The Dance She Danced – Part 4

The Dance She Danced – Part 4

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Lawd, lemme tell you what happened the day after she danced.

Folks woke up different. I mean, ain’t nobody say nothin’ at first, but you could feel it in the air—like how you know gumbo been on the stove even when the pot ain’t whistlin’. It was in the way the wind moved through them Spanish moss trees, like it was tryin’ to remember the rhythm she left behind. Shoot, even the roosters was crowin’ in 4/4 time.

Now you know New Orleans don’t forget a spirit like that easy. Folk started showin’ up at that same corner Dumaine and Divine (well, it shoulda been called Divine) just starin’ at the concrete like it still had heat from her knees pressed into it.

Ol’ Miss Loretta was back too, Lord bless her, wearin’ her Sunday wig on a Wednesday, talkin’ ‘bout, “I just came out here to pick up my prescription, but somethin’ told me to bring my tambourine.” Uh huh. Girl, stop playin’. She had that tambourine in her bag since Tuesday, ready to testify.

Even the pigeons was actin’ brand new struttin’ like they had choreography. One of ‘em dipped its wing real elegant, and I swear I heard somebody say, “Look at that she done passed the spirit on to the birds!”

Now, I ain't sayin’ she was Jesus, but baby, that woman resurrected somethin’ in folks. Broke men started singin’. Sad women started laughin’. One man put his cigarette down mid-smoke, looked up at the sky and whispered, “Okay now, okay.” Like he’d just got a message straight from the throne room.

But lemme tell you ‘bout the man who used to sit on that milk crate outside the corner store you know him, Old Red, always wearin’ that one sock and them ashy ankles like it was a fashion statement. He ain’t said a full sentence in twelve years, just muttered and waved his hand like he was swattin’ flies that wasn’t there.

Child… that next morning, Old Red stood up. Stretched. Looked at the sky and said clear as a bell, “The glory of the Lord done passed through here.” Then sat back down like it was nothin’.

Now don’t tell me miracles don’t happen.

But the real change? That came in the silence. See, her dance left an echo one that ain’t loud, but it’s mighty. It's in the hush of the city right before the streetlights buzz on. In the breath folks take before they cuss somebody out and remember their better angels. In the pause before the beat drops at second line, when everybody hold they breath hopin’ to feel something.

And baby, they do.

One boy, about twelve years old, started showin’ up in the afternoons with his lil’ Bluetooth speaker and his grandma’s broomstick, tappin’ rhythms on the sidewalk. He said, “I wanna learn to move like she did. But I ain’t tryin’ to dance, I’m tryin’ to listen.” Ain’t that something?

Even the street preachers got confused. One tried to call her a distraction from the Word. But then he started cryin’ mid-sermon and said, “I ain’t never felt God like that before.” Laid down his mic, took off his shoes, and started shufflin’ in the street like his feet had caught revelation.

See, baby, what she left behind wasn’t just a memory. It was a reminder. A reminder that holiness don’t always wear a robe and stand behind a pulpit. Sometimes it got bare feet, patchwork skirts, and white paint that scream louder than any choir.

Sometimes the Spirit don’t knock. Sometimes it dances straight through your front door and don't even wipe its feet.

And child , don’t get me started on the dreams folks been havin’. One lady said she dreamed of her Big Mama, long gone, dancin’ with that girl under a tree made of light. Said they was laughin’, clappin’ their hands, and shooing sorrow away like flies off peach cobbler.

Another man dreamed the girl walked into his job and said, “What you doin’ here miserable when joy still breathin’ outside?” Next day, he quit, joined a second line, and now he sell fresh squeezed juice out a cart shaped like a trumpet. Business boomin’.

See, we all waitin’ for thunder and lightning, but sometimes God show up in rhythm. In hips that know history. In smiles that carry struggle. In the kind of silence that feel like a hug from somebody who knows.

Her dance wasn’t just for show. It was a sermon. A spell. A blessing wrapped in bone and breath. She danced like she was remindin’ the earth that it was sacred. Like she was remindin’ us we was sacred too.

So now, every Tuesday, people come. No flyers. No band. Just the drum low and steady, like a heartbeat under the city. They come barefoot, or in flip-flops, or whatever they got. Some bring flowers. Others bring grief. One man brought his mama’s Bible and left it open on the sidewalk to the Psalms.

And nobody know if she comin’ back in the flesh. But child … when the breeze hit just right? When the tambourine jingles on its own? When your feet start tappin’ like they got they own mind?

You’ll know.

You’ll feel it in your chest. In your soul’s funny bone. In that place where laughter meets prayer and don’t neither one apologize.

That’s her.

Still dancin’. Still teachin’. Still stirrin’ the gumbo of spirit and flesh.

So if you ever feel like life too heavy, like sorrow done set up camp in your bones?

Step outside.

Close your eyes.

And wait.

She’ll find you.

And baby? When she do… just let your soul follow her lead.

Because some healing don’t come in words.

Some healing come in the dance.

Please share this series 🙏 ❤️ if you really enjoy.