They parade around the square with their hands on the shoulders of the person before them. Everyone’s hips sway in unison, perfectly matching the pulse of the drum. Sweat drips from one dancer to the next, but no one seems to mind.
Once a year, at the end of the sugarcane harvest season in Santigo de Cuba, enslaved mutual aid communities called cabildos were allowed to play music, dance, and enjoy themselves openly.
So they had a ball dressed in costumes and paraded through the city’s streets in a rhythmic walk choreographed in complete harmony with drumming and the conga line was born.
Although the conga made its way to the mainstream U.S. in the 1930s, its roots are undeniably Black. The one-two-three-kick dance was a communal experience used as a self-preservation tool while we fought for liberation.
Civil Rights Movement protestors in Selma even danced a conga line during a ‘sleep-out.’
In Cuba and Its Music: From the First Drums to the Mambo, author Ned Sublette explains that Desiderio Arnaz, Santiago’s mayor, banned conga parades when in office. We know anti-Blackness thrives off condemning our culture, but they could never stop what they don’t understand.
Our people deserve to experience pleasure, even in its simplest forms. Anti-Blackness tries to rid us of our joy, but this deeply rooted, ancestral, Black ass joy has always been our birthright.