shiniest silk materials. And each team wore a different combination of colours.
In marching position, each team made a triangle.
There were ten guitarists in a line. In front of them walked a line of banjoists. This was slightly shorter than the line of the guitarists. Next came two lines of bone players. Each had an evenly shaped set of bones in each hand. They rattled these, producing a sound like that of Castanets. Next came the tambourine players. They completed the Orchestra. In front of them were the dancers, in two lines. Each dancer carried a beribboned stick which he twirled while pirouetting about the street.
Finally, there was the leader, the apex of the triangle. He was the most elaborately made-up member of the team. His uniform, though of the same colour scheme, was different from that of the rest of the team. He was the brightest in a galaxy of bright peacocks. He did not dance all the time; like the others. Thus, they went up one street and down another. And the folk of Kitwe marched with them. And sometimes, when two teams met, there was a battle of dancing for the right of way. The teams would stop facing each other. And the two leaders would dance against each other danced on their brightly coloured handkerchiefs; on their bellies; on their hands. That was a sight.
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Now and then, a team stopped in front of a house. They made a circle. The guitars and banjos played till the people of the house came out. Then there was silence. The people of the house chose the song they wanted to hear and the singer. The music struck up. The singer sang the verses alone. The whole team joined in the chorus. The soloist went around, collecting after his song.
All the coon teams amalgamated on New Year’s Eve. A giant coon procession sang and danced its way about Kitwe into the New Year. There was laughter and feasting, and great gaiety. On this, the last night of the old year, the stern coon rules were relaxed. Women and girls could walk in procession with their husbands and lovers. We the young children wore paper hats waved rattles and let off crackers. I was with the gang, and we had a wonderful time letting off squibs under people’s feet and watching them jump.
My mother had returned to be with us on New Year’s Day, so I left the gang and ran home. People had been saying “Happy New Year” to each other. I would do the same to my mother. It would please her. And perhaps I would be the first one. I fought my way home through the crowds.
Before the sun was up, a fleet of double-decker buses carried the great majority of the citizens of the Kitwe to a wooded green place far away from the Kitwe. There people danced and sang and laughed and loved and drank and fed till sun went down. Then they returned wearily. The week of glory was over. Ahead lay a year of drabness and want before they could have another week of glory. This week would be something to remember in the lean days ahead. The coons packed their uniforms away lovingly.
