The Dance She Danced – Part 6: Congo Square

The Dance She Danced – Part 6: Congo Square (Where Spirits Still Second Line)

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Now baby… you ever heard a heartbeat so loud it made yo’ feet start tappin’ ‘fore you even realized you was alive? I ain’t talkin’ about no regular heartbeat I’m talkin’ Congo Square. Rampart Street. Right in the bosom of Tremé where the trees don’t just throw shade they throw stories.

See, in that southern corner of Armstrong Park, the ground don’t just hold dirt. Nah, baby. It hold memory. Sweat. Spice.

Shouted prayers and whispered moans. That ground remember. And child , if you listen just right, you gon’ hear it hummin’. Not in English, not in French but in drum. That’s right. Drum is a language out here. The first language. The mother tongue.

Now let me tell ya what happened last Sunday, ‘cause baby… whew, that was a whole sermon without one Bible verse.

I got up early, sun not even stretchin’ yet, made me a cup of strong chicory coffee black, like the truth and walked down to Congo Square ‘cause somethin’ in my bones told me she was gon’ dance again. And when your bones talk in New Orleans, you betta listen. Might be arthritis… might be the ancestors. Either way, you betta get movin’.

Soon as I got near Rampart, I heard that rumble. That rumble. That heartbeat of Africa, mixed with Caribbean salt, Mississippi mud, and some good ole-fashioned front porch foot-stompin’.

Them drums wasn’t just playin’, baby they was conjurin’. Summonin’. Like they was callin’ up the spirits with a RSVP and a pot of red beans on the stove.

It started soft tap tap… tat-tat-tap… then louder BOOM boom tap-tap BOOM! Child, I swear one of them drums said my government name.

And that lady? Lawd, that lady came sashayin’ outta nowhere like she’d been spun from wind and sass.

 Barefoot again, yes indeed, toes pointed like they had PhDs in rhythm. She had on this long flowing skirt with colors that ain’t even got names colors that only exist in dreams and Sunday dinners. Her headwrap? Tight and tall, baby. Tall like it was tryin’ to reach them clouds and tell 'em, “Come down here and catch this praise!”

She stepped into the Square like it was her personal altar. Every blade of grass stood up. Even the pigeons hushed. I seen a squirrel clutch its chest and whisper, “Here she go…”

First, it was just her hips. Swayin’ like a palm tree caught a Holy Ghost breeze.

Then came her arms, floatin’ like they was conductin’ a band only she could hear. Baby, she ain't have no playlist. The drum was the playlist.

Now when that conga player hit that triple slap POP POP pah! she jumped like she caught the ghost of Big Chief Tootie Montana himself, may he rest. She started spinnin’ so fast I thought she was about to take off and deliver mail to the heavens.

And honey, lemme tell you folks came RUNNIN’. Old men limpin’ with canes suddenly moonwalkin’. Aunties with tight knees now doin’ footwork like they auditionin’ for Beyoncé’s next tour. Babies that just learned to crawl? They was twerkin’. Yeah baby, twerkin’ with the Holy Spirit in diapers.

That drumming got deep. DEEP, child. The kinda deep that make your granddaddy drop his whiskey and say, “Now who back there callin’ me?” Boom BOOM tap tap BOOM! It shook the trees, shook the shade, shook my soul. You ever feel a rhythm so strong it rearrange your organs?

I swear my spleen on the other side now.

She started stompin’, baby. Not dancin’ no more stompin’. Each stomp cracked the air like lightning. Each twirl peeled away layers of time. I saw visions: a black woman sellin’ pralines out a basket, a fiddle player with one eye and ten fingers worth of blues, a Congo drum circle where freedom danced in chains and still smiled.

Then, outta nowhere who come struttin’ but Jerome in his Sunday lavender suit, talkin’ bout, “I knew she was gon’ be here. I put on my dancing shoes and my lucky socks.” Child , them socks had holes, but Jerome ain’t care. He slid into the rhythm like gravy on rice. Shoulders bouncin’, elbows flappin’. Looked like a funky chicken got saved.

Now let me tell you, when them spirits fully dropped in, it wasn’t just a dance it was a reunion. Spirits from Dahomey, Benin, Haiti, Georgia, Louisiana all in one holy gumbo pot, stirrin’ up praise and resistance with the same wooden spoon.

Somebody’s grandma shouted, “They dancin’ for us, y’all! We the reason they still movin’!”

Baby, that Square got so live even the statues started leanin’ in like, “Aye, lemme catch that beat one time.”

Sweat was pourin’. People was shoutin’. One man caught the beat so hard he tried to tithe right there on the grass pulled out his wallet, threw it at the drummer, and hollered, “That beat done saved me, bruh!”

The lady, now drenched in holy fire and mosquito bites, dropped to her knees. Palms to the sky. Head bowed. And she whispered, “Li toujou la… Bondye toujou ap gade nou. Men ou bezwen danse pou w sonje sa.”

(“He is always here… God is always watching us. But you gotta dance to remember.”)

And baby, at that very moment, it started to drizzle. Not rain, nah. A blessin’. That light sprinkle that feel like God spittin’ sugar cane water on yo’ neck.

People started cryin’ and laughin’ and shoutin’, “OOH BABY THIS A REVIVAL NOT A REHEARSAL!”

Even the drummer looked up like he ain’t know where that extra beat came from but he caught it and kept goin’. Tap tap BOOM! The dance didn’t stop it transformed. That woman was levitatin’ now I ain’t lyin’. Her feet was barely touchin’ the ground like she was moonwalkin’ across a memory.

And when it was done? She ain’t bow this time.

She clapped. Once. Loud. Sharp. Final. Like the closing of a spiritual courtroom.

Then she looked right at me right through me and said,

“Dance, baby. Dance like your soul tryna shake loose its chains. Dance like your grandmama prayin’ you through. Dance like the drum remember your name.”

And baby? We ain’t stop dancin’. We still dancin’. We second line through our pain, we drum through our grief, and we move our feet ‘cause stillness in this city? That’s what ghosts do. And we too alive for that, ya heard me?

So next time you pass Rampart and hear a rhythm in the air, don’t just walk by join in. Congo Square ain’t just a place. It’s a portal. A pulpit. A party. A prayer.

And baby… it’s always open.